Flower(17)

I realize I’ve never seen him in daylight before. He’s even more striking, every feature illuminated: every plane of his face defined, along with the broad arch of his shoulders beneath his white shirt. I can even see a sliver of skin, of hard abs where the hem of his shirt has risen above the line of his belt, before it falls back into place. I gulp.

His gaze settles on me, eyes narrowed, and he strides toward me.

I don’t want to talk to him. I don’t want to do this. Why can’t he leave me alone?

I firm my expression in place, watching him with such intensity that I hope he’ll just turn around and go back to his car. But as he gets closer, my heart starts hammering in my chest. The divide between us shortens, until he’s standing at my table, right in front of me, and I flash a side-glance to the other people seated nearby. A few are watching him, but it might just be because he practically demands to be stared at, admired. Even if they don’t realize who he is yet, I know from Friday night that it’s just a matter of minutes until he’s recognized. It’s a miracle we made it through most of our meal at Lola’s undisturbed.

“Charlotte,” he begins, his voice low.

But I lift a hand. “No—don’t.”

“Let me explain.”

“You don’t need to explain anything. I already understand.”

“I don’t think you do,” he answers, taking a step even closer. But I shift back in my seat, putting another inch of distance between us. His eyes slide over me, like he’s looking for something, then settle on my chin. “Did you get hurt on Friday?”

“It’s just a bruise,” I reply coldly. The swollen skin is nothing compared to the lingering sense of betrayal, but I’m not giving him the benefit of knowing he has the power to hurt me. “I’m fine.”

He exhales deeply, realizing I’m not going to make this easy on him. I just want him to leave.

“Come for a ride with me,” he asks. “Give me a chance to explain.”

“I’m busy right now,” I say, looking down at my textbook. My hands are clenched in my lap beneath the table, twisting together.

“Are you...here on a date?” he asks. Tate had been watching us walk here; he watched Carlos hug me, then kiss my head. And now I can see the tension in his eyes.

“Why would you care?” I ask. “It’s not like you cared enough to tell me who you really are.”

His shoulders tense. “I didn’t mean to lie to you. But this isn’t the place to have this conversation. Can I pick you up when you’re done?” I sense the voices around us rising, the whispers becoming more certain. Yes, people, it’s true. The Tate Collins is standing in front of the Lone Bean, failing miserably at an apology.

“I have work,” I say shortly. “Besides, I’m not going anywhere with you.” The anger feels swift and hot across my skin.

He glances to his left, to a table occupied by three girls, all staring directly at him. “Just tell me, does that guy mean something to you?”

I unclench my hands from under the table, sigh. “Yes, as a matter of fact. That’s Carlos.”

He looks relieved. But I don’t want him to feel relieved...I want him to feel how I feel, betrayed and humiliated. I want him to know what a risk it was for me to go out with him in the first place, and then he lied to me, made me feel like I was just some stupid game. But all I manage to say, all that comes out, is, “I never want to see you again.”

He scrubs a hand across the back of his neck. His lips part like he’s searching for words that aren’t there.

I steel myself against the alluring way he clenches his jaw, the framed outline of his body against the blue skyline behind him. There’s just something about him—something captivating, seductive even—but I don’t allow my thoughts to sink any deeper into examining what that something is. Because he’s a liar. He tricked me. And I don’t want anything to do with him.

Then, without another word, he turns away from me and moves back toward the street. I can feel his absence in the air, the space where he once stood now hollow.

Two of the girls at the next table rush to their feet and start after him. I hear them say his name. But he slips into his car without turning around to acknowledge them. They stand for a moment, disappointed, before they turn back.

Asshole, I think as he drives off. But some small part of me can’t help but wonder what he would have said if I’d let him speak, if I had gone with him.

“What did I miss?” Carlos asks when he returns moments later.

“Not a thing,” I say, flipping open my French textbook and looking down to hide my face. Carlos is too good at seeing through my lies. “Let’s get some homework done before I have to head to work.”

“Homework, it is.” He plops down next me, grabbing a pen from his backpack.

Even as we study, I can feel the eyes of Tate’s impromptu fan club, curiously watching. But I don’t even look in their direction. I don’t think about Tate—at least I try not to. But it’s useless. I tell Carlos I’ll be right back and head to the bathroom.

It’s empty when I enter. But when I step out from the stall, a girl is standing at a sink—water gushing into the bowl—but instead of washing her hands she’s just staring at herself in the mirror. At first I think she’s one of the girls that followed Tate, but then I realize I haven’t seen her before. Her eyes lift and she turns around to face me. She’s wearing a black sweatshirt and black jeans—very Goth, I think—and her hair is dark and severe, cut in a harsh line just below her chin. She’s pretty though, pale with a few freckles across her nose that make me wonder if she’s a natural redhead, her hair only dyed black for effect.