Flower(21)

I’m in Tate Collins’s house.





SEVEN

THERE ARE MORE RECORDS THAN I can count, and I want to ask about them, but Tate keeps walking, brushing past them like they’re not even there. The wall of windows overlooks a pool that seems to fall away on the far side, revealing a sudden drop-off and an expansive view.

“Are you hungry?” Tate asks. “I don’t think I have much in the kitchen, but maybe some leftover pizza, or we could order something...”

“No, I’m fine.” I don’t have much of an appetite anyway. I’m still wary of him, still feeling guarded. Just his proximity makes my heart rate quicken. “Can we go outside?” I ask, drawn to the pale lights shimmering up from the pool. I don’t know if I’ve ever been somewhere so beautiful.

He touches one of the doors and it begins to spread open like an accordion, the entire glass wall folding in on itself so that the living room is now completely open to the back lawn.

The air smells instantly of freshly mowed grass. The long, rectangular pool stretches out before us, illuminated in a vibrant blue. Beyond the pool is a broad swath of lawn overlooking the horizon to the south, vast and wide and spectacular—the entire world suspended in the distance. Tate leads me to the edge of the grass and I sit cross-legged beside him, too awed to protest when he takes my hand. We sit staring out across the sloping hillside, which falls away, revealing the glittering, endless mass of lights that is Los Angeles far below. The city looks remarkable from up here, like a fairy-tale landscape stretching out to the dark ocean beyond.

“You get used to it after a while,” he says, as if reading my mind.

“I don’t think I would. It looks so different from up here.”

“It’s just an illusion.” He extends his legs out in front of him. “From a distance, anything can look beautiful.”

I shift my eyes away from the skyline, and allow myself to examine Tate’s face. He always looks so guarded, his jaw locked in a tight line. I grow self-conscious about my hand in his, and pull it away, running my palms over the blades of grass.

“Why?” I ask then.

“Why what?”

I dig my fingers down between the blades, feeling the slightly damp earth below. “Why didn’t you tell me who you were?”

His expression turns pensive, gazing out at the city lights for a long moment, and then he says, “I saw you, you know.”

“Saw me?” I echo blankly.

“Outside the flower shop that first night. That’s why I came in, because I noticed you through the window.” He licks his lips. “You were singing, and you were practically covered in glitter, dancing to that song playing from your phone.” His eyes flick down to my hands resting in the grass. “You were so happy and beautiful. It almost didn’t seem real—like I was imagining you.”

His words are like sparks, igniting the space between us. No one has ever said anything like this to me before, and though my rational mind knows he might say this to every girl he brings home, still, my whole body is a rivulet of electricity. Nerves dance along my skin.

“I didn’t really need to buy flowers,” he says. “I just wanted to talk to you. And when I realized you didn’t know who I was, it caught me off guard.” He frowns a little. “So I lied and said I wanted flowers. But they were always for you.”

I brush my hands over my knees, trying to ignore my reaction to his words.

“After that, I knew I had to see you again,” he continues. “You...intrigued me. I can’t remember the last time I met someone who didn’t know who I was.” He actually looks a little self-conscious as he says it.

“So you only asked me out because I didn’t recognize you?” I make my voice sharp, trying to cut the tension that’s building between us.

“No. It wasn’t just that.” I can feel him looking at me now, but I refuse to turn and meet his gaze. I don’t trust myself. “There was something about you—there still is...”

I’m not sure exactly what he means and I feel my forehead crease, but I still don’t look at him. “You didn’t need to lie,” I say. The reminder of that night, with the paparazzi, and the crowd pressing in around us, triggers a knot inside my stomach. I felt so stupid. And, even though it had only been one date, completely betrayed.

“I didn’t lie,” he says, and I realize he’s right. He didn’t give me a false name or tell me things about himself that weren’t true, but it still feels like a trick. “I wanted to see if you would go out with me, even if you didn’t know who I was.”

“So it was a test?”

“No—not a test.” He shakes his head, and I feel his eyes slide over me: my cheekbones, my hair falling across my neck, my lips. “I’m curious about you.”

“You shouldn’t be,” I tell him. “I’m not that interesting.”

“I think you are,” he says. “I want to know more about you. One date wasn’t enough.”

I don’t answer. I can’t. I can hardly keep my breath steady. He takes my hand again, brings my palm to his lips. I shiver as I watch the motion, the shape of his lips, then force my eyes away, back to the starry glimmer of city lights far below.

“Is that real?” he asks, his voice close to my ear.