2. Tilly

Chapter two

Tilly

S weat beads on my forehead as the heat from my exertion spreads through my muscles, a satisfying burn that only comes from losing myself in the music. It's intense but thrilling. Maybe I surf enough to be considered a dolphin, but this is a different kind of exercise. Each drum fill, roll, and rhythm brings me deeper into sync with the instrument. The world outside my headphones vanishes, leaving only the crisp taps of the snare, the bass's deep boom, and the cymbals' shimmering crash. I'm lost in a sea of music when a pounding on the door pulls me back. "Tilly?" a voice calls out.

"Shit," I mutter, getting up, adrenaline still coursing through me.

Unlocking the door, I find Ben clutching grocery store bargain flowers while his suit screams 'funeral director chic'. His hair is freshly cut, and he looks... eh. I nearly wince at the sight of him. "Hey, I thought I heard pounding," he says, his voice laced with concern that sends a flutter through my heart despite my annoyance. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah, just drumming. Come in." I step aside to let him in.

Once inside, he scans me up and down. "Erm, Tilly? I hate to be that guy, but it's kind of a nicer place." Looking down, I see what he sees: a tank top and jean shorts slightly damp from sweat and the swimsuit I was wearing for surf lessons.

Nearly laughing at the ridiculous way I'm dressed, I toss my sticks on the couch. "I'll throw something else on." He glances at the drum set, a new addition since his last visit a few weeks back. "You really play?" he asks, eyeing the drum set like it has eight legs and will attack any second.

"Yeah. Since I was a kid," I call back, rummaging through my dresses. Pulling a sundress over my head, I hurry back. "I was classically trained, but this is more fun." There's a lot more to the story, but for some reason, I don't want to bog him down with details of my early life. My childhood and family are complicated, to say the least, and it's not something I ever like to dive into.

He looks puzzled, as if he can't tell if I'm joking or not. "Come on, seriously?"

I nod but reach for my bag. "Yep." His smile suggests he might be teasing, but it doesn't feel funny. "So, you're driving?"

With a nod, he awkwardly offers the flowers. I glance at them, then back at him—a sweet gesture, but I'm not really a flowers kind of girl. Regardless, I take them to my tiny kitchen, finding a nearly empty coffee can above the fridge. I don't own a vase, never had use for one. After dumping the last of the grinds into my overflowing trash, I fill it with water.

With the somewhat unwelcome gift settled on the counter, I grab my bag and pull him by the elbow, eager to leave my apartment behind. Having him here feels wrong, almost as if he's intruding. We've been dating very casually for nearly four months, but given my almost apathetic interest, our meetings are becoming more infrequent every week.

Outside my door, I lock it and follow Ben down the open-air hall to where his rental car is illegally parked. He just shrugs when I notice. "Benefits of being an agent," he quips. The smile he's flashing is too slick, like he could get away with hiding bodies if he wanted rather than just parking like an asshole. If I was keeping score of reasons I don't want to jump into bed with him, this would go into the 'con' column.

As we settle into the car, he turns on some jazz, and I feel the tension in my shoulders start to melt away. The offbeat drums and complex guitar solos slow my heart rate, and I find myself reaching for his hand. He allows me to lace our fingers together before offering me a small smile.

As he turns his blinker on, he says, "You know, I was starting to think you weren't all that happy to see me."

I let out a scoff. "I wouldn't have agreed if I didn't want to."

He nods, squeezing my hand. "Yes, I know. Tilly doesn't do anything if she doesn't want to, and I dread the day someone tries." That comment actually draws a genuine smile from me as I gaze out at the road ahead. Ben is decent enough, attractive even, though maybe less so since he cut his long silky black hair into a high and tight. It screams corporate stooge. The rest of his body does too. He's fit, not bulky, but I can tell he works out. The button-down and slacks are a little much. Even if it's winter, shorts are always my go-to. It's SoCal after all. Cold is 50 degrees.

He pulls into the parking lot of some seafood restaurant right on the water a few minutes later. Turning off the car, he gives me a look. "What?" I ask.

"Nothing…" I push him a bit, trying to get him to say more. "Okay, fine. I'm just picturing you all sweaty playing drums."

His attempt at flirting falls flat, but I force a smile anyway. "Can we go in? I'm starving." He agrees and rushes out to open my door for me.

