11. Tilly

Chapter eleven

Tilly

S tepping out of my rental car, the cold slaps me like a jockey in the last stretch of a furlong. My thin sweater, a last-minute purchase from Target, does absolutely nothing against the biting winds and snow of Lake Tahoe. A coat is definitely in my near future. With all my clothes in tatters, including my jackets, I didn't even bother with a suitcase, anticipating a significant dent in my credit card by the end of this trip.

Trudging along the snow-covered walkway in sandals and jean shorts, I mumble some of the most creative curses under my breath. Things like "cock-suckin' cold," and "fucking useless seasons." The ice building between the little blue sausages on my feet doesn't seem to be the least bit offended, so I continue with a few more choice words like "bitch-ass snow." Yep. Still not warmer. I need a scotch to burn me from the inside out. It might sound like I'm the one being a bitch-ass, but I'm a beach bum, always have been. Anything below sixty degrees, and I'm usually found indoors under a few blankets.

The resort looms ahead, a picturesque scene straight out of a postcard with tall pines and bustling guests all wrapped up in their winter gear. Despite receiving a few curious glances due to my obviously unprepared outfit, most people simply pass by. The resort, while not the largest in Tahoe, exudes a rustic charm with wooden architecture and a cabin-like ambiance.

Even the front doors are giant wood with intricate carvings. It's not a place I would stay, judging by the details and cleanliness. Not that I'm poor exactly, but I definitely don't make enough to take fancy vacations to places like this.

Inside, the warmth envelops me immediately, carrying with it the comforting scent of cinnamon. I'm nearly to the front desk when an attendant rushes over. "Miranda! You don't have to come down here. You can just text me if you need something." She's wearing a tight business skirt and blouse. Though she's taller than me, most people are. With the way she's staring at me, you'd think I was twenty feet tall. So it begins, I think to myself. Despite our identical features, Miranda's corporate bob and my rebel biker look (as Miranda likes to call it) usually give us away. But not this time, probably because I'm incognito under my giant sweater.

"Actually, I'm her sister, Matilda," I correct her, trying not to sound as irritated as I feel.

"Oh! She did mention you were coming. Well, Matilda..." She gives me a wink that is both weird and unsettling. "Your room is ready. Can I take you there now? Do you need anything to drink?" While she asks, she's already leading me to the elevator. I guess her first question is rhetorical.

"Nothing to drink, thanks." The woman presses the button to summon our ride and smooths the hair in her tight bun. When it arrives, we both get onboard without another word. As it moves up silently, I try to keep my mind from wandering. It is only a matter of time before I'll see my family, and that's almost as unsettling as the woman's wink.

The elevator stops on the top floor and the woman lets me out first. "This entire floor is for your family only. It houses our nicest suites." I don't have anything to say to that, so I just nod. It's completely ridiculous that we all have suites, but I don't mention that.

"This way please, room 834." She points to a door before using a key to open it up.

The suite is larger than my entire apartment. That's not really saying much since it's a one-bedroom and maybe 800 square feet if I'm being generous. It's perfect for me and has at least enough space for my drum set. In here, I could fit three drum sets. Big ones too. Real ones with wood and perfectly stretched drum heads. And since my family is fucking loaded, I probably wouldn't have to worry about complaints when I pound out my passive aggression every night.

In the suite, it's furnished with dark wood and rich red carpets, centered around a luxurious king bed. The furniture is a nice touch even if it does scream out that someone rich and stuffy decorated it. "Is it to your liking?" the woman asks.

I'm already over the fanciness of the room and thinking about my next annoying chore. "It's fine. Are there clothing shops nearby?"

The woman tilts her head, a smirk playing on her thin lips. "Oh, I'm sorry, Matilda, I thought you knew. Miranda had the closet and dresser stocked for you." My head snaps back at the revelation. My sister is doing me a favor? That's new and gives me a sinking feeling in my stomach. Any gift giving comes with strings attached. She buys me clothes, and I'll be required to repay the favor at some point. Opening the closet, I find it filled with beautiful dresses and even a bright pink snowsuit with matching boots. She has turned my closet into a boutique of clothes I'd never pick in a thousand thrift store runs.

"This is great. Thank you," I manage to say, genuinely appreciative despite the shock.

With a smile, the woman heads towards the door. "Again, all your sister's ideas. I am supposed to remind you of the event downstairs at eight. Cocktails will be served at seven in the ballroom."

Oh, goody. A cocktail hour for my dead father. More likely a bunch of his business associates ready to ass-kiss the dead with free drinks. I decide not to mention that it's ridiculous. "I'll be there."

Without any flourish, the woman slips out the door, asking me to get in touch with her if I need anything. I have her business card with name and number stuffed in my wallet. The same one Miranda gave me when she came to my apartment, but I have no intention of using it. Being here is a strictly get in, get out, survival scenario.

I walk the room before flopping on the bed. It's fluffy and smells amazing. For some unknown reason, that pisses me off even more. What am I doing here? A single tear from Miranda, and I've been drawn back into the family fold after eight years of distance. It's pathetic.

But deep down, I know Miranda's right. No matter how he treated me or what our problems were, my father is dead. If I missed the memorial, at some point in my life, I know the regret would torment me.

And it's time to talk to whoever took over things for my dad. The constant harassment, the trashed apartment every few months—I'm tired of running.

My life in San Diego is a mix of good and challenging times, but leaving Sam is not an option. She's settling down, embracing family life, so our adventures are taking on a new form. No more spontaneous surf trips or nights spent out until dawn. For the first time in my life, I want to be part of a family but one I choose, and Sam is it.

