Flower(28)

And my own mistakes.

If this is what I want, then what am I so afraid of? If he needs control—fine. If he wants to decide how this relationship is going to work—who cares? If he wants to tell me how far is too far when it comes to being together—it’s worth it.

This is my life. And if I want him, then I deserve to have him. I don’t care about the stipulations. Or the fine print.

I roll over in bed and reach for my cell phone: 3:10 a.m. I cycle through my calls and find the number from the night at the flower shop, when he was waiting for me outside. It rings only once when he picks up, his voice deep.

“Charlotte?”

“Okay,” I say into the phone. My body is still keyed up, trembling from the sweat now cooling across my skin. “We’ll try this your way.”

I exhale as silence slips between us. I can hear his breathing on the other end, so clear that if I close my eyes, I could almost imagine him here in my room with me. “I’ve been thinking about you all night,” he says finally. “I haven’t been able to sleep.” That explains why he answered on the first ring. “I’m glad you changed your mind.” There is a smile in his voice, and that’s when I know I’ve made the right choice.

I don’t care anymore.

I don’t care about limits or boundaries.

I don’t care about sticking to my rules.

I just want him.





NINE

“WHAT HAPPENED TO YOU?” CARLOS asks, planting his elbow against the metal locker next to ours.

The memory of last night still hums inside my head: the 3 a.m. phone call to Tate, my skin ablaze from the humid night air. I suppress a smile so Carlos won’t see. I’m not ready to tell him about Tate. Maybe a part of me is worried what he’ll say—that even for all his teasing, he might actually be disappointed in me for going against my own no-dating policy. And then there’s the fact that I’m dating Tate Collins. And I don’t really want this information getting out—if I thought the spectacle of the flower delivery in the middle of class was embarrassing, I can only imagine the kind of attention I’d get if our relationship was public knowledge. So for now, for today, I’m not going to say anything. As much as I don’t like keeping it from Carlos, I’m keeping Tate’s words in mind and taking it slow.

“What do you mean?” I ask, dropping my backpack inside the locker.

“You’re glowing.”

“No, I’m not.” But I touch my cheeks with my fingertips, as if I could wipe it away. I pull out my first-period history book—the brown paper cover filled from edge to edge with sketches of exotic flowers and dancing figures I’ve drawn during Mr. Trenton’s more boring history lectures.

“You are,” Carlos says, dropping his elbow and leaning in close. “I know you—you’re glowing. Which is an improvement considering how mopey you’ve been for the last three weeks.”

Amy Rogers shimmies in beside Carlos, trying to get to her locker, but Carlos doesn’t budge, waiting for me to respond before he’ll move.

I scowl at him. “I haven’t been mopey.” The words sound lame even to me. “I’m just glad it’s Friday,” I say, as if the approaching weekend explains my radiant complexion.

Carlos seems to believe me. “Well, I’m glad the old Charlotte is back. And I’m also in desperate need of a weekend. Mrs. Duncan clobbered us with homework in calc and I’m thinking of setting fire to my textbook in protest.”

“I’m sure staging a demonstration will be a very effective solution,” I answer, smiling up at him.

“Glad you agree. I’ve also decided to binge on Netflix tomorrow to forget all my woes.”

I’m nodding along, but then my phone chimes from inside my purse, and I quickly rummage for it.

“I’ll see you in English,” Carlos says. “And, Charlotte...welcome back.” He turns and wends his way through the sea of students already headed to first period.

I pull out my phone, the screen still glowing from a text.

It’s from Tate.

Can I see you?

My chest flutters, ignites, and I glance around the crowded hall, as if anyone walking by might somehow be able to figure out that I’m texting with Tate Collins. But everyone ignores me—as usual.

Yes. I type back.

Another text pops up on the screen. Today?

I’m about to respond when the four-tone bell blares from the hallway speaker above me: only five minutes until class starts. I slam the locker shut and weave into the crowd. As I walk, I type back, Tell me where, and hit SEND.

The day ticks by with excruciating slowness. We’re reviewing more material for our exams, but I barely take it in, and there is a pop quiz in history that I hardly remember finishing.

Aside from a serious lack of sleep that’s making it impossible to focus, I also keep checking my phone, waiting for a response from Tate that never comes.

At the end of the day, Carlos and I exit through the massive double doors, the sun streaming through the row of palm trees lining the street, and I lift a hand to shield my eyes. Carlos keeps talking, telling me how in PE today he accidentally nailed Amanda Coats in the face playing dodgeball.

“I felt terrible, obviously,” he’s saying. “But that girl wears too much makeup during PE and it’s like the balls are drawn to her face—” If his story continues, I don’t hear it. My gaze has drifted out to the street, past the mob of students fanning out away from the school.