Flower(38)

I take one final look in the mirror over my dresser, seeing the glamorous stranger reflected there. Then I wipe my face with a Kleenex, watching the beautiful makeup turn to a smear of creams and grays on the tissue. I stuff the shopping bags into the back of my tiny closet, afraid to hang the clothes on hangers in case anyone sees.

Just before bed, Grandma pushes open my partially closed door to say good night and stops at the sight of my hair. I lie—another lie. I tell her Carlos took me to get it cut and colored, that it was a belated birthday present, that he wanted me to have a brand-new style for the holidays.

She’s standing in her white cotton pajamas, the ones she’s had for years, the ones she irons each night before bed. Her auburn hair is in a braid down her back. She looks tired and there’s also something else: worry, concern, mistrust maybe, playing on the features of her face.

“It looks beautiful,” she finally tells me. And I try to ignore the surge of guilt. In all the years I’ve lived with my grandmother, I’ve never had to lie to her until now—until Tate.

After she has gone to bed, I slip between the sheets and call Carlos. I apologize for skipping out on our study date, but I don’t say anything about the day with Tate—I’m not ready to dissect every detail, to share every moment we’ve spent together. A part of me likes having a secret, something that’s mine, and mine alone.

He’s the only thing in my boring, responsible life that belongs just to me.





ELEVEN

MIA BURSTS INTO MY ROOM, the glow of her cell phone hovering over my face as I blink awake.

“What the hell is this?” she demands.

I rub my eyes, trying to focus, my gaze moving to the clock on the bedside table—it’s not quite six a.m. And just as my eyes adjust to the glare of her cell phone, the picture on the screen suddenly registers in my brain. I jolt out of bed, grabbing the phone from her hand.

I stare down at the image—at the photo of Tate. And walking beside him is me. It’s from our dinner two nights ago. The photos I didn’t think anyone would be interested in seeing.

“Wanna tell me what’s going on?” Mia asks. But I don’t answer her. I swipe through a series of four more images on the gossip site. But it’s not as bad as I feared: Tate’s hand is blocking most of my face. “I know you think I’m an idiot, Charlotte,” Mia continues to say, “but you have to realize that I know my own sister when I see her. And you’re wearing Mom’s ring. I can see it in that one.” She points a finger at the image on the screen, and there, on my left hand, lifted in the air to block the camera flash, is Mom’s turquoise ring. There’s no mistaking it.

Crap. I swallow down the sickening feeling that rises up inside my gut. The ring. I won’t be able to talk my way out of this one. “You’re right,” I admit, exhaling deeply. “It’s me. I was with him on Saturday.”

Her sharp green irises seem to swell and expand, like she’s seeing me for the first time. “What the hell were you doing with Tate Collins?”

I hand her back the phone and cross my arms. “I’m...seeing him.” It’s actually a relief to say—a sequence of words I’ve never said before in my entire life. Admitting it feels like stepping off a cliff, taking a leap, but once you’ve done it, you realize you can fly, and the weightlessness is incredible.

“Like, you’re dating him? You’re dating Tate Collins?” It occurs to me how many people refer to Tate by his full name—like he’s a larger-than-life entity, not a living, breathing person, flaws and all. Maybe that’s why he hung around me in the beginning; to me, he was just Tate, and that was a novelty.

Mia’s temples twitch and her brow wrinkles. I can’t tell if she’s mad I didn’t tell her sooner, or if she’s jealous. I’ve never had anything for her to be jealous of before, at least not in the boy department. Sure, sometimes I think she wishes she still had her freedom—wishes she could go out on a Saturday night without needing a babysitter. But I never had my freedom either. Not really. I was bound by a promise I made, a predetermined life that didn’t involve boys. Didn’t involve Tate. But now I find myself tumbling faster and faster into a different life. And I don’t want to turn back.

“Yes,” I answer plainly. “I’m dating him.”

She slips her cell phone into her sweatshirt pocket. “I should’ve known the new hair wasn’t really a gift from Carlos. Are you going to tell me how you met a world-famous pop star in the first place? And how he asked you out?”

I sigh. “He came into the flower shop one night. And then...it all just happened. I didn’t plan any of it.”

“Grandma is going to be furious. This will destroy her.”

I step quickly toward her. “You can’t say anything, promise me. Grandma can’t know.”

Mia slides her jaw side to side, then clamps it back in place. “And why should I keep your secret?”

“Because I’ve covered for you plenty of times,” I say. I can’t believe how difficult she’s being. I guess she liked it better when I was the boring sister who didn’t have a life. “I watched Leo for you last month so you could go meet up with some guy after you told Grandma you were going to a job interview. And remember the night you came into my room at one a.m. and asked me to sleep in your bed next to Leo’s crib so you could sneak out to see that guy you met—the married guy? I didn’t get any sleep that night and I had a final the next day. And—”