Flower(31)

“But?” he asks. As usual, he hears what I’m not saying.

“It was just so tragic.”

“Why do you think that?”

“They don’t end up together. She leaves and then that’s it. It’s so sad.”

“So you didn’t like it?” he asks. But far from looking disappointed as I feared, he actually seems intrigued.

“No. I did. I loved it. It’s just not how I thought it would end. It didn’t seem right.” I feel awkward admitting it, but his eyes are amused.

“It’s a classic love story,” he reminds me.

“But I want them to end up together. That’s the point of a love story, isn’t it? Two lovers sacrificing everything just to be together.” I’ve never been a romantic, obviously, but even I loved Romeo & Juliet.

“They did make sacrifices.” Tate pauses as if to choose his next words. “They gave each other up, even though they were in love. Sometimes life makes it impossible to be with the person you love.”

I know this might be too bold, maybe I shouldn’t ask, but I’m curious. There’s so much I still don’t know about him. And so much I want to know. “Have you ever been in love?”

He stands, his jeans hanging low over his waist. “No,” he says briefly. “Have you?”

I snort. “Please. I told you I’d never even kissed anyone.”

I think he’s going to smile back, but instead his gaze is far away. I try to read something deeper in the cool darkness of his eyes, the subtle tightening of his jaw that makes the features of his face seem remote.

“You ready?” he finally asks.

I stand slowly, turning in a circle to absorb the massive theater one last time before we leave. “Thank you for this. I won’t ever forget it.”

He reaches for my hand, twining his fingers through mine, and we walk back down the red-carpeted stairs that I couldn’t see earlier, to a metal door that Tate pushes open. The Tesla—I’ve learned Tate’s sleek black car is called a Tesla—is waiting outside. And twilight has fallen while we were in the theater.

He opens the passenger door for me and I touch the roof of the car, about to slip inside, when I notice a group of girls sauntering down the alley, their short, glittery dresses shifting across their thighs, their heels dangerously tall. I glance down and I’m struck suddenly by the averageness of my own appearance: my plain jean shorts, my dirty navy-blue ballet flats and my brown hair pulled up into a ponytail.

I’m ordinary. I am not those girls. I’m not the Jenna Sanchezes or Sophie Zineses of the world, commanding attention wherever I go. And even though I am completely aware that sequined dresses and heels do not make these girls any better than me, something inside me feels envious seeing them: the kind of girl I imagine Tate should be with.

And I suddenly wish I had a wardrobe full of dresses, slinky black tops, and designer heels I could wear on dates like this. But I don’t. And somehow Tate is with me anyway.

“Everything okay?” Tate asks beside me.

“Sure,” I answer, sliding into the car. I was staring too long and Tate noticed.

There is silence as we drive—not an uneasy silence, but the kind that feels like we’re both waiting for something. Once again, I can’t believe I’m here. Not just because he’s Tate Collins. I can’t believe I’m on a date, that despite everything I’ve done to build a life that guys like Tate have no part of, I don’t want today to end. It’s like my insides are at war—wanting to stay away and urging me closer.

I tell Tate to park a block away from my house. I don’t want Grandma or Mia to notice me stepping out of a car like this. The bouquet of flowers was one thing, but Tate Collins driving me home would be much harder to lie about.

Tate steps out onto the curb. I notice his gaze sweeping over the surrounding houses and apartment buildings: balconies cluttered with BBQs and plastic chairs and bicycles, my neighbor’s Buick that hasn’t moved in years, rusting where it sits. A boy is dribbling a basketball up the sidewalk, making occasional karate-type moves with his arms. He doesn’t even notice us.

“How long have you lived here?” Tate asks. I wish there was a way to gloss over what he sees, tell him it’s usually not this bad, or that we’re only just living here temporarily. But that won’t fix the truth—that this is my home.

“Most of my life,” I say. “My sister and I moved in with my grandma when we were pretty young.”

“Older sister or younger?”

“Older.”

“Is she as smart as you?”

“Yes and no.”

He smiles, sensing there’s a longer story there.

“Thank you for the movie,” I say again.

“I’m glad you liked it, but also hated it.”

I smile up at him. “I didn’t hate it,” I argue. “It was just the ending I didn’t agree with.”

“You’re a romantic, then?” he asks.

“Only recently,” I say and feel myself blush.

We stand only a few inches apart, the air between us so still that I feel light-headed for a moment. Being this close reminds me of the way his mouth felt on mine last night, how he pressed his body against me, bare-chested, the heat from the fireplace making my skin thrum.