3. Tilly

Chapter three

Tilly

I step out of the car at the curb, staring at Sam's place—a cute little beach bungalow that once felt like home. Even after the horrendous night I've endured, pulling up here feels right. Moving out was tough; it felt like Sam was getting rid of me in favor of her new life. I was downgraded to a side quest in her adventure.

I chuckle to myself as I approach the door, but as I'm about to insert the key, a sound from inside halts me. The door swings open, and there he stands.

Tommy. My jaw drops as my eyes widen. Thinking I might be hallucinating, I rub my hands over my face. When I refocus, he's still there. Looking a little disheveled, he's shirtless, with sleep still clouding his eyes, which widen in surprise when he finally realizes who I am. "Til?"

By the time his name escapes my lips, I'm already turned around. Seeing him has opened the floodgates and I need to go. Now. Tommy and I hadn't spoken since Sam's trial last year. I'd deleted his number, trying to erase him from my memory, but clearly, it was impossible. Seeing him now, on top of everything else—my quasi break-up with Ben, my trashed apartment—it's too much. The sight of him rips open a well of emotions, and my tears can't be contained.

The fact that Sam had kept his presence here a secret wounds me deeply. I'm not stupid. I know they're still friends. Greg has let it slip a few times that Tommy stays with them when he comes to California for surf contests or to visit.

"Tilly!" Tommy's voice chases me, his bare feet slapping against the pavement. He catches my arm, spinning me to face him, and flinches at the sight of my tears. "Oh shit. What's going on?"

"Nothing. I was looking for Sam," I manage between sniffles. Wiping my nose with the back of my hand, I lift my chin. He can't see me cry. I won't fucking let him.

"She went on her baby moon with Greg." I nearly smack my own forehead. Of course, the baby moon. They must be somewhere along Ventura by now, unreachable until Tuesday. It slipped my mind entirely with everything else that has been going on.

"Yeah, sorry. I'll call her in the morning," I mumble, already pulling out my phone. I need a new ride before this man sucks me into his world again.

Tommy runs a hand through his hair, and my eyes can't help but wander to his toned abs, noticing a dusting of dirty blond hair that leads down below his waistline. Was he always this sculpted, or is my shitstorm of a day just making everyone look like they walked out of an underwear ad? "I know I'm not Sam, but she wouldn't want me to leave you like this. I mean, come on, Til, you're obviously upset about something."

I shake my head, denying the need for his concern, but he persists. "Jesus, Tilly. We've known each other for eight years. Whatever it is, just forget you hate me for a moment. I'm here, let me help."

"I don't hate you, Tommy," I say softly, arms wrapped around myself.

"Then come inside." He turns back towards the house, leaving the door open for me. I watch him go, feeling an old, familiar pull—a longing that I've tried to forget. I know I should leave; stepping inside with him is bound to reopen old wounds. But there's something about him, a gravity I can't resist.

Before I realize it, my feet carry me inside after him. What we'll do or talk about once we're off the street is a complete mystery. The alternative is being alone and right now, that sounds about as fun as a dental cleaning. Besides, Tommy and I, before everything fell apart, were great friends, spending almost every night together in laughter and fun.

For just one night, I tell myself, I can set aside my feelings and lean on him as a friend. He's always been a great listener, and after all, he lives in Costa Rica—this doesn't have to mean anything more. Just one night to collect myself, and then I can move forward, back to my own life, however tumultuous it might be.

Once we're inside, Tommy locks the door behind us and flicks on the lights. The cozy living room is bathed in a warm yellow glow, the soft light enhancing the inviting atmosphere. Sam isn't very materialistic, but she's done well with decorating the place. Light blue pillows accentuate her tan couch, and a new floral rug rests under the old wooden coffee table. Without lingering, he heads straight into the kitchen and comes back with two light beers in hand.

I'm sitting on the edge of the couch, clutching my purse in my lap, still dressed from my date since all my other clothes were ruined. He takes a seat on the other end of the couch and hands me a beer.

