Flower(39)

“Fine,” she snaps, cutting me off before I can continue listing all the times I’ve saved her ass. Not that I ever did it for her, exactly. I did it for Leo. “But when Grandma does find out,” she adds, “I’ll deny ever knowing anything. I won’t have her pissed at me, too.”

I brush my fingers back through my hair. “Okay,” I say, cringing at the idea of Grandma ever finding out about Tate.

Mia moves absently to my dresser, touching the assortment of books and lip balm and pens scattered across the top. “I can’t believe Perfect Charlotte has finally broken one of her own rules,” she says, and I can’t tell if it’s concern or satisfaction in her voice, or some complicated mixture of both. “And with Tate Collins, no less.” Her mouth tugs to one side. “Have you slept with him yet?”

“No,” I retort. “Of course not. Not that it’s actually any of your business.”

“You’re right. It’s your life, Charlotte,” she says, and now she just sounds weary. “You can mess it up if you want to.”

“I’m not messing anything up, Mi. I’m just...living.”

“I’ve said that very same thing before,” she says, walking to the doorway. I can hear Grandma out in the kitchen, starting a pot of coffee. “Just be careful.”

Once she’s gone, I grab my cell phone from the bedside table. There are photos of us online, I type to Tate, then hit SEND.

*

An hour later, I’m standing in front of my closet, trying to decide what to wear to school, my mind stuck cycling through the paparazzi images of Tate and me. Will anyone else figure out it’s me? Will Grandma somehow see the photos?

I pull out the large shopping bag of brand-new clothes tucked in the back of my closet. I really want to wear one of my new outfits—I want to feel even an ounce as confident as I did on Saturday. But I also don’t want to draw any more attention to myself.

Then my phone dings from the bed and I grab it quickly, hoping it’s from Tate. And it is. Saw the photos, it reads, in reply to my earlier text. Are you okay?

Fine. My sis figured out it’s me. But so far that’s it. Are you okay?

I’m only worried about you.

I really want to talk to him, hear his voice, but I can’t risk Grandma overhearing.

Another text chimes through. My publicist says the media doesn’t know who you are. They’re just calling you the Mystery Girl. My team is working to keep it that way.

Thanks, I reply. His team. He has a team, the “people” he’d spoken of early on. Yet another reminder of the vast differences between us. I shake my head and check the time on my phone. I have to get dressed or I’m going to be late. Heading to school. Can we talk later?

Of course. And then: Going crazy without you already.

I opt for basic jeans and a T-shirt. I’m not yet sure what I’m going to face at school; better to blend in, act like nothing’s changed.

But as I weave through the hall, the weight of Monday morning is evident on everyone’s faces. Nobody knows, I tell myself. How could they? Sure, there are photos of Tate Collins and some mystery girl now circulating every online forum and blog and social website, but the face of the girl was obscured, a blurry wash of makeup and dirty-blond hair. Only my sister would make the connection.

But then a tall figure eases in beside me, blocking my slanted view of the hallway from my locker. “Hiding won’t help anything.”

I lift my head and Carlos is staring down at me, his eyebrows forming a perfect arc across his forehead. But he’s not looking at me with sympathetic eyes. He’s mad at me. He knows.

“Carlos,” I begin. But he lifts his right palm in front of my face—long, elegant fingers, the swooping lines across his palm that tell his fortune: three kids, loads of money, and a life that will stretch to at least ninety years old. We once had our palms read in Venice by a woman who smelled like onions. She said my fate line split in two—not necessarily a good thing—and that I had two possible choices, two life paths I could take. I had forgotten about that moment until now, with Carlos’s palm hovering in front of my face.

“Should I ask the obvious question, or do you want to just go ahead and spill everything?” he asks, dropping his palm and shoving both hands into the pockets of his gray slacks. His button-up shirt is navy blue with the eggshell buttons fastened all the way to the top so the collar presses tightly against his throat.

“I didn’t want to keep this from you,” I start.

“But you did.”

“I know. I just didn’t want anyone to know...not yet.”

“I’m not anyone, I’m your best friend.”

“I’m so sorry.” Looking up into Carlos’s eyes, my heart feels like it’s being crushed and all the life squeezed out of it. “I was going to tell you.”

“When? If those photos hadn’t been taken, if I hadn’t noticed a strikingly unique turquoise ring on the left hand of the mysterious blond-haired girl walking beside Tate Collins, and then found you looking suddenly very blond this morning, when exactly would you have told me?”

I swallow—he’s obviously really, really mad. “Soon,” I tell him, trying to sound convincing. “I was just...waiting for the right moment.”

He blows out a breath through his nostrils, not buying it. “And Tate Collins?” His finger taps against the open locker door. “Mind explaining how that happened?”