Flower(11)

The door lurches open, grinding against the concrete floor before it swings wide. A man in a white coat and blue plaid chef’s pants stands just inside, wiping his hands on a white dishrag.

“Tate,” he says, his voice sounding more than a little surprised. He glances into the kitchen, then back at us, his eyes washing over me quickly. I have the feeling that we shouldn’t be here—that this man isn’t going to let us in.

But then the man’s mouth lifts into a smile, he steps forward, and he and Tate embrace like old friends. “Hey, Ruben,” Tate says.

“Good to see you, man,” Ruben replies. “It’s been a while.”

“I know,” Tate agrees, patting the man on the shoulder as they release. “Do you have an open table?”

The man nods, still smiling, obviously pleased to see Tate. “For you? Always. Follow me.”

Tate takes my hand again, leading me through the kitchen, where all the prep cooks and servers stop to stare at us. Ruben pushes through a door out into the dining area and catches the attention of a hostess. Her gaze flashes over us, smoky eyes smudged with eye shadow; she’s wearing a slim black dress that dips down between her cleavage. For a moment she seems paralyzed in place, like she’s forgotten how to do her job, but then she smiles, revealing big, perfectly spaced movie-star teeth. “This way,” she says sweetly, eyes flitting over Tate and then to me once more like she’s gathering data, assessing my appearance—my clothes, my hair, my lack of makeup.

After a moment, she guides us along the back wall of the crowded restaurant. A quiet symphony of clinking glasses and silverware fills the air, the face of every patron aglow from the candles adorning each table. Even in the darkness of the room, I can tell this is the not the kind of place where a girl like me sits down across from a boy like Tate. Yet here we are, sliding into a booth in a relatively private corner of the restaurant.

Tate leans back, watching me like he expects me to speak first. As much as I hate to oblige him, I’m too curious about what we’re doing here. “How often do you come here?”

“Often enough,” he says easily.

I feel my eyebrows lift. “Apparently.”

“This place has been around since the thirties,” he says. “Humphrey Bogart used to drink here. It was just called the Club back then. He and the cast would come here after shooting Casablanca.”

“I’ve never seen Casablanca,” I tell him.

“What?” Tate sits forward.

“I know, it’s terrible. I just...don’t have that much time to watch movies,” I reply, embarrassed.

“What do you do when you’re not working?” he asks me. When I hesitate, he presses on: “You don’t work at the shop every day, so what do you do on Thursdays after school?”

“You know my work schedule?”

“It’s not hard to figure out.”

“You realize that’s what stalkers do...track their victims’ schedules.”

“You think I’m a stalker?” His eyebrows lift, his expression a little hurt.

“Let’s just say I’m reserving judgment.”

“I didn’t mean to freak you out. I only know your schedule because I’ve been to your work a few times and noticed when you weren’t there.”

“And my phone number?”

“That was just a matter of convenience.” Our eyes connect across the table; his mouth twitches, then breaks into a smile that looks a little too unrepentant.

I don’t want to, but I smile back. I don’t really think he’s a stalker, but it’s obvious he knows more about me than I know about him. “Fine,” I relent. “I have an internship at UCLA on Thursdays.”

“Doing what?”

“You’d think it was boring.” I press my palms against the surface of the table, feeling the smooth white fabric tablecloth beneath my fingertips.

“How do you know?” he asks. “You don’t know anything about me.” It’s the second time he’s thrown my words from last week back at me. But the dimple flashes as he says it.

“I work in a lab at UCLA that studies how spores disperse from fungi in the environment. Specifically how wind affects the spores.” I stare at him triumphantly, as if I’ve just won some battle, proving that maybe if he knew how epically boring my life was, he’d want nothing to do with me.

But he rolls right over my answer with another question. “Do you like it?”

“The research?”

He nods, his gaze intent. As if he actually wants to hear my answer.

“I guess.”

“Wow, that’s convincing,” he says. “Why do you do it, then, if you don’t love it?”

“I don’t have to love it. It’s just an internship and it’s good for my college application.” I glance away, hoping he’ll get the hint that I don’t really want to explain my choices to him. Thankfully, a waiter walks by and Tate signals to him with a quick wave of his hand. But instead of coming over to the table, the waiter nods back—a silent understanding—then hurries away.

Tate turns back to me, resuming his questioning. “So when you’re not at school or working or at your internship, what do you do for fun?”

“You forgot to add the newspaper club after school on Wednesdays, and my French study group every other Tuesday,” I say, half bragging, half embarrassed.