"All right, spill. I'll do my best to act like Sam." He tucks his feet under himself and sits up straight, adopting what he thinks is Sam's demeanor. Mimicking Sam in a tone that suggests half concern with a flair that would make a soap opera star proud, he squeaks, "What the fuck, Tilly? What did he do, steal your TV? I swear I'll have Greg throat punch him."

I'm mid-drink when I hear this and end up spitting some beer out as laughter overtakes me. Tommy's face lights up with amusement, joining in the laughter. "Uncanny, right?" he asks.

"It's like she's here. Only less pregnant and with more facial hair," I manage to say through my sarcasm, wiping away the beer from my chin. He strokes the scruff on his jaw. "Yeah, her beard is much more impressive." I laugh again and he smiles. Just like that, the awkward tension between us seems to lighten. Tommy gives me this smug look, clearly pleased with himself for making me laugh. He's always had this ability—sometimes intentionally making me laugh, other times just by being his naturally goofy, yet somehow incredibly sexy, self.

Once I've regained some composure, I clear my throat, trying to mask any hint of my thoughts from my expression. "How do you know something happened?"

Tommy sets his feet back on the ground, his leg bouncing slightly. "Well, you're all dressed up for a date. But, thinking about it now, I'm surprised any guy could make you cry."

I smile a bit, setting down my beer. "Well, it wasn't just any guy."

He tilts his head, curiosity piqued. "Someone special?"

"Very." I notice a flicker of disappointment cross his face, so I quickly add, "My father."

His expression shifts to understanding as he forms an 'o' with his mouth. "Dads, yeah, I get that. So, you went out with your dad, and he said something about not liking your tattoos?" He gestures towards my arm with his beer. When I had left Costa Rica, my tattoos were few, but since then, I've completed a full sleeve. It's an ocean scene, with waves cresting under a sunset sky, but the centerpiece is a solitary mermaid perched on a rock. If his hungry gaze is any indication, he likes it. A lot. My face warms as I try not to linger on his lips.

"Nothing like that. It's probably best if I just try to forget about it. But yeah, I was on a date. You know Greg's friend, Ben?"

Tommy nods. "Well, we're not together anymore. We broke up over dinner, then there was this stupid message from my dad, and... I just couldn't stay at my apartment tonight."

I regret spilling so much, but Tommy doesn't push for details. That's something I always liked about him. He won't pry. I could show up covered in blood hauling a dead body and he'd just ignore it if I asked him to. Instead, his gaze is still solidly focused on my tattoos. "You like them?" I ask, catching him staring.

"Yeah, erm, they're beautiful." He takes a swig of his beer, while his leg continues bouncing. I briefly wonder if he's nervous. "So, are you staying?"

Really, I hadn't thought about it. If Sam was here, it wouldn't even be a question. Since it's only Tommy, I should probably go home and try to sort through the mess of tattered clothes. "I don't want to put you out."

He blows a raspberry and waves his hand. "Nah, I was bored anyway. How about we watch a movie or something?" Without waiting for my response, he's already picking up the remote. "Endless Summer is on Netflix," I suggest, knowing it's one of his favorites.

"Oh, sick." He quickly finds the movie and turns it on. I toss my purse onto the coffee table and lean back. It's a scene straight from our time together in Costa Rica. Though the apartment there didn't have a TV. We would sit on the couch and gossip or drink and joke until falling asleep. Everything about the scene is so familiar that eventually I find myself lying down, tucking my feet up on the couch. Accidentally brushing against Tommy, I feel him tense up.

I chuckle to myself. "Chill, I'm just getting comfy."

"No worries," he says, but his voice is tight like my touch was covered in acid. With an eye roll, I try to ignore it. But I do get it. This is fucking weird. If I hadn't had the night from hell, I would have left long ago. Actually, I'm surprised he hasn't left. It makes me wonder what is going through his mind. But there's no sense in trying to read his mind. The guy has always kept his thoughts close to the chest.

