Flower(54)

“I know.”

“And why now? Why come find me now, after weeks of nothing?”

“Because I couldn’t stay away. I’ve been a wreck since Christmas. I couldn’t take it anymore. I had to see you. I had to try.” He pauses, just for a moment, searching my face. “Please, Charlotte.”

“You need to let me in,” I tell him, as if I’m actually considering this. “You need to tell me what you’re thinking instead of just disappearing.”

“I promise.” He drops his hand from my face. “God, Charlotte, I’m so sorry.”

I suck in a deep breath, then let it out. “If we’re going to do this, then no more control, no more trying to protect me. You have to let me decide what I want. You have to trust me.”

“I do trust you,” he says, his eyes piercing mine, reminding me of how effortlessly they can split me open and leave me bare. “You mean everything to me. And I need you.”

I need him, too. My heart rate kicks up.

Finally, I lean forward, brushing my lips across his. At once, his hands are in my hair pulling me forward, his lips covering mine. He kisses me like he doesn’t want to lose me, he kisses me like he won’t ever let go again.

“I don’t care about everything else. I just want the real you,” I say, drawing back just a whisper. Only an hour earlier I thought I’d never see him again, but now, with his lips so close to mine, another thought surfaces, one I can’t ignore. One that’s been gaining weight long before our trip to Colorado. “I want to be with you. And I want—” The words catch momentarily in my throat, a confession, and then they find form. “I want all of you.”

He pulls away, cradling my face in his palms. In his eyes I see that he understands what I mean. That I’m done waiting for him.

“I want you, too,” he says, his voice heady and deep.

There is a fever in his touch now, an urgency in his hands along my neck. I feel a flurry of excitement in my belly, followed again by dread. I can’t tell Grandma we’re back together. Not after what happened.

“Tate...can we...can we keep this just between us, for now? I know it’s not easy, with the paparazzi and all, but...”

“Whatever you want,” he says. And I wrap my arms around him, smelling the clean scent of him, my lips lingering against his neck. It would be so easy to kiss him again, let him push me back against the wall and feel his hands across my body. I could forget about going back to the lab and lose all sense of time. But instead, I rest my hands against his shoulders and tell him that I need to go.

I start to walk through the door but he pulls me back, kissing me once, long and deep, before releasing me. “I’m not going to lose you again,” he says.

“I hope not,” I tell him, and I slip back inside.





SEVENTEEN

SUNDAY AFTERNOON, CARLOS AND I are sitting on the bleachers in the gym, watching the dress rehearsal for A Midsummer Night’s Dream. The opening night of the play is in two weeks and Carlos is writing an article about it for the Banner. I’m assigned to take photos.

Normally, I’d be excited to experiment with the school camera equipment, outdated as it is, but it’s Sunday—and it’s Valentine’s Day—and I’d rather be anywhere but here. Actually, I’d rather be one place in particular: with Tate. I haven’t seen him since he came into the lab and surprised me three nights ago, but I have a feeling I’ll hear from him today.

“The set design is still a little shoddy,” Carlos says in a hush.

“I don’t think they’re finished yet. And you can’t print that in your article.”

“I think Puck’s tights are starting to tear in the crotch.”

“Yeah, you can’t print that either. And why are you staring at his crotch?” I raise a brow at him.

“The real question is, why aren’t you staring? You’ve gotta admit, Jake Cline slays it as Puck.”

“And here I thought you were still madly in love with Alan Gregory,” I tease.

“I am. I was thinking Jake might make an interesting rebound for you,” Carlos says, winking. I look guiltily away. He doesn’t know that Tate and I are back together. And I don’t plan on telling him. Not yet anyway. He saw how crushed I was after Christmas, and we spent weeks hating on Tate together. I can’t imagine how I’d explain taking him back.

“I’m not interested in a rebound,” I say.

“But have you really looked at those tights? I mean, come on.”

“Carlos!” I turn swiftly on the bench and slap his leg.

“What?” He shrugs innocently. “I’m only trying to help you find a distraction.”

I meet his eyes and we both start to laugh, holding our hands over our mouths to keep from interrupting the second act of the play.

I snap a couple photos from our seats, then move closer to the stage to get a better shot of the half-constructed set design. It’ll have to be good enough for the article.

“Your phone was vibrating in your bag,” Carlos says when I return to my chair. He’s scribbling notes on a pad and doesn’t look up when I pull out my phone and read the text from Tate: My house in fifteen?

I’m at school, I send back.

Another text pops up immediately. Twenty then? I smile, but flatten my lips so Carlos won’t see.