Flower(13)

There’s a beat of silence and his hands tense on the table. “Why do you think that?”

“It’s just what I assumed after I first saw you.” I shrug.

“So you thought about me after we met?” His face glows in the candlelight, accentuating the lines of his cheekbones and the straight slope of his nose. He makes it hard to look away.

“No,” I lie. “You just...looked like a musician. You had that vibe, I guess.” I don’t exactly know how to explain it, but he has that laid-back, artistic, don’t bother me because I’m writing a song in my head attitude.

“I have a vibe?” he asks, a smile returning to his eyes.

“So you are a musician.”

His lips rise into a grin he can’t contain. “Nice detective work.”

“What can I say? Some of us don’t need people to find things out for us. We just use our instincts,” I tease.

He shifts his gaze away and looks uncomfortable for a moment, biting his bottom lip and tapping his fingers on the seat of the booth. I’m about to ask what kind of musician he is—if he plays in a band or if he’s a solo artist, if he’s a lead singer or a drummer—but he leans forward, elbows on the edge of the table, and speaks before I have the chance. “So you have good instincts—noted,” he says, his eyes smiling. “Now it’s my turn.” He peers across the table at me like he’s deciding what personal—and possibly embarrassing—question he’s going to ask. I keep my lips pressed into a tight line, trying not to smile at the way he’s eyeing me.

“I know you’re a senior,” he begins. “But what happens after high school?”

The question is not as cringeworthy as I had expected. “Stanford,” I say, relieved, then add, “if I get accepted. And if I can afford it.”

“What do you want to study?”

“Biology, I guess.”

“What do you mean, you guess?”

I shrug. “Bio’s a good major if you’re premed, which is what I’m planning on. It has a lot of requirements in common with the premed reqs.” This statement is the very same one I’ve given guidance counselors at school; I said it at the interview for my internship, and I’ve recited it in my head countless times like a mantra I won’t forget. This is the plan, I tell myself. This will give me the life I want. But unlike the counselors and the internship coordinators, Tate looks like he doesn’t believe me—like my well-rehearsed speech doesn’t convince him that I know what I’m doing with my life.

“Okay,” he says, lifting both eyebrows. “So after college...med school?”

“Yes,” I say, more assured. “Probably.” Crap. Why do I sound so hesitant—why, sitting here face-to-face with him, do I feel a nagging at the back of my mind that maybe I don’t know what I’m talking about?

“And you’ve always wanted to be a doctor?” he asks, steering the conversation deeper into waters I’m suddenly not sure I can navigate.

“Not necessarily,” I answer honestly, and this actually feels like the truth. “But I had to pick something early on, so I could, like...put myself on a track.” It’s not the most glamorous reason to pursue a doctorate. It’s not like I grew up with a passion for medicine or science or wanting to cure some disease. But the one thing I have known my entire life is that I needed to map a course for my future—one that would keep me from repeating the mistakes of every other woman in my family. And becoming a doctor seemed like the most solid plan, the one that wouldn’t allow room for any missteps or time for distractions.

“But is this what you actually want?” Tate asks, looking at me like he can sense the turmoil roiling around inside my head.

“It doesn’t matter if it’s what I want,” I confess. “It’s what I have to do.”

He settles back in his seat, studying me, letting his eyes float over each individual feature of my face. And although normally this would cause heat to overtake my cheeks, right now, I actually feel safe under his gaze. “Well,” he begins, “you’re dedicated, and I admire that.”

I don’t respond. I don’t know what to say. But I give him a soft smile in return, the rest of the restaurant slipping away into the background.

A second later, the moment is broken when a flash blinks from across the room.

Someone just snapped a picture. I glance toward the booth next to us, to the couple still sitting there, the man in his suit and tie. Maybe he really is someone famous. I start to lean out from the booth, to get a better look, when Tate abruptly stands.

“Ready?” he asks. I pause, thinking he might extend a hand as he did when we walked in. But he simply waits, his expression blank.

“Oh...sure.” I get to my feet and he leads me back through the kitchen, past the cooks and the serving staff, who pause again to watch us leave. Ruben waves a good-bye at Tate, obviously busy prepping several plates of food, and we slip back out through the heavy metal door.

Outside, he doesn’t steer us back to the street, but walks deeper down the alley until we pop out on the next street over.

“There’s an ice cream place a few blocks up,” he says. I glance over at him; whatever was troubling him when we left the booth is gone now, the gleam back in those dark eyes.