Twenty minutes in, Tommy sighs heavily. I look over; he's messing with his hair, making his abs flex. I quickly look away, so he can't catch me ogling. He's clearly holding something back. "What?" I ask.

"Nothing," he dismisses.

I sit up, setting my beer down. "So, I can come over and vent, but you can't do the same?"

He smiles as his hand flops back onto his lap. "It's not nearly as serious as anything you've got going on. Forget about it."

That makes me roll my eyes. Echoing his earlier words, I coax him, "Forget you hate me for five minutes and tell me what's bothering you." His smile falters, replaced by a brief look of pain. He shakes his head, incredulous, as if the notion of hatred between us is absurd. "All right, fine," he relents, finally admitting, "I'm hungry."

"Hungry?" I can't believe his moodiness was just about food. But then again, this is Tommy. The man is as motivated by food as a starving dog.

"Fucking starved. But I shouldn't snack. I have a tournament in the morning at San O."

A tournament. I nod dramatically as everything clicks. He's probably been cutting carbs all week for the tournament, if he still does his pretournament diet.

I sit up and stretch before standing. If Tommy wants food, I was going to make him some. It's the least I can do after bombarding his chill time before a big event. The guy takes good care of his body, but I know what to do.

"A little snack won't hurt. Protein, right?" I head to Sam's small galley-style kitchen to whip something up. Moving around in it is basically done with muscle memory. While I lived here, she and I did our best to learn to cook. Many nights were spent covered in flour, watching videos online about how to fold ingredients into soup and sauces.

"Uh, yeah, I guess," Tommy agrees, still a bit surprised.

I find eggs in the fridge, and as I get ready to fry them, I ask Tommy to toast some bread.

"I can't have—"

"For me, dumbass. You're getting two fried eggs," I instruct. He laughs, hopping up from the couch to help. As I cook, he teases, "So, since when do you cook?"

I roll my head back and give him a side eye. "Bruh."

He laughs. "You didn't even have a kitchen in Costa Rica, just that old-ass hot plate."

"Okay, but that doesn't mean I can't fry an egg. Get the damn plates," I snap even though he's spot on. No way will I admit this is a new skill. It would draw attention to our time apart, something I think we are both trying not to do. He does as asked, and soon I'm sliding his perfectly fried eggs onto the blue patterned porcelain. I grab my toast and head to the pantry next to the oven. Up on the top shelf, my special mixture is still waiting for me. I sprinkle a healthy amount over the buttery bread and head back into the living room.

I find myself gravitating towards him, this time choosing a spot much closer than before. A curious thrill flutters in my heart as I watch him relish each bite of the food I made. It feels a bit voyeuristic, yet I can't pull my eyes away.

Sitting next to him, a bittersweet acknowledgment dawns on me; I've missed Tommy more than I'm willing to admit. Our banter tonight has been seamless, playful, imbued with a carefreeness I hadn't realized I was yearning for.

When he polishes off his eggs in just a few bites, his gaze shifts hungrily towards my toast. "Smells good. What is it?" he asks.

"No way, mister. This isn't pro-surfer friendly," I say, holding my treat away from his reach.

Undeterred, he scoots closer, sniffing the air like a puppy, which sends me into fits of giggles. I try to keep the toast away, but he leans in closer, determined. "Just let me smell it!" he pleads.

"No! Back off, you mutt!" I yell, shoving him away playfully.

But he's persistent, grabbing my arm, his touch sending shocks of electricity through me. I'm torn between pulling away and wanting more. Caught in my hesitation, he steals a giant bite. "Oh my god," he moans, and I catch myself staring at his lips, licking mine in response. "Is that cinnamon? Crap, that's good."

I giggle again, half hating myself for the girlish sound and loving how he's coaxing it from me. There's a small corner left and I hand it over, which he devours with an enthusiasm that's endearing. "Damn, girl, you know how to make the simplest things just perfect, don't you?"

