7. Tilly

Chapter seven

Tilly

S tanding at the stove, I flip a piece of French toast in the pan while Tommy continues to sleep on the couch. My eyes keep drifting to his peaceful form. The intimacy of cuddling up to him last night felt unlike anything I've experienced before. There's something about Tommy's scent—a mix of salt, musk, and a hint of pine, likely from his deodorant—that has permeated my apartment, making me wish I could bottle it up to keep when he leaves. Because he will leave, and just thinking about it twists my stomach into knots. We've only had two days together, and it has felt like a fleeting dream.

If it were truly a fantasy, I imagine it would have ended differently last night—with those soft caresses on my leg leading somewhere more daring.

The oven dings, pulling me from my reverie. I blush at the direction of my thoughts and turn to retrieve the bacon. Once everything is plated, I grab a mug of coffee and my breakfast and head over to the couch, leaving his plate on the counter. I can't help but tease him a little, despite the warmth of our time together.

Setting down my things, I plop next to him, jostling him awake. "Oh hey, you're up," I say, feigning surprise.

He sits up, wincing in discomfort. My playful mood vanishes, and I rush to the bathroom to grab some painkillers. Returning to his side, I offer them to him.

"Oh, sick, thanks," he says, swallowing them dry. He eyes my coffee. "Can I have some of that?"

"Nope," I reply, taking a big bite of my breakfast. It's becoming a thing with us. I eat and relentlessly tease him. Why do I keep it up? Well, because it's the only time it feels safe to really flirt with him. I like seeing him riled up only to give him exactly what he wants.

"Hey, not fair!"

"Tough, you said I can't cook, so this is your punishment."

"Tilly..." He gives me his best puppy dog eyes.

"Oh lord. It's a joke, don't get your face stuck like that. Gimme a second," I relent, fetching his breakfast and coffee from the kitchen. When I return, he's eagerly awaiting his share.

He moans with approval at the first bite. "Tilly, this is amazing! What'd you put in it? Besides some kind of drug, obviously."

I laugh. "Nutmeg and cloves. And relax, it's just an internet recipe I found."

"Shut up, it's heavenly and you know it," he says, devouring another bite. "Where did you learn to cook?"

"Sam's place. She wanted to be this 'perfect mom' so when she found out she was pregnant, we started making stuff together. Just don't let her cook for you," I say. While I took to crafting meals like a seal to water, Sam didn't. She's set off the fire alarm in her house by boiling water. Twice.

He shrugs at my warning. "She wouldn't cook for me anyway. But, hey no big deal. I could live on gallo pinto and chifrijo from that stand by the shack. No cooking necessary," he says.

"Didn't they give you food poisoning?" I ask.

He dismisses the accusation with a wiggle of his finger. "There's no evidence it was from that place."

I've never seen someone puke as much as he did and for so long. Two whole days the guy was upchucking every sip of water and bite of crackers he could manage. But there was more to that time, how I kept checking on him between surf lessons, buying him Gatorade, bringing him wet towels for his gross puke-flecked face. He must be thinking about that too. His laughter fades, and he looks at me with a tender smile. "You know, you've taken care of me a lot over the years. Still are, aren't you?"

I'm speechless, the word 'always' on the tip of my tongue, but it feels too heavy, too revealing. So instead, I meet his gaze, letting the moment linger between us.

He chuckles and looks away, breaking the intensity in an instant. "I'm not complaining. Especially with food like this." Suddenly, the mesmerizing effect of his gaze and words fades, and I find myself awkwardly focusing on my food again.

"Erm, yeah. It's good," I manage to say, my brain still trying to catch up and form coherent thoughts.

After we finish eating, I clear our plates while he lingers over his coffee. "So, what are your plans for today?" he asks casually.

Leaning against the doorframe, I cross my arms. "Can't skip work again. Got some surf lessons, and I'm pretty sure Sam's going to interrogate me at some point."

"Mind if I tag along?" His question catches me off guard.

"Really?"

"Yeah, I used to watch you give lessons all the time, remember? Plus, I've got nothing else planned." His casual demeanor makes it seem like spending the day with me is the usual thing in the world.

I scrutinize his face, searching for any sign of reluctance, but find none. The thought that he might want to spend more time with me—possibly even another night—sends a flutter through my heart.

Careful, Tilly. I remind myself silently. That's why he ran before. You wanted more and he didn't. He's just being a friend. Yet, the signals he was sending last night hardly seemed like he was looking for a way out. We cuddled all night on the couch for Christ's sake.

I keep my tone casual. "Yeah, come along. But we'll have to explain your mangled face to Sam."

"Mangled? Ouch, that hurts more than the stitches. Thought chicks dug scars?"

As he searches my face for a reaction, I turn away before the blush can reach my cheeks, but I catch his grin out of the corner of my eye. "Oh, shit, you're blushing." A smile lifts the corners of my mouth, but I still don't look at him. "You totally think I'm sexy!" He nudges my shoulder playfully.

