28. Tommy

Chapter twenty-eight

Tommy

S itting on the couch, my nails find their way to my mouth, an old habit I can't seem to kick, especially now. Sam had just hung up the phone. A part of me had nearly leapt across to grab it from her, desperate to know where Tilly was. Luckily, Greg was there, a silent reminder that such an action wouldn't have helped.

Sam puts the phone down. "She's working at a motel. Mentioned a minor league baseball team stayed there three days ago, one of them injured."

Greg nods, seemingly pondering. "That's good. How many minor league games are in the country, you think?" At first, I think he's joking, but his face is all seriousness.

Sam adjusts the baby in her lap, then looks at me. "Can you?" Without hesitation, I take little TJ into my arms. Holding him always elicits the same sense of wonder. Little dude is the most amazing thing I've ever held. I love how he feels in my arms, how he smells, or when he makes those little faces. Sam swears it's always gas, but I know the truth. He's smiling just for me. It's been weeks. Fucking weeks of no Tilly. And the withdrawl symptoms are still killing me. I had her for two damn days, but it felt like an eternity. It felt right. All I want is to have that feeling back. To have her in my arms. Looking down at TJ, his face squishes up, like he can sense what I'm thinking. Gently, I rub his head, the little peach fuzz there tickling my palm.

"Sorry, bro. She's got me all twisted up," I whisper to him. Greg and Sam are still talking about minor league games, arguing about something, but I'm barely listening. I don't want to think about Tilly while I'm holding TJ. He doesn't need that negative energy.

"I'll get the laptop," Sam suddenly says, disappearing into the back room. Glancing up, Greg has his phone out, texting someone with a serious frown.

It had taken a lot for Sam to agree to help search for Tilly. But Greg worked some serious husband voodoo and we've been a team for weeks now. As soon as Tilly called, Sam had texted me, and I'd rushed over, catching only the tail end of their conversation.

Sam returns with the laptop, setting it down on the table. TJ starts fussing, so I stand, pacing the room, rocking him gently. Feeling his small body relax in my arms has a way of calming me down too.

TJ watches me, his little fingers in his mouth, drooling. He looks so much like Sam it makes me laugh, and he coos back at me. "Number of minor league baseball games on April 24th, 206," Sam says, pulling me from the hypnotizing gaze of her son's hazel eyes.

That's a daunting number. "Has she said anything else?" I ask.

"It's cold where she is. She mentioned a 'hippie spa' once and a carousel," Sam says.

"That's it?" My heart sinks a little.

"She's careful. And she only calls every few days and never stays on the phone for long," Sam adds with a shrug.

Greg, now with furrowed brows, joins us, taking his sleeping son from my arms. I sit back down, the weight of the situation settling in.

"I have a laptop at my place too. I'll head home, but if you find anything—"

"Of course, but don't overdo it. She's close, Tommy. She actually asked about you this time," Sam reassures me, a hopeful note in her voice.

I lean down, giving her a quick peck on the cheek before heading out. But inside, I'm doing a happy dance. Tilly asked about me. She's thinking of me, maybe even right now.

Driving back to the Airbnb, I can only think of her. It's like an obsession, bordering on unhealthy. But until I see for myself that she's safe, I can't do much else.

Inside, I drop my keys and head straight to my room, the laptop awaiting. The background image greets me—a photo of Tilly in her green dress and me in a borrowed tux, a reminder of a night that feels both close and a lifetime away. My mom snapped the picture after Tilly's father's memorial. The night we first broke that barrier from friends to lovers.

She was stunning that night; her tattoos, the curves of her hips, the way her body felt as we danced. The picture has a way of bringing out a complicated mix of emotions. Sadness that Tilly's gone, and now my mother. She went back to Tahoe with Mack after Miranda assured us the family knew Tilly ran away.

But there is also happiness that our connection happened. And I know it's not over. Not between Tilly and me. Not by a long shot.

I open a new tab and start searching, determined to find any lead that could bring me closer to her.

Hours into my search, Miranda comes home. "Tommy?"

"Back here," I call out, hearing her heels clicking down the hall until she appears in my doorway and dramatically flops onto my bed, making me chuckle.

