Flower(16)

“I hoped he would go away. I didn’t want to make a big deal out of nothing.” This is only a partial lie. I did want him to go away, but every time he stepped through those doors I realized I also craved to see him. “He asked me to go out with him again on Friday.” I pause, taking a breath. “And I said yes.”

“You did what?” A car rolls by with its windows down. By some cruel coincidence, echoing from the speakers is one of Tate’s songs. I don’t know the name, but the lyrics are familiar—a ballad, a love song about falling for someone who’s in love with someone else, and the cool tenor of his voice now strangely familiar, too—and it makes my stomach turn. How did I not hear it in his voice? Each time he spoke, the truth was right there.

“You went on a date? Your first-ever date? And I’m just now hearing about it?” Carlos’s voice is rising—part excitement, part accusation.

I study the gray concrete, the flattened little circles of green and white gum pressed into the sidewalk. “We went to Lola’s,” I say.

“You went to Lola’s? Why didn’t you text me? I would have come by and stared at you through the window and been completely jealous.”

For his sake I laugh a little. “Um, yeah, that’s pretty much why I didn’t text you.” The laugh turns to a sigh. “But it doesn’t matter. I’m never seeing him again.” The crosswalk light turns green and I start ahead of Carlos.

“What—why?” Carlos calls after me, catching up midway across the intersection. “Is this about your crazy no-dating policy? Or did something happen?” He’s focused more on me than on walking, and he nearly bumps into a blonde in a white skintight crop top toting a yoga mat.

“He’s not who I thought he was.” I shake my head, thumbing the strap of the book bag slung over my left shoulder. I don’t want to admit to Carlos I went on a date with the Tate Collins—he’ll never let me live it down. He’ll want to hash out every detail; he’ll bring it up every chance he gets. And what I need is to forget about the whole thing.

“Charlotte,” Carlos snaps, and I blink up at him. “You all right?”

“I’m fine,” I say, blowing out a breath of air.

A car rolls quietly to a stop at the curb beside us and I stare at it blankly for a moment, not really focusing. And then my heart leaps: It’s Tate’s car.

I squint, trying to see inside, but the windows are tinted. Maybe it’s not him...but it must be. The car is too unique—shining black and near silent—to be a coincidence. Why is he following me? I just want him to disappear. I start walking again and Carlos falls in step. We’re almost to the coffee shop. Just one more block.

We stop at the next intersection and Carlos turns so he can look me squarely in the eye. “You don’t seem fine,” he says pointedly. “What exactly happened Friday night?”

I roll my tongue along my front teeth. “He was just using me, asking me out as a joke.” I keep my eyes averted from the car that has moved back into traffic but is keeping pace with us, inching up Highland Avenue. “I’m just glad I figured it out now. It was a waste of time in the first place.”

“I’m sorry, Char,” Carlos says, and he hauls me into his long, lanky arms. I press my cheek against the soft flannel of his shirt and the familiar scent of him is soothing: minty and sweet like bubble gum. “But don’t let this ruin you for all guys. There are still some good ones left.”

“I think you’re the last one,” I say, lifting my head and drumming up my first genuine smile of the day. “And unfortunately I’m not your type.”

“Sorry about that. If you were, I’d treat you like a goddess.”

“You already do,” I say, and he kisses the top of my head.

I pull away but Carlos keeps his arm wrapped over my shoulder, hugging me close to his side so we’re forced to walk in step. We reach the Lone Bean, a small coffee shop decorated with old black-and-white photographs of Hollywood actors from the twenties and thirties hanging from the walls. As usual it’s filled with people hunched over their laptops and a few kids from school who beat us here. We order our usual drinks plus a blueberry scone to split, then find an open table outside. Again, my thoughts stray back to Tate. I can’t help but recall his surprise coffee delivery last week, the casual way he strolled through the door of the flower shop, balancing two trays of steaming drinks, and then left just as nonchalantly. As if it were routine, and I was just the latest girl to fall for it.

Carlos pulls out his American history homework and starts ranting about the test he had to take today, and how it was totally rigged because he doesn’t remember them going over any of the material. I’m grateful he’s changed the subject—distracting me from thoughts that keep cartwheeling back to Tate. But I’m also incapable of focusing on what he’s saying. When he eventually stands up to use the restroom, I glance out to the street, and there at the curb is the car.

I lower my head and clench my jaw, allowing myself to stare at it for a moment. I know it’s his car—who else’s could it be? If he expects me to come talk to him, he’s in for a surprise. He can just sit there all day if he wants to.

But then the driver’s side door swings open and Tate steps out, looking irritatingly smoking hot in dark sunglasses and gray jeans. I swallow, stunned.