I get to my feet, brushing off his words and touch. "Anything's an improvement, I suppose."

He wiggles a finger at me, a flirtatious smirk playing on his lips. "Tease all you want. I know the truth now. Tilly Jacobs likes how I look." His smugness sends a fresh wave of heat across my face.

He's flirting with me, and I'm. Fucking. Here. For. It. But before I can reply, he stands and stretches, his muscles flexing in a way that draws my eyes down his body. The sight of his abs leading to that enticing trail of hair sends a shiver through me.

Clearing my throat, I announce, "I'm gonna get dressed, then we'll head out." I gesture towards my bedroom and hastily retreat down the hall.

Finding a swimsuit that hasn't been ruined takes longer than expected. I change quickly and rush back towards the living room, only to bump into Tommy as he exits the bathroom.

"Oh sorry—" I say at the same time he says, "Totally my fault." Yet neither of us steps back. His hands rest on my shoulders, his breathing shallow. Attempting to create some distance, I step back, only to find the wall behind me. Tommy follows, his large hands sliding slightly to my biceps, his grip tightening as if he's anchoring himself to me. But he doesn't stop there. Leaning forward, his body is now pressed against me in the most delicious way.

Both of us are taking shallow breaths and if I'm not mistaken, his body is trembling slightly. I know he's looking at my face, but I can't seem to meet his eyes. Instead, my head remains slightly turned, focused on the small brush of his thumb on my arm. We stay just like that for what feels like hours, but probably lasts only a few short seconds before he finally takes a breath. "Tilly, what are we doing?" His whispered words ignite a wildfire inside me. I'm adrift in a sea of sensations, my mind unable to grasp anything beyond the proximity of his lips, just a mere tilt of my head away.

"I-I don't know."

His chest rises slowly as if he's centering himself. "I've had a lot of fun with you… We always do," he continues, his hands sliding down my arms so gently it threatens to unravel me completely. I remain silent, my chin dipped, terrified that meeting his gaze might compel me to act recklessly.

"Did you miss me?" he asks, his voice carrying a weight that pulls my gaze to his. His eyes, filled with a sad longing, search mine for an answer. When I hesitate, he presses on. "I fucking missed you, Tilly. Tell me you did too. Please." His voice is breathless by the time he adds that final word. That one single stupid word that melts any stubborn resolve left.

With a slight nod, I give him my silent answer. I want to scream out, ‘I thought about you every goddamn day' but my voice is lost. It seems that my nod is enough though because his entire face brightens. "Good," he says, that smirk nearly making me lose my mind. The urge to lean in, to feel his lips against mine and thread my fingers through his hair, is burning through me. But before I can give in, a knock at the door pulls us back to reality.

Ignoring it, I yell, "Go away, Charles," hoping my neighbor will get the hint. But the voice that responds isn't what I'm expecting.

"It's not Charles," a woman replies, sending a shock through me. I recognize that voice instantly, and my eyes widen as far as they can go. A chill sweeps through me. It's her. I haven't heard from her in years, and knowing she's here now makes me feel all sorts of conflicting things: fear, pain, and maybe a bit of hope. Hope that she's here for something other than manipulation. But there is one thing I can't let her see. If she comes in and Tommy is here, she'll have all the ammunition she needs to get whatever she is here for.

Panicked, I turn to Tommy. "Hide."

He starts to protest, but I quickly cover his mouth with my hand. "Please, Tommy, no questions. Just hide in my closet, okay?" The desperation in my voice convinces him, and he nods.

Still in my bathing suit, I rush to the door. Miranda, my twin sister, stands there, looking every bit the part of someone who belongs in a world far removed from my duct-taped couch reality.

"Hello, Matilda," she says. We are identical in our physical appearance. But the similarities end there. The tight skirt and blouse combo make her look as stuffed up as she probably is. It's gray like a stormy sky but fits her well. Probably cost a fortune to have it hemmed so it makes her ass pop like it does. Gold bracelets dangle from her wrist as she tucks some of her short, cropped hair behind her ear. There's no awkwardness in the movement. No, Miranda doesn't do discomfort. She's too high and mighty for that. She only does judgment. That's the hair tuck of someone resisting the urge to rub hand sanitizer over every surface of their skin.

"Hello, Miranda, please, come in," I say, my voice dripping with sarcasm that she chooses to ignore. As Miranda takes in the state of my apartment, her disdain is clear. With her nose scrunched up, she steps inside, her shoulder-length black hair bouncing as she does.

"They certainly did a number this time." Her gaze lingers on the damaged furniture.

I cross my arms, feeling a mix of relief and trepidation. If our father has sent Miranda, it could mean he's extending an olive branch. At the thought, my hope rises slightly. He's never done this before.