I nudge him playfully, lying back down, though a warm blush colors my cheeks. "It's toast, Tommy, calm down," I say, trying to downplay his praise.

He laughs, settling back, but then his hand brushes against my leg, sending tingles shooting through me, lighting a fire I didn't think possible after all this time apart. "What're you doing?" I snap to attention.

"Sorry, you uh... have something stuck to your calf," he explains, gently removing a piece of duct tape. His casual touch is too much, filling me with a longing that's hard to ignore.

For a moment, I imagine his hand wandering higher, exploring further up my thigh until he reaches my… I shoot up, my entire body pulsing with a rush of desire, suddenly breathless.

Tommy sits up too, his eyebrows high on his forehead. "What?"

"Nothing," I say far too quickly to be true.

"Uh, okay, liar. Looks like you just got struck by lightning but sure, nothing's wrong." He's half laughing at my strange behavior and the sound only makes me further blush.

"I'm gonna sleep in Sam's room," I'm already jumping to my feet. No way is he going to convince me to sit here and enjoy his special brand of torture.

"Okay," he responds, his shoulders dropping slightly. "Want me to wake you before I head out?"

I'm already down the hall. "Erm, that's fine. Night," I manage, closing the door behind me and leaning against it.

Eyes closed, I chastise myself. This is exactly why I had distanced myself from him in the first place. It's too easy to get swept up in what could be, even though he's made his stance clear.

Months ago, I found myself dancing the night away with friends, including Tommy. That night, after a tiny fight with Greg that had Tommy threatened, I realized he was more than just a friend to me. It was like a blindfold had been ripped off or a giant spotlight had lit him up. All the flirting and late-night talks had led me to one place. Love. The most ridiculous four-letter word in the English language. One that I really thought would never really be used to describe anything in my life, other than maybe Sam.

I should blame the dancing. God that was hot. I walk over to the mattress and sit on the edge, my thighs pressing together to ease some of the pressure that has been brought about by the memory. Eyes closed, I smile. The images play through my mind. Our bodies syncing as we moved. His hands exploring every inch of me, grazing my chest, abs, and even tenderly brushing my face. The way his hips gyrated against me, the feel of his hardening cock against my back, my hip, my stomach, all depending on how the music moved us.

Suddenly my eyes snap open. The fondness replaced with shame. Later, when I invited him to stay the night with me, he declined. Flat out refused. Didn't even give me a reason why. I've always known Tommy was a huge flirt. Why I thought that meant I was special to him, I'll never know.

Friend zoned—that's what I was. And I hated it. All the heat and connection between us had turned into embarrassment in an instant. The day after was torture, having to hold back from touching him, from kissing him the way I desperately wanted to. My heart was shattered.

And now here he is, acting as if no time had passed, as if that night had never happened. It was as if an old wound had been violently reopened. I couldn't bear to stay with him, yet the thought of returning to my trashed apartment seemed even worse.

After a few seconds of turmoil, I make my decision. I'll stay the night but leave first thing in the morning.

Heading to Sam's dresser, I pull out a t-shirt, shedding my bra and dress in the process. Slipping the shirt over my head, I crawl into bed, enveloping myself in the fluffy blue comforter that smells so much like Sam. I miss her even more now. She would know exactly how to make the situation comfortable for everyone. Sam is the perfect buffer for any weird social situation, mostly because she knows exactly when to step in for me.

Pulling a pillow over my face, I let out an extended groan. I should call her, at least let her know I'm here. But that will bring up questions I'm not ready to answer. How in the hell did I end up staying the night at her house with Tommy? Oh that's right, my damn father had his goons trash my apartment. Picking up my phone off the mattress, I select her contact. When her voicemail dings, I stutter out, "Hey, uh, Sam. It's me. I…" my voice falters as my eyes shut. "Just call me back." I end the call and toss the phone onto the carpet. Without her to talk me through this, I don't know how I'll sleep. Still, I get more settled in the bed, more awake than ever. It's going to be a long night indeed.