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Tommy
Sitting 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."
