Flower(58)

Carlos actually looks numb, his coffee frozen in his hand, halfway raised to his mouth. “You’ve been seeing him this whole time?”

“I should have told you, I know, I’m so sorry. But things just got complicated before when everyone found out about us.”

“I’m your best friend.”

I press my hands over my eyes. “I know. I’m sorry, a million times I’m sorry. But I’m being honest now. And I really need your help.”

He looks down at me, rolling his tongue against the inside of his cheek. I’ve lied to him twice now about Tate—first when I didn’t tell him I was dating Tate Collins, and now that I’ve been seeing him again—and I can see the disappointment in his gaze.

And then I ask him to lie for me. “I told my grandma that you and I are going to a Model UN summit in New York.”

“We’re not in Model UN club.”

“She thinks they were short two people for the trip, so we signed up.”

“That sounds so made up.”

I know it does. “But my grandma doesn’t know that.”

“I don’t want to lie to your grandma for you, Charlotte.”

I can barely meet Carlos’s eyes. “She’s not going to call you or anything to check, but if she does, just say that you’re with me and we’re really excited to represent Norway or Iceland or something at the summit.”

“Those are the countries you want to represent?”

“Pick whichever country you want,” I say, laughing.

Carlos’s mouth twists. “I’d much rather be Switzerland and stay out of this whole thing.”

“Please,” I beg. “Just help me do this one thing and I’ll owe you majorly.”

Carlos sips his iced coffee. “I don’t think you should go. You’ve never been to New York before and—”

“I know you don’t like him,” I say. “But that’s just because you don’t know him. He was a jerk in Colorado, yes, but since then he’s been amazing. He’s really making an effort to change. He texts me every day, tells me how much he misses me, and the fact that he wants me in New York with him is huge. It’s just for the weekend, you probably won’t even have to do anything. But just in case my grandma calls, I need you to be my alibi.”

He grips my shoulders with both hands and stares down at me. “All right, I’ll cover for you. But you have to promise me you’ll text me so I know you’re safe and he hasn’t whisked you off to Monaco and made you his bride.”

“I will.” And I lean across the table to wrap my arms around his tall frame. “You’re the best.”

“And promise me you’ll come back with your V-card,” he adds unexpectedly.

I almost choke on my coffee, covering my mouth with my hand and clearing my throat. “Since when do you care about my V-card?” I ask, my voice low.

“Since you seem to be taking a lot of risks for this guy, and I want you to be careful. I don’t want you to...lose yourself.”

I smile and shake my head. He’s right, but I won’t lose myself. I feel like Tate found me and I’ve never been less lost. I know exactly where I’m supposed to be. “I can’t promise that. But I love you,” I say, sipping my coffee. “I’ll text you when I land.”

He looks like he’s about to caution me one more time, but then changes his mind. “Love you, too.”

*

The day is clear and free of smog as the jet rises above LAX, and all of LA seems to glisten.

I can’t believe I’m really doing this. I don’t even know who I am anymore—this girl who skips school, calls her boss to get out of work, and flies across the country to spend the weekend with a boy who makes her feel reckless and wild and capable of almost anything. The old me never would have been this bold.

But now, sitting in a first-class seat, staring out the tiny oval-shaped window as the sun breaks against the horizon, I’m not afraid anymore. For the first time, I feel like anything is possible.





NINETEEN

NEW YORK CITY IS A glittery mass of lights under the dark sky and a nervous excitement buzzes inside me as the plane touches down.

Hank is standing at the baggage carousel waiting, and he grins when he spots me and carries my suitcase out to a black Escalade. The city feels alive as we make our way through Manhattan, skyscrapers towering overhead, people moving up the sidewalks as a light rain collects on the front windshield. I can’t believe I’m really here.

We finally slow to a stop in front of a towering hotel and a uniformed man opens the door for me, holding an umbrella. A bellhop retrieves my suitcase from the back of the SUV and wheels it under the awning out of the rain.

“Your key, milady,” Hank says when he meets me at the curb, handing me a plastic key card. Then he turns to the man who’s holding the umbrella over my head. “She’s in the penthouse.”

The streets are glistening in the rain. A reflective sheen that sparkles beneath the line of car headlights.

“Tate will be back at nine and you have dinner reservations at nine-thirty,” Hank explains to me.

“Okay.”

“I’m glad you’re here, Charlotte,” he adds. “He missed you. So did I.”