Flower(22)

“What?”

He touches the inside of my left wrist with a rough fingertip, outlines the dark blue triangle drawn there.

I snatch my hand away, and brush the triangle with my own fingers. Recalling memories there. “It’s just pen,” I say. “I’ve always drawn it.”

“Does it mean something?”

“Triangles are the strongest shape,” I say. “They can withstand pressure on all sides.” I turn my wrist away so he can’t see it. “I think my mom used to tell me that, but I can’t remember.” Too bad it didn’t work for her—she was never strong enough to say no to the men who pursued her. Just like Mia isn’t strong enough either. But this symbol reminds me that I can be different.

“Do you need to be strong?”

“We all do...at some point,” I answer. Like right now, I think. I need to remember my promise to myself. My future is already mapped out; I have a plan. And it doesn’t involve Tate or the hundred butterflies quivering inside my stomach.

He exhales, loud enough that I can hear. “Do you draw other things, too?”

“Sometimes.” All the time. I’ve always loved drawing and painting—when I was little I thought I’d be an artist when I grew up. But then I learned that most artists are not actually paid to be artists. Even Van Gogh and Monet weren’t recognized in their time. So I came up with a more practical plan. Straight As, internship, Stanford, top med school, residency, job. But I don’t tell Tate this.

“I wish I could do that: draw or paint, create something out of nothing,” he says, leaning back on his elbows and tilting his head up to the sky.

“You make music,” I say. “That’s way more impressive than some doodles.”

His fingers are only a few inches from mine, and I can’t help but follow the line of his arm with my eyes, muscles taut up to his shoulder, to the broad slope of his neck, and the place behind his ear.

“I don’t know if you can even call it music. It’s all just sound design and tricks in a studio.” He laughs bitterly, looking toward the sky, flooded with pinpricks of light—the stars so much brighter up here, not dulled by the glow of neon and streetlights. “I used to care about the music, it used to be mine...but not anymore. It’s been stripped of anything authentic.”

“Is that why you stopped performing?” I ask. I don’t know much about the life and career of Tate Collins, but I’ve heard on the radio about how he hasn’t done a single concert or released a new album in over a year. He basically fell off the map, right at the height of his career. No one seemed to know why. And I never actually cared...until now. Now that I’m sitting beside him, on his lawn, with his fingers, his shoulder, his body so dangerously close to mine.

He straightens. “There are other ugly things about the business.” His gaze suddenly clouds over, like he’s recalling things from another time. A memory I can’t see. “I let it get out of hand, and I can’t take it back.”

“Take what back?”

But he doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even shake his head. His stare is caught in the distance—on something far away.

“But you still love to make music?” I ask softly, attempting to draw him back.

“It’s been so long since I wrote anything, I’m not sure I remember how.”

“I doubt it’s something you forget,” I offer, trying to sound encouraging.

He turns and looks at me for the first time since we started this conversation. He presses his lips together, his eyes softening again, like he’s slowly coming back to the moment. “I hope you’re right.” And his mouth actually shifts into an easy smile, the dimple winking to life.

“Of all your songs, which is your favorite?” I ask, hoping I might help him remember what he used to love about his music, maybe even recall what had inspired him once.

“It’s probably not one you’ve ever heard of.”

I look away, slightly embarrassed. “To be honest, I don’t really know many of your songs anyway.” I bite the edge of my lip and give him a grimace that I hope passes for a smile.

He laughs—he actually laughs. “Even better.” Then he jumps up from the grass, holding a palm open to me. “Come here,” he says.

I let him pull me up, and before I know it, he places a hand on my lower back, pulling me close, then laces his other hand through my fingers, as we start to dance.

“What are you doing?” I ask, my heart battering against my ribs—my body pressed close to his.

“You wanted to know what my favorite song is,” he says, drawing me closer. “This is the best way to show you. It’s a love song—it’s meant to be slow-danced to.” Before I can respond or protest or swallow the lump in my throat, he begins to hum. Softly at first, then whispering words to a song I faintly recognize—one of his songs. “If you knew what this felt like, to be without you, you’d never have left me.” And in his voice, in the sweet, cool tenor of his words, I hear the sound of Tate Collins—the singer.

“Your eyes are like emeralds, your body like gold.

“If you could still love me.

“You don’t know what you’ve done...”

He holds me gently, firmly, his voice a mere whisper, and I don’t resist, letting my eyelids slip shut. A breeze stirs up from somewhere, unsettling the leaves of a nearby tree, and even though the air is warm, goose bumps rise up on my arms. His hand tightens on my back, his fingers pressing into my shirt as he leads me in a slow, lazy circle. I feel myself slipping further and deeper into this moment, letting it take hold of me.