Tilly in Technicolor by Mazey Eddings

Author:Mazey Eddings
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: St. Martin's Publishing Group

Chapter 24

Birds, Bees, and Other Life Lessons

OLIVER

“And I explained to them, even before we left for tour, that Copenhagen was far too happy for my natural disposition and it would be an artistic disaster booking four shows here, but do they listen to me? No. Of course not. All they see is free booze and want to sign on the dotted line. Little do they realize that we need to constantly surround ourselves with emotionally stimulating environments to create our nuanced sound. It’s like trying to charge an iPad on an Android charger: it doesn’t work.”

Cubby has been talking for at least thirty minutes about the latest artistic differences she’s experiencing with her bandmates, this one centering on how touring in too-happy cities is bad for her creative process.

She’s the singer in a jazz-punk nightmare of a band that has exceptionally long song titles like “my last cigarette feels more like home than you ever did anyway.”

Apparently, they’re quite good.

I literally have nothing to add to this conversation, but I do enjoy listening to Cubby talk, and she seems to enjoy having someone to talk uninterrupted to. She pauses just long enough to take a bite of her pizza and a sip of wine.

“Ollie, are you using protection?” she asks.

I tilt my head as I look at her, finishing a bite of my own. “Against what? Thievery? You told me that my travel money belt was, quote, absolutely bloody hideous. Unquote.”

“I stand by that,” Cubby says, leaning forward and pointing her finger at me. “That belt-wallet-giant-beige-thing was hideous. But I’m not talking about protection from pickpockets, you twat. I’m talking about condoms.”

I choke on a sip of water. “Cubby. No. This is one of those inappropriate sibling boundaries Dr. Shakil told us about. I can tell.”

“We’re twins, Ollie. It’s different.”

“I’d be willing to bet it’s not,” I mumble, coughing harder into my napkin. “And it’s a moot point. I’m not … in need of them.”

Cubby snorts. “That so? Because the way you look at Tilly conveys something very different.”

“Tilly?” I nearly yell. “No. No, no. Never. We’re … We’re not even friends. We’re just…”

“Totally obsessed with each other and spending ninety percent of your time sneaking glances while the other isn’t looking?”

“She looks at me?” I ask. My heart does an odd flip in my chest. Is this an arrhythmia?

Cubby rolls her eyes. “Don’t be dim. Of course she does. But what’s more interesting is the way you look at her.”

“No, it’s not,” I say, automatically. Then, “How do I look at her?”

Cubby laughs. “Do you remember when we went to the Dalí museum in Spain with Mums?”

“Yes.” It was one of the best experiences of my life. We spent hours weaving in and out of the playful and bonkers galleries.

“And do you remember how Mãe looked at Galatea of the Spheres?”

I nod, remembering every detail of the exquisite painting. The fractured wholeness Dalí had created. The grace of the colors. The tenderness of his wife’s face. The way it all nearly moved Mãe to tears.

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