Initially, seeing Miranda was a constant reminder of Tilly, like glimpsing her around every corner without ever being able to touch her. Over time, that sensation has faded, and I hardly see the resemblance anymore. Miranda, with her sass and confidence, mirrors aspects of Tilly, but she also brings her own brand of entitlement and a slight whininess that's all her own. And Miranda is bougie—her love for designer dresses, purses, and expensive sushi places sets her apart. Unlike Tilly, Miranda doesn't care for surfing, but she's become like family to me, a sister in many ways just like Sam.

"Long day?" I ask.

"You have no idea. Spent it in client meetings, and some guy, like seventy, pinched my ass," she vents. Flopping down on my mattress, she sighs. "Then it was hours in that god awful LA traffic."

"You should have punched him. But can't help you with traffic," I say.

"God I would love to punch him," she says with a chuckle. "Eventually, I'll move back to LA."

A burst of guilt strikes me. She's only in San Diego because I am. "You could go now. You don't have to be here." It comes out a little bit harsher than I want, but she waves the suggestion off. "I'm fine here."

"Why?" I ask, narrowing my eyes at her. She starts to sit up, her face stoic. I shake my head, already knowing she's going to brush the question off. "Don't give me a bullshit answer. Tilly was gone for years and all the sudden now you have a problem with it?"

She plucks a string off my blanket and inspects it between her fingers. "I always had a problem with it. But…" she tilts her head to the side and a red hue tinges her cheeks. "My dad died, okay?" her voice chokes a bit and she clears her throat. "Maybe his stupid brainwashing wore off after he died, or maybe I realized now that he's gone, she's all I really have." With a weak smile, she adds, "I can't let her go this time and being around you…" A single tear drips from the corner of her eye. She swipes it away like it personally offends her. "She'll come back for you, but not for me."

My hand goes over hers on the mattress and she laughs. "Ignore me. Long day," she says and gives it a squeeze. I know what she's doing, but this time, I let it happen. "So, I'm gonna order something. You want a steak?"

I nod, and she leaves without probing what I've been up to, probably guessing I'm on another hunt for Tilly. That's been my constant state: searching for Tilly.

Even returning to a few tournaments hasn't been the same. My heart's not in it, leading to low scores and wasted efforts.

Miranda's been covering most of our expenses, and though I chip in when I can, leveraging my trust fund, I've always planned to find a "real" job eventually. But surfing and traveling made me happy once. At least, before Tilly left.

When the steak arrives an hour later, Miranda and I eat in silence at the dining room table. The steak is delicious, seared to perfection with a garlicky butter that makes it even more irresistible.

Miranda is absentmindedly pushing her potatoes around on her plate when she asks, "Are you still going to New Zealand?" I nod. The entrance fee was high and it's too late to back out now. "I think that's great, Tommy. You should go and have a good time. Do you need some money?"

Rolling my eyes, I reply, "No, Andy, I don't need money."

She raises her hands in a defensive gesture but keeps her eyes on her plate. "I'm just trying to help."

I contemplate not telling her what I've been thinking, but it's time she knows. "Afterwards, I was probably going to head back to Costa Rica."

I can feel her gaze on me, but don't want to look up and see her concern. "I can google search from there just as easily as here. But it won't matter, she'll show up when she wants. Not any sooner."

"Yeah, Tilly kinda makes her own rules," Miranda says, returning to her food shuffling.

Suddenly, the steak in front of me loses its appeal, and I stand up with it only half-eaten. "I'm going to bed. I have an early flight."

"Okay. Text me when you get there," she says.

I promise I will and kiss the top of her head. Walking away, I'm feeling a mix of anticipation for the trip and a deep-seated longing for Tilly that doesn't seem to abate with distance or time.

***

Two days later, I'm out in the water off the coast of New Zealand. Boats buzz around, but there's no beach in sight. The air is humid and tinged with salt. Occasionally, I splash cool water on my face as I tread water with my legs dangling over the edge of the board. The ocean usually has a way of balancing me. No matter what's going on in my life, I can count on the beach to make it all better. Soft rolling waves, the call of seagulls overhead—it's a sensory experience that calms my soul.

But not today. Not since Tilly left, honestly. It feels just as empty as the rest of the world.

It's the last run of the day, and I already know I haven't placed. As the next wave approaches, I paddle hard. It's an eight-footer breaking right. Popping up, my board catches the wave, and I'm flying down its face at breakneck speed. I carve along the bottom, then slice back up to the top, sending a spray of seawater over the wave's back. But the wave is closing out, and I stall, letting it pass. In past competitions, I might have tried a spin or an aerial maneuver, but today, the effort seems pointless; I'm just not feeling it.

