Flower(29)

There, at the curb, is Tate’s car.

“I heard Mike Logan’s having a party tonight.” Carlos’s voice slips back into my ears. “Maybe we should go. It might be entertaining.”

“I can’t,” I say, turning my gaze from the car back to Carlos. He hasn’t noticed it yet.

“What could you possibly be doing tonight? It’s Friday, Char. Homework and studying can happen tomorrow. And you said Holly gave you the night off.”

“I know—” I say, touching a strand of hair and tucking it behind my ear. “It’s just... I should get a head start on studying for the next history exam. I think I bombed the quiz today.”

“Doubt it. Charlotte Reed never bombs quizzes.” He’s right, except I haven’t been as focused these last three weeks and even an A– would be a setback with Stanford looming on the horizon.

“I’ll make it up to you next week. Coffee and reality TV at my house?”

Carlos exhales loudly. “Fine.” But even annoyed with me, he kisses my cheek before heading away. “Call me tomorrow! I need your help with calc, don’t forget!”

I wave him away, pretending to search for something in my backpack. When Carlos crosses the street and is out of sight, I walk down the steps toward the car. It hasn’t moved since I stepped outside. I start to doubt myself as I get closer; maybe I’m wrong—maybe it’s not Tate.

But then the door swings open.

I pause, staring at the dark interior.

“You coming?” a voice speaks from the darkness—Tate’s voice.

My heart leaps upward, and I do a quick sweep of the parking lot and front lawn. Only Jenna Sanchez, who I think is still upset that I got roses that day in English and she didn’t, stares at me briefly from her circle of friends chatting on the sidewalk. But then she turns away.

I take off my backpack and slide into the passenger seat. Inside, Tate smiles at me. He looks almost shy. “Hey,” he says.

“I didn’t know you were picking me up.”

“I wanted to surprise you.”

“It worked.” I try to keep a smile from breaking across my lips. I don’t want him to know how happy I am to see him. It feels silly and girly and not like me.

“I know you probably still have doubts. But when you called last night, I... I couldn’t wait to see you again.”

I shift my eyes to his. He is curved lips and dark eyes and a million mysteries I haven’t yet solved. And my heart starts to climb just by looking at him. Any exhaustion I felt earlier has quickly evaporated. Being here with Tate sets alight every nerve ending.

And then, in his hands, I notice a black strip of fabric. “What’s that?” I ask.

“A blindfold.” The dimple winks at me. “I want to take you somewhere and it’s a surprise.”

I hesitate, shifting uneasily in the seat. A blindfold, seriously? I should get out now. Head home and work on my Stanford essays, tackle my homework, give Mia a break with Leo, anything but this. But instead, I stay put.

“Charlotte,” he says, his voice soft. “Do you trust me?” He said something similar last night. I know it’s important to him and I want him to know that I’m trying. That I want to give this a shot with him.

So I nod. “I trust you.”

I turn around in my seat, facing the window. My reflection stares back: wide eyes, hair drifting over my face. And then my reflection is gone. Tate wraps the black fabric across my eyes and I bite down on my lower lip.

“Is it too tight?” he whispers in my ear.

I shake my head. A heady warmth unspools in my stomach at the feeling of his breath, hot against my ear.

“No peeking,” he adds.

The car begins to move, gliding out into traffic.

With my sight gone, the rest of my senses are heightened. I can hear the slow, easy breathing of Tate beside me. His scent is of clean, crisp cologne and something else, like the salty air of the beach. I imagine him moving closer, what it would feel like to have his hands on me, without my being able to see him.

There is silence between us for several blocks and then Tate finally speaks. “What are you thinking?”

“I’m not—” I begin, but catch myself. I can tell he wants a real answer, I can sense it in the tone of his voice—he wants the truth. But I can’t bring myself to tell him I’m picturing his hands on my skin. “I’m thinking about the ocean,” I say, partly honest.

“What about the ocean?”

“The air,” I say. “It smells like salt and sun, and also slightly green. And—” I pause, but Tate doesn’t speak. I can barely even hear his breathing now, like he’s suspended, waiting for me to continue. “I’m thinking about the feel of the waves,” I add, “when they rise up over your legs. When I was little, I always thought the sea was alive, trying to drag you out with it. It’s so...desperate, like it tugs from the farthest part of the ocean floor. Sometimes I want to let it—let it take me out into the deep, where I could drift for thousands of miles. Until I wash ashore on some distant continent. I like the idea of that.”

There’s a long silence, and I wonder if he’s looking at me. “I like the way you think about things,” he says finally, and I hear him shift on the seat.