Flower(65)

I pull on my lab coat, read the notes from the last two undergrads whose shift ended right before ours, then settle onto a stool to help Rebecca tag and label samples. In an hour we will need to transfer two dozen samples into the refrigerated unit. Right now, an hour feels very far away.

As we work, I think about Tate. I think about the night we first met and how afraid I was to let myself feel anything for him—how resistant I was at the thought of a single date. My whole life I’ve been afraid. I’ve hardly allowed myself to experience anything. What if I’d grown up in a normal family, I wonder—what then? Would I be here, now, at UCLA, making stupid labels for stupid petri dishes for some stupid project I’m only doing for an application? I stare down at the petri dish in my hand, my fingers trembling slightly. I’ve never really stopped to think if this is what I want. Any of this. I worked so hard to get into Stanford—all the extracurriculars, the straight As, the perfect essays. Now I’m in, and I thought I’d feel elated, thought the euphoria from my acceptance letter would last. I have everything I ever wanted.

But what if I want something else?

I look over at Rebecca, methodically sorting through glass dishes, and I realize how unlike her I am. She loves the experiments, the endless studies, the order and precision to it all. But maybe it isn’t me. Maybe this isn’t what I want: this internship, this career path. I’m not sure I want any of it anymore. For the first time, I wonder if this was ever something I wanted for me, or if maybe I didn’t know who I really was. Maybe I’m just learning that now.

My whole body’s shaking; I set down the petri dish and take a step back, shrugging out of my white lab coat. I feel my legs carry me backward. My purse is sitting on a chair and I scoop it up—silently, robotically.

“Charlotte?” Rebecca asks, stopping her work to look up at me.

“I need to go,” I say.

“Where? We still have to do the swap in less than forty minutes.”

“I can’t,” I mumble.

“Why not?”

I shake my head at her, tears or maybe laughter pushing up to the surface. “I’m sorry, Rebecca. I hate to leave you short-handed again. But I can’t do this anymore.”

“Do what?”

“The lab, this internship,” I confess to her, feeling heady and also sharply focused. “I really need to go.”

And I dart through the lab door, rushing down the hall, desperate suddenly for fresh air. I burst from the science building out into the parking lot and crane my head up, laughing at the sky.

*

The tarmac is hot at the private airport, heat rising in waves under the late-afternoon sun.

I watch as Tate’s plane circles, then descends to land. It’s been two weeks since I’ve seen him, two weeks since I left New York. And I haven’t felt like myself since.

As Tate’s plane rolls to a stop and the door opens, a rush of excitement overcomes me. He appears in the doorway, a hand over his eyes, wearing a green flannel shirt and dark jeans. When he moves down the steps, I run to him. He scoops me up in his arms, his strong hands wrapped around my thighs, and I bury my face in his neck.

I had considered telling him everything when he returned home—ditching out on the lab, the paparazzi that show up outside school sometimes, the Goth girl I’ve now seen in not one bathroom, but two—but now, seeing him, I don’t want to ruin this moment. None of it feels important.

The only thing that matters is us.

“You smell so good,” he says against my ear.

“I missed you.”

He sets me down on the pavement, his hands still gripping my waist, and Hank moves past us, winking at me as he piles luggage into the Escalade waiting for Tate.

I turn and tug him toward the car, but he stops me before we get inside. “Charlotte. There’s something I have to tell you.”

The way his tone changes sends a shiver through me. “What is it?”

He glances across the tarmac where another plane glides to a stop on the runway. “I’m going back on tour, to promote the new album. It’ll be small to start—just a few pop-up shows—but we’re working on a European tour after that.”

“What? When?”

“My manager pulled some strings, I’m going to do a surprise gig tonight, opening for December Valentine at the Staples Center.”

“Tonight? But...” I look away from him, trying not to let my disappointment show. I know he’s worked hard for this, and he deserves to be back onstage, especially after the past year. But I didn’t think things would happen so quickly. And a small, selfish part of me wants him all to myself—just for a little longer.

“I know it’s fast. But they want to create some buzz about the new album release in a few months. And it’s just one show—I won’t have to leave right away after that.”

“So—when?” I ask.

“I leave next week for a show in Sacramento. And then Seattle a few days later.” Tate presses me against the side of the car, smoothing my hair back from my face, but it does nothing to soothe the frustration that builds in my chest. “This is because of you, Charlotte. I don’t