We're seated along the back wall next to a giant window. It really is a gorgeous view of the beach. Even though it's February, I can see kids playing and parents relaxing on the beach as the sun sets. The fresh breeze and sand seem almost tangible. Though I was just there a few hours ago, I still find myself wishing I was down there instead of in a stuffy restaurant. Since wishes are pretty much bullshit and wasted time, I turn my attention to the wine list.

When the waiter comes over, I'm eyeing the '76 Pinot like it's the antivenom to this poisonous date, but Ben butts in. "Bring the '03 Cabernet and some bread for the table." His choice, which should be a punishable offense to wine lovers everywhere, is one of the more expensive options. I nearly roll my eyes. Expensive doesn't always mean the best. Especially when he doesn't know what I want to order.

He pours me some when it arrives, but I just let my finger trace the outside of the glass instead of drinking. He asks questions; I respond politely, but I'm still stuck on his shitty wine order. People underestimate me, but what they don't realize is I've been having wine since I was thirteen. It was expected that I know the proper type to pair with whatever fancy, and usually gross, meal I was eating. So his Cabernet? Yeah, it won't pair well with my alfredo dish.

I should have just ordered a burger and beer. A timeless classic that always satisfies my tummy. Maybe even a bitter IPA, just to live on the wild side.

Ben is still talking to me, and though I'm nodding along, I'm trying to remember the last IPA I had.

Fucking Tommy again. He brought a six-pack over, and we drank it while imitating a tourist who dropped his mango ice cream and then slipped on it. So simple, but god, that night was fun. And my mind continues to drift back to Tommy, his crooked smile, and how we moved together on the dance floor. A longing builds inside me, a yearning I try to ignore. Reaching across the table, I grab Ben's hand, trying to focus on him instead.

Ben is sweet, has a good job, and is attentive. I know I should feel lucky. But I don't. Maybe I'm not giving him enough of a chance, but the longer I'm with him, the more I can't ignore how bad of a match we are. Maybe a part of me thought that an ‘opposites attract' approach would work well. It did for Sam and Greg. But there's just no spark. The guy couldn't find his way to the sand on the back of an inner tube at high tide. And I'm a beach bum. Knowing my wines or what fork to use at a five-course dinner doesn't change that.

Okay, that's selling myself short. Since I came to San Diego, I've been helping out at Sanderson Surf Shack in every aspect. Penny, Sam's amazing sister, helped me learn the ropes of some accounting aspects, and I dabble with marketing as well. I even helped set up health insurance for the Shack when Sam found out she was pregnant and let them add my name to the business license to help with a loan. So hippie surf chick or not, I have value too. Not as much as an FBI agent with a mortgage, but enough to be proud of, that's for sure.

"Have you ever done it?" Ben asks. I'm pulled from my thoughts at the question. I have no idea what he's talking about but give my best smile.

"Maybe the better question is, how long since I've done it," I say with a wink. It's a cheap trick, but it works. His face flushes at the innuendo, and he looks down before clearing his throat.

"But the, uh, road trip?"

I shrug. "Don't have a car, so road trips are impossible." His shoulders sag a bit, and I think I've turned down a trip with him. That's fine by me. Like I said, he's nice enough, but hours in a car with him? No way.

After dinner, we walk hand in hand along the beach, enjoying the cold sand between my toes until he stops me with a serious look.

"Tilly, we've been tiptoeing around things for a while now, and I'd like us to be exclusive going forward," he says. Whoa, slow down with all the passion. I mean, he literally sounds like he's proposing we switch toothpaste brands rather than start a relationship. Before I can respond, he adds, "Before you say no, I want you to know that I haven't been with anyone else in months." His earnest expression tugs at my heartstrings, making it even harder to find the right words.

So I do the next worse thing, I lie. "I'll... think about it." If anything, this date has proven what I already knew; we don't have a future together.

He walks me back to his car. As if he can read my mind, the drive is made in silence. Not even jazz playing on the speakers. When we finally reach my apartment, I know I can't give him the wrong impression. I take a deep breath and close my eyes. "Ben, you're a great guy—"

"But you're ending things," he finishes for me. He's disappointed, I can hear it in his voice, and I hate knowing I made it happen. His palm slaps the steering wheel. "Damn, I knew I was pushing you too hard. Greg warned me that you hated relationships." Fucking Greg. Never, ever again will I let my friend set me up. And getting in the middle? Dumb move because now I need to junk punch him.

