Flower(15)

Tate Collins. This boy, this way-too-hot boy who’s haunted the flower shop and brought me eight kinds of coffee and tracked down my phone number and snuck me in through the kitchen of the most exclusive restaurant in town—of course he’s no ordinary boy. He’s Tate Collins.

My lips move, forming the name that feels sour on my tongue. “Tate?” I whisper, trying to shake away the images cycling through my mind, the stream of photos I’ve seen on TV; in Carlos’s gossip mags and his Instagram feed; on the side of buses and taped to the inside of girls’ lockers at school. Tate Collins—pop star, heartthrob, chart-smashing music sensation, and arguably one of the most famous singers in the entire world—is standing right in front of me, dark eyes boring into mine, pleading.

I barely feel the pressure of bodies as I’m edged out from the crowd, pushed back in slow motion, away from Tate. But I don’t resist. I watch as hands tear at his clothes, fingers graze his shaved head. His eyes slant down, away from the flashes that burst in an endless pattern of dizzying white.

I take a step backward, then another, the crowd filling the void where I last stood. I catch one final glimpse of Tate before I turn on the sidewalk and run.





FIVE

ON MONDAY, THE AIR IS warm as kids flee the school at the end of the day. It feels like spring even though it’s almost winter—not that winter in LA really counts.

“The Lone Bean for coffee?” Carlos asks.

“Let’s do it.” I’ve been quiet today, and Carlos has definitely noticed. I don’t know why I haven’t told him about Tate, except that I’m embarrassed I let myself get carried away, and more embarrassed it was with him.

I’m not an idiot. I know who Tate Collins is. Everyone knows. Even if you avoid the tabloids like I do, even if you don’t listen to his music or follow any celebrity gossip blogs, you know who Tate Collins is. Everyone knows about his string of model girlfriends; about his mega world tour where he was rumored to party with British royalty and nearly drowned when he fell off a yacht near the coast of France, totally wasted; how he got in a fight in a New York nightclub and was hauled off to jail. Everyone knows the ugly details.

I know Tate Collins, the legend. So how did I fail to recognize Tate Collins, the boy? The night he walked into the flower shop, I had a nagging sensation that he looked familiar—but I shook it off. Ignored it. Figured it was nothing. And here I’d been bragging to Tate about my stellar detective skills.

In my defense, he looked different, not how I remember him from the photos I’ve seen. The artfully styled star from the headlines bears no resemblance to the Tate I met. His signature perfect brown hair is gone, shaved down to stubble. And his eyes seem so much bleaker in person. Like he hasn’t slept in far too long.

“What’s up?” Carlos says, nudging me as we walk. “I can tell something’s going on with you.”

So much for fooling Carlos. I turn away so he won’t see my eyes, won’t see the hurt just beneath the surface. This morning, before leaving for school, I masterfully applied a layer of makeup to my chin to conceal the bruise that surfaced shortly after I was clocked by one of the guys fighting on the street Friday night. It’s still faintly visible of course, and I shrugged it off as a flower shop mishap, telling Grandma and Mia, and Carlos before first period, that I opened one of the cooler doors too fast at the Bloom Room and it slammed into my chin. They all seemed to believe me. Even though I hated the lie.

“I didn’t even see you at lunch,” Carlos adds.

“I know.” I shake my head. “I’m sorry.” I sat in my car the entire lunch period until I heard the bell ring, replaying the events of Friday night: the dinner at Lola’s, how I so stupidly said I had never seen a famous person in my life, while I sat directly across from one of the most famous rock stars in the world. No wonder he was able to track down my phone number—when he said he had resources, he wasn’t kidding. Memories circle in my head, pieces I can’t believe I didn’t put together until now. Like that first night in the flower shop when I asked for his name and he paused, caught off guard, like he couldn’t believe I didn’t know who he was.

He must have thought I was so stupid. Everything I said, all the comments about how I had good instincts, how I just knew he was a musician. He was probably laughing to himself, thinking how oblivious I was. I cringe at the memory. It was all just some sort of game to him—see how long it takes for me to figure out the truth, and then watch the embarrassment register on my face. Thinking about it now makes me furious. What kind of an asshole does that?

I remember a time last year—a faint memory—when all the girls at school were abuzz with the latest Tate Collins gossip, when rumors circulated that he was quitting music: no more touring, no more albums released. He was done—but why? No, I scold myself. I don’t care.

“Charlotte?” Carlos levels his gaze on me, his coffee-brown eyes kind and reassuring.

“I...I saw that guy Friday night.”

“The one who sent you flowers—he came to see you at the shop?”

I flash back to standing in the Bloom Room, looking at Tate through the glass, his phone at his ear and his expression calculating. Then I ruthlessly shake the image away. “He’s come in every day I’ve worked.”

Carlos blinks. “Seriously? And you didn’t tell me?”