Flower(48)

And sitting at the end of the bed is Tate, a guitar held to his chest, bulky headphones over his ears, and a notebook spread open beside him. He’s humming, staring out the window at the snow swirling against the glass, and strumming his guitar so effortlessly it’s like the notes just stream from his fingers. I recognize the melody: It’s the same one he hummed in my ear on the plane.

And then he stops, his palm pressed against the strings to make the sound abruptly end. He turns and catches me standing in his doorway.

“Charlotte? Are you all right?” He sets his headphones on the bed.

“You were writing music,” I say foolishly, stepping farther into his room. “You haven’t done that in a while.”

He looks at the guitar, then the window, then back at me. The glow from the lamp sends lazy shadows across the walls of his room, bleeding out of the darkness.

“I was feeling inspired.” His eyes are on me now, the familiar look of wanting etched in his gaze, the iron control that always seems so close to cracking. “Did I wake you up?” he asks, standing from the bed. “Was I too loud?”

“No.” I shake my head, steeling myself. Electricity dances and pops across my skin. “I wanted to see you.”

His eyes settle, lowered on some part of me, but my focus has blurred slightly, the whole room swimming.

“I’ve waited long enough,” I hear myself say. I take another step closer. He is within arm’s reach, but I don’t touch him. Instead, my fingers unravel the silky band around my robe, letting it slip open to reveal the white dress underneath. I’m not shaking anymore—I’m in control now.

He won’t stop me this time. He wants me, too—I know he does, I can see it in his eyes, dipping low to follow the thin fabric of the dress clinging to the form of my body. He exhales, like he’s trying to steady his thoughts. I touch one shoulder of the robe, letting it glide down my arms onto the floor. Tate’s mouth opens like he’s going to speak, but nothing comes out.

My vision razors, everything suddenly sharp and in focus.

My heart is steady and I slide my hands against his chest, feeling the fabric and the hard shape of his muscles underneath. His scent is on my lips; he still smells like the ocean, even though we’re a thousand miles away.

“Charlotte.”

My fingers find the thin strap of the dress, pausing there before tugging it downward. There is nothing underneath this thin veil of fabric. Excitement writhes inside my belly. The strap moves easily from my shoulder, trailing down my arm.

His hand lifts, touching the strap on my other shoulder, sliding his fingers beneath it. His touch is like fire and his eyes trace my lips. I silently plead for him to kiss me, lifting up onto my tiptoes.

He swallows, a heavy movement, like his mind is battling the rest of his body. “I told you, Charlotte,” he murmurs, eyes focused intently on the strap he holds between his fingers. But then: “I told you how it had to be.” Tate’s fingers move swiftly, sliding out from beneath the strap—leaving it where it is—then touching my other arm, dragging the other strap back up to my shoulder.

No, my mind shouts. My gaze snaps to his face, but his eyes are blank, the heat I swore I’d seen moments before gone as if it had never been.

“It’s too soon,” he says, and I want to scream, I want to cower and hide. “I’m sorry—”

“Don’t,” I interrupt, humiliation swelling big and hot beneath my skin, threatening to burn me from the inside out. “Don’t bother.”

Those dark eyes seem to darken even more, cast over with some blackness I can’t see through.

My head throbs, little pulses shooting through my temples. I bend down and yank the robe from the floor and leave him standing in his bedroom. I can feel his gaze on me as I leave, but I don’t look back. My eyes are already burning.

Once inside my room, I bury myself beneath the sheets, still in the dress. The weight of my mother’s ring feels like an anchor on my finger.

For an hour, I toss and turn. Just as I begin to drift, I hear a soft knock at the door. Eagerly, pathetically, I race to the door, certain it’s Tate. Certain he’s here to apologize, to tell me the truth about what’s happened to him, why he keeps pushing me away.

It is Tate. But he’s not here to make up. One look at him—the set mouth, the eyes that won’t quite meet mine—and I know what he’s going to say.

“You’re sending me home.” Because I crossed a line—I dared to breach the invisible barrier that Tate has built between us, the one he’s told me is for my own good. But studying the distant look on his face, I realize it was never about my protection. It was always about his. Keeping me at a distance, preventing me from getting too close. And when he doesn’t deny that he’s sending me home, I say, “So that’s it? We’re just done?”

His shoulders seem to tense at my words. “Charlotte—”

“It’s fine. It’s for the best, actually.” I can’t believe how steady my voice is, how calm. “What time am I flying out?”

The question stretches between us. He could apologize. He could tell me that I’m wrong, that he’s sorry and that he doesn’t want me to leave. But he doesn’t say any of those things. He lets the silence bury me, suffocate me. In that moment, I think I might hate him.