"I'm sorry, but I'm just not in a place right now for a real relationship," I admit then wince at how dumb it sounds. "I know it's a cliché, but seriously, it's not you. You're a great guy."

With a shake of his head, he smiles. "I'd rather you just say you hate how I smell or something."

Giving him a friendly smile, I pat his knee. "You always smell fantastic. I'm just—"

"A commitment-phobe?"

Part of me wants to disagree, but instead, I kiss his cheek, promising to call if anything changes. He nods, clearly hurt, and I know I have to leave before pity changes my mind.

I don't watch him drive away, feeling conflicted but knowing it's the right decision. I need a beer and some more time on my drums. Maybe Ben wasn't right for me, but being alone still sucks.

I'm still second-guessing myself when I reach my door. The outside light is on, making it easy to dig through my purse for my keys. But when I go to insert the bronze into the lock, the door swings open of its own accord like it's eager to show off whatever is inside. ‘Welcome home,' it seems to whisper with the creak the hinges sound out as I push inside.

"Sam?" I yell into the apartment. She's the only one that has a key other than my landlord, and I know I locked the door. There's no answer, so I reach into my purse again.

I rummage for a rectangular device I've never used before—a taser that probably wouldn't stop a Pomeranian. But I do feel safer once it's in hand. I flick on the living room light, and the apartment reveals its new décor theme: post-apocalypse with a subtle hint of thrift store decay. It's been tossed and trashed in every sense of the words. Heart in my throat, I scan for any signs of movement. There's nothing so far.

With careful steps, I navigate the chaos, checking every room with shaky exhales. It's not until I've searched every cabinet and nook that I finally feel my shoulders droop with relief. Whoever did this, they're long gone.

Returning to the living room, my purse lands on the slashed couch. Stuffing is strewn everywhere, like a scene from a documentary titled ‘The Great Cotton Massacre'. It wasn't exactly a nice piece of furniture, just something I picked up at a local secondhand shop, but it's practically worthless now.

When I realize that nothing is missing, I understand what's happening. "Not again," I whisper, a hand to my forehead. The message is clear, this is a warning. One I've received dozens of times over the course of my twenty-eight years. Though I thought I left this sort of thing behind when I moved to Costa Rica. Apparently, I couldn't be more wrong.

Without giving it any more thought, I start to clean up. It seems someone's idea of a good time was redecorating my place with eau de trash can. Gloves on, I start the glamorous job of professional crime scene cleanup. The smell is awful. Old takeout, eggshells, and soiled paper towels make for a disgusting perfume.

Armed with duct tape, I approach the couch like a surgeon in the ER. The thought brings a hollow chuckle to my lips. As I do my best to fix what I can, my gut is churning. Sweat drips off my body onto the cushions, now deformed and streaked with gray patches. I stand up and wipe my brow. At least it's not a total loss.

After tidying what I can, I grab a beer from the fridge, glad at least my food was untouched. I retreat to my bedroom, ready to change into pajamas and pass the fuck out. But what waits for me inside only enrages me more. Every item in my dresser has been shredded. With my chest heaving, I hurl my beer across the room. Glass shatters against the wall like some kind of fucked up toast to the bastards that did this. "Fuck! Are you serious?" I yell at no one.

I'm panting as I stand there, seeing red for several minutes. Why? Why do they insist on doing this shit to me? Is it really so bad that I live my own life?

Of course, the questions have no answers. There's no one here, and even if there was, they wouldn't tell me what I want to hear.

There is only one person in my life that I have ever been able to rely on, and she's who I need. Whether I explain things or not, I grab my phone from inside my purse and dial her with a few taps. If only my stupid fingers weren't trembling, this would go much faster. Even so, I am able to connect the call after a few muttered curse words and deep breaths. It goes straight to voicemail, and I have to resist the urge to chuck my phone at the wall too.

I settle for pacing my living room, trying to think through my options. The police are a no-go—I know who did this, and involving them would only make things worse. Briefly considering calling Ben, I decide against it. His well-meaning concern would just muddle things. It's not fair to him. I made my bed by breaking things off with him, and now I need to lie in it.

Staying here would be dumb, and Sam would never turn me away. I grab my phone and purse, ready to leave for her place. Requesting an Uber, I step out, determined to find solace away from the chaos of my violated home.