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At least it's good exercise.
Leaning my bike against the living room wall, I head straight for my drum set, the true new toy. It's electric, paired with a nice set of headphones—the most expensive purchase in my apartment, even topping my bike. I slip the headphones on, grab the sticks, and start tweaking the setup. Although I'm the only one who plays them, adjusting everything slightly before starting has become almost a ritual for me.
As I let my drumsticks fall on the drumheads, a rich sound bursts through the headset, filling me with an indescribable energy. The sticks feel alive in my hands, bouncing off the tight surfaces with a satisfying thump. I’m not a fighter, but when I strike the wood against the drumhead, it has to be how a boxer feels punching a heavy bag. Almost like I’m letting everything out, all the passive aggression in my body leaking out one hit at a time. No absent best friend, no Tommy, no shitty apartment, and lack of car.
It's not that my life is bad. I love my job and friends, like my apartment, and tolerate everything else. But I feel incomplete. Losing myself in my drums is a welcome relief from that, so I do, with every song, my frown lines lessen and I let myself smile. His face pops into my head again, but this time, I don't push it away. Imagining how he would enjoy seeing me smack drums makes me laugh aloud. He might be out of my life, but it will be a long time before Tommy Hillcrest is ever out of my mind.
Chapter two
Tilly
Sweat 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.