I paddle back to the yacht that brought me here and start climbing aboard, turning back briefly to grab my board.

Some of the other pro surfers are lounging on the bow, their heats long since finished. "Hey Tommy! Come have a beer!" one of them calls out.

I grab a towel and shuffle over, placing my board with the others, exchanging fist bumps with a few guys I recognize. A woman hands me a beer.

"That was a pretty good run," says one of the younger surfers, whose name escapes me.

"Right. Gotta love hovering in the sevens," I say, and we all share a laugh, easing some of my tension.

"This is Stacey. She was asking about you," one of the guys says, nodding toward the woman who gave me the beer. She looks down, a bit shy. She's athletic, probably another competitor.

"Did you really get bit by a shark?" Stacey asks. I laugh.

"No, that's just an internet rumor. Got my forehead caught on a fin," I explain, lifting my hair to show the scar. "Seven stitches."

"That's not what Stacey wanted to ask," the younger surfer interjects, and the group bursts into giggles. I'm lost, not catching on.

Stacey's cheeks go pink, and she nudges the joker in the group, but he pushes on. "You have a woman, Tommy?"

I pause, considering. Does a lover who's fled from her family count? "Uh yeah, actually."

Stacey gathers her courage. "Is it serious?"

"Pretty serious. We're engaged," I blurt out, instantly regretting the lie. It's as if I'm compelled to add to my own misery, but the idea of someone new fawning over me is the last thing I want.

"Congratulations," she says, while the others laugh again. A twinge of guilt hits me, realizing I've embarrassed her with my lie.

"I'm gonna go get a snack. Keep it real, guys," I say, distancing myself from the teasing crowd around Stacey. Shaking my head as I walk away, I figure she won't have any trouble finding a new source for her affections. With all the joking, it's likely one of the guys will catch her interest eventually.

Below deck at the snack table, I grab a protein bar. I take a seat on one of the long white leather couches. The boat is one of the finer ones I've been on. It's sleek and modern, with accents and luxury I'm not really comfortable with. Really, it just reminds me of how far I am from home.

But I do enjoy the way the waves roll beneath the hull, and let it lull me into a state of calm. Flying home in the morning feels like a relief, though I'm not even considering going back to San Diego. Costa Rica is calling me; I need to try to move on with my life. But fabricating stories about my relationship status to colleagues? That's just a surefire way to keep me anchored in the past.

I'm not ready for anything new, not yet anyway. There will inevitably come a day when I welcome attention from other women. At least I hope. Right now, it feels impossible. But I've managed to move past my feelings for Tilly before.

That's a lie, too. When she stopped speaking to me, it stung deeply, leading me to isolation. Perhaps not to the extent I'm experiencing now, but enough to remind me that moving on from her this time will be significantly harder.

Settling on one of the bench seats, still damp from my surf session, I gaze out at the setting sun. Getting over Tilly isn't impossible, but it's clear to me that if it does ever happen, it's a long time down the road.

***

The next morning at my hotel, I'm jolted awake by the ringing of my phone. Groggily reaching out, I pull it to my ear and answer, "Yeah?"

"Hey Tommy, it's Phil."

I'm instantly alert, sitting up in bed. "What's up?" I ask, trying to keep my voice calm.

"We have three possible locations. Kansas City, Burlington, and Colorado Springs. All cold, places with antique carousels, new age spas, and with minor league baseball games where someone got injured on April 24th."

"Can't you narrow it down any further?"

"Not without more data, sorry. Look, I'm gonna stop searching. I'd suggest calling around the motels in those cities and asking for her."

"Yeah, I'll start doing that right away. Thanks, Phil."

"No problem." Phil offers a quick goodbye before we hang up. I open an internet tab on my phone, already looking at flights to Kansas City. Knowing Tilly, she'd instruct people not to divulge her information to callers. No, I'd have to visit every motel in those cities to find her.

It could take weeks, but I'm undeterred. If I find her and she tells me to my face that she doesn't want to be with me, then I can start to move on. Yet, deep down, I harbor a hope that once she sees me, I'll be able to persuade her to come home.