"Why didn't you call?" Miranda's question hits me like a cold wave. That used to be the pattern: after every break-in orchestrated by our father's goons, I'd call him, erupting in anger, demanding he back off. He'd promise to stop if I returned home. I'd refuse, move somewhere new, and the cycle would restart months later when he found me again. But that was the old me. "I don't do that anymore. I'm not running this time," I say with all the confidence I can muster.

Miranda doesn't miss a beat. "Clearly. But I do have news."

I head to the fridge for a beer. It's early, but I need something to steady myself. "I have to be at work soon. Can we speed this up? What does Dad want now?"

She hesitates, then drops the bombshell. "Dad's dead."

The beer stops midway to my lips, warmth draining from my face. "Dead?" I whisper, disbelief coloring my voice. Miranda nods.

"Cancer. You probably don't care, but he's been cremated. There's a memorial in Lake Tahoe this weekend. I'm supposed to insist you come."

The word ‘insist' brings me out of my shock. My family doesn't get to ‘insist' I do anything anymore. I shake my head, adamant. "I can't. Like I said, I have work."

Miranda's shrug feels heavy with implication. "Then they'll keep doing this." I'm tempted to ask who 'they' are but hold back. In the back of my head, I know who it is anyway. Fucking bastard cousins.

"Let them. I've dealt with worse my whole life."

Miranda scoffs and rolls her head like a spoiled child. "You didn't have to, Tilly. Dad would have welcomed you back with open arms."

I scoff right back, like we're playing that old mirroring game we used to as kids. "Dad is many things, but forgiving isn't one of them."

Her eyes narrow coldly, her gaze piercing into me like two ice daggers. "Was many things. He's dead, remember?"

That stings. I'm not immune to the passing of my father. Really. I did love the guy, in my own way. But we never, and I mean, never got along. He was always trying to shape me into his vision. Lucky for him, he had a spare kid that was more than happy to fill the role. If I hadn't run away, I'm certain I would be dressed and acting exactly how Miranda does. Still, my father is dead and I'm suddenly overcome with a mix of guilt and sorrow. "I'm, uh, sorry, Miranda. Are you okay?" Despite everything, Miranda has always been very close to our father, for obvious reasons.

Suddenly, she's hugging me, tears streaming down her face. It takes me a moment to wrap my arms around her, too shocked by her vulnerability. "He was so sick at the end, Til. He refused to let me tell you. You're both so goddamn stubborn."

Holding her, I think about our father. To Miranda, he was not the monster I knew, but her champion. Though we've never really gotten along, she's still my sister. Seeing her hurt is not easy and gives me no satisfaction. Sighing, I realize I can't be the frigid bitch about this that I want to be. "I know, Andy," I say softly, calling her by her childhood nickname in an attempt to offer comfort.

Miranda pulls back, her eyes pleading. "Please come to the memorial. I hate that they do this to you."

Considering her request, I realize I have the opportunity to confront whoever's behind the vandalism directly. Plus, Rick can manage the shop. It's winter and the surf lessons are sparse right now. The idea of attending doesn't thrill me but seeing Miranda this distraught changes things. "Okay, Andy. I'll come."

She eyes me warily. "You're not just gonna run off to Paris or something?"

I shake my head. "I'm many things, but not a liar."

Miranda offers a small chuckle, then sniffles. "Want me to replace your furniture?"

I smile, glancing at the duct-taped couch. "No. The duct tape gives it character." She heads for the door but stops to hand me a business card. "Call this number. Let them know when you're arriving. They'll sort out a room for the week and make sure you're included in all the functions."

The thought of attending those stuffy, high-society events makes me cringe. Fancy dresses, elaborate hairstyles, and too-friendly relatives. Fucking Great Uncle Harold. If I have to slap that man's hand off my ass one more time, I'm going to shove one of my drumsticks down his throat. I don't care how old he is, there's no excuse. Yet, for Miranda's sake, I'm willing to endure it.

I take the card and nod. "Okay," I mutter.

Miranda heads for the door, turning back with a smile that's oddly proud, leaving me to wonder if I've just been expertly manipulated by my own sister. It wouldn't surprise me in the least to find out that's the truth. "I'll see you in a few days then," she says before stepping out and closing the door behind her.

Left alone, I collapse onto the couch, burying my head in my hands. For a moment, I let the tears come—tears borne not just of sadness for my father's death but from the sheer overwhelming sense of confusion and surprise at Miranda's visit. I try to sift through my memories for any happy moments shared with my father, but all that surfaces is the way his face would contort in displeasure whenever I was around. We might not have outright hated each other, but finding a genuinely pleasant memory feels like searching for the perfect wave on a rocky shore.

Suddenly, I feel an arm wrap around me, and I stiffen for a split second before realizing Tommy had been hiding away during Miranda's visit. Turning into him, I let myself be engulfed by the warmth of his bare chest, my sobs breaking free. Tommy's arms encircle me tighter, offering silent comfort as I cry out the tangled emotions stirring inside me.