My thoughts are interrupted by a knock at the door. Pushing myself up, I open it to find Miranda stepping through. "Nice to see you made it. And in sandals," she says, giving my inappropriate footwear a cursory glance. "Are your toes black?"

Wow, five seconds in, and I already want to smack her. Resisting the urge, I wiggle my half-dead feet. "It's called frostbite chic. God, Andy, I thought you were fashion forward."

She laughs, and I eye her suspiciously. Seriously, what's the angle here? She's being…nice. "Maybe it's in, but honey, you can't let the toes fall off. How will you surf if they're amputated?" Huh. She usually talks about surfing like it's the newest black plague.

"I was just about to change. Thanks to our family's warm welcome back, I'm short on clothing options at home. Thanks for stocking me up, by the way."

Miranda nods. "The clothes in the closet should fit. They're in our size, though you might find the chest area a bit roomy." It is an old jab between us. She's always been oddly proud of the size of her boobs. But it is true. My constant surfing means I'm a bit leaner all over.

Rolling my eyes at the familiar tease, I cut to the chase. "So, why am I here, Andy?"

"I told you, they insisted—"

"Who insisted, Andy? Who's making decisions now?"

She hesitates for a moment, her expression turning serious. "Tia took over when dad died. She's running things now."

That doesn't surprise me. My Tia—Jessica to those that aren't related to her—always wielded significant influence, even before. With her at the helm, I can only imagine the sway my aunt has with the horde of goons. Our family's activities, legal and otherwise, are probably running perfectly under her strict guidance. Everyone in the family plays a part in this intricate web of businesses and agendas. Everyone but me. My departure has been a stain on my father's reputation, a situation he'd reluctantly accepted after years of my resistance.

"Do you think she'll let me be now?" I ask, not even sure I want to know the answer.

But Miranda seems confident, her chin raising as she gives me a smile. "Yes, just show up, make it clear you're not interested in the family crap, and you should be fine. She's more reasonable than Dad was." Her voice softens as her cheeks turn red. "Sorry, I shouldn't say stuff like that."

Grasping her hand, I give her a sad smile. "It's okay, Andy. He's dead, but that doesn't mean that he was suddenly perfect. You don't have to pretend with me, you know that."

"Oh trust me, I know. But I do miss him, as fucked up as that is."

I tighten my grip on her palm. "It's not, Andy. I missed him too, very rarely, while I was gone, and now…" I shake my head, afraid to admit what I'm thinking aloud. I won't ever get the chance to fix our relationship. "Let's just say, I'm glad you two spent so much time together."

Miranda smiles through her sniffles. "Anyway," she raises a brow and averts her eyes, like she's embarrassed by showing so much emotion. "Everyone's here. Grayson even brought his son. You should see them together. It's adorable." Hearing about Grayson and his son brings a genuine smile to my face. He's always been my favorite cousin. A gentle giant, he's tall but as sweet as honey. I don't know if I've ever seen or heard about Grayson losing his patience. And suddenly, I'm eager to see him with his kid. If anyone was made to be a dad, it's him.

Miranda and I spend the next while catching up. It's surprisingly comfortable, a rarity for us, filled with family updates and a bit of gossip.

"And what about you? Any boyfriends?" I ask. We've been talking about the latest affair of our Uncle Harold and I'm sick of it. The man is a certified asshole, but it does have me wondering about Miranda's love life. Our family has a strict protocol for serious relationships, requiring approval from the family's head, a hurdle I've never even approached, and from what I know, neither has Miranda.

She quickly shakes her head, clearly amused by the question. "I learned a long time ago that I wasn't made for long-term relationships. Not yet anyway."

I nod, thinking along the same lines for myself. "And you?"

Despite everything going on, I smile thinking about Tommy and how right it felt to be cuddled up next to him on the couch. "Uh, no one right now."

"Uh oh," Miranda says, her face twisting into an amused grin.

But I'm confused. "What?"

"That's the same look you got over Bobby Humphry."

"No, it's not like that!" I feel like a kid again, denying a crush like this.

Miranda rolls her eyes. "You know we're twins, right? I can tell when you're lying. But whatever, keep it to yourself." I'm ready to protest some more, but at those last words, Miranda is getting up from the mattress we had both settled on. "Alright, little sis, I should go get ready. Wear the emerald green dress tonight." I purse my lips at the sound of ‘little sis.' Yes, Miranda was born first, but it's annoying how often she rubs it in.

Still, the rest of today's conversation felt too good to sour with any sort of pettiness, so I let it go. She bids me goodbye with a quick hug and leaves me to it.

Alone, I reluctantly reach for the green dress she suggested and try it on. Looking in the mirror, I feel a surge of confidence power through me. The dress, with its curve-hugging design and low neckline, makes me feel undeniably sexy. It even accents the colors in my tattoo, adding an unexpected pop.

A part of me really wants to share how I look with Tommy, to capture his reaction. His number is just there in my phone, tempting me. But after the confusion at the surf shop, I hesitate, unsure of where we stand. He did say he liked jealous Tilly.

Instead of pining more, of wishing I could feel his palms along my hips or breathe in that gorgeous smell that seems to be entirely his own special brand of aromatic torture, I head into the bathroom to put on my makeup.

And once it's done, I smile in the mirror. I look fucking great. With more confidence than before, I pull out my phone and snap a mirror selfie and send it.

Me: Dressed to kill… or should I say for death?

It's dark, but Tommy usually appreciates that sort of humor. A smirk still on my face, I head out to find a matching bag.