Flower(12)

“I’m starting to worry you have no social life.”

I smile and don’t answer him, instead glancing across to the next booth over, where a handsome dark-haired man sits with an equally beautiful woman. I swear I recognize him: the face of someone famous perhaps. “Carlos would die if he knew I was here,” I find myself saying.

“That’s your best friend?”

I nod. “He’s obsessed with celebrities.”

“And you’re not?”

“I don’t have time to keep track of all the famous people in this city. However, if we see anyone even remotely famous, even a reality TV star, I might have to embarrass you and go get their autograph for Carlos.” I keep my face serious. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” he says, tilting his head and grinning. “I’ll even help you get said autograph.”

“Oh, really,” I say, half laughing. “You’ll have to let me know if you see someone, then, because I don’t think I’d recognize Brad Pitt if he walked through the door.”

“No?”

I shake my head, fingering the shiny silverware arranged on a white cloth napkin. “For a lifelong Los Angeleno, I’m tragically un-savvy in the celebrity identification department.”

“Noted,” he says, his lips curving again and setting me off-balance.

A man arrives at our table, wearing all black and holding a serving tray filled with plates. He arranges the dishes meticulously on the table and stands back. “The rest is on its way,” he says, smiling politely at Tate. “Please enjoy.”

“Thanks, Marco,” Tate says as the waiter steps away.

“We didn’t order anything,” I whisper across the array of what appears to be appetizers.

“They know what I like,” he says.

“Seriously, how often do you come here?”

Tate just smiles and I give in, lifting my fork to taste everything in front of me—delicately wrapped summer rolls and mandarin salad, a curry soup and an artful tower of grilled vegetables. Tate watches me, his gaze flashing across the table to see my reaction as I try each new dish. When the main courses arrive, wide flat noodles that make the air rich with the scents of ginger and spice, I’m unsure if I can eat anymore. But it’s so incredible that my taste buds demand just one more bite...followed by another, and another.

I sit back in the booth when I’m done, satisfied and full and really wishing Carlos was here to experience this. He would die if he could see me sitting in a booth at Lola’s...across from a guy like Tate—any guy at all, in fact. If it wasn’t rude, I would probably send him a text: Guess where I am RIGHT now? But I refrain.

The waiter never brings a check, but he exchanges another covert nod with Tate as the plates are cleared, which seems to be the only form of communication in this place. Tate sits back, too, eyeing me.

I think again how little I know about him, and how much he knows about me. Time to even the score. “Since I don’t have the same resources at my disposal as you do,” I say, repeating his earlier explanation for how he obtained my phone number, “I’ll have to figure out who you are the old-fashioned way.” He looks uneasy for a moment, even though my tone is light and teasing. His gaze narrows, like he’s not sure what I’m getting at. So I ask, “How old are you?” Because it seems like the most basic first question to ask—and an important one.

He squints, folding his napkin carefully and placing it back on the table, then says, “I’m nineteen.”

“So you’ve already graduated high school?”

“Sort of...but not from an actual school. I had tutors.”

Trust-fund kid, I think but don’t say out loud. Now it’s all starting to make sense. “Interesting,” I say instead, tapping a finger against my chin, as if I were a reporter piecing the story together.

“Oh, is it?” he replies with a smirk, eyes igniting on mine. He sees what I’m trying to do: extract whatever information I can out of him.

“How old are you?” he asks in return.

“Just turned eighteen.” But I sense it’s entirely possible he knew the answer to that question already. “Have you always lived in LA?”

“Not always. Only for the last few years.” A woman at a nearby table squeals and Tate flinches briefly, sitting up straight and glancing across the restaurant. But the squeal turns to a drawn-out laugh and Tate settles back in his seat, turning his attention back to me.

“Where did you grow up?”

“Colorado, originally.”

It’s an answer I wasn’t expecting. He seems so LA. So in his element here. I thought he’d say San Francisco or Orange County or even as far away as Seattle. But it’s hard to picture him somewhere like Colorado, especially the way I imagine Colorado in my head—like one big ski commercial: white powdery slopes, small mountain towns, sipping hot cocoa in front of a giant stone fireplace. It’s probably an exaggeration, but I like the idea of it. A wintery, idyllic life.

“I’ve never even seen snow,” I tell him. “It must be strange to live here after that. I can’t imagine.”

“It is,” he admits. “But I...sort of needed to come here for work.”

He’s never mentioned work before, and I tilt my head to examine him, like I’m seeing him again for the first time. He’s wearing one of his basic cotton T-shirts, yet it’s the kind of shirt that looks expensive. The type of thing you buy when you want to look like you don’t care about your wardrobe, but you actually do. “You’re a musician, aren’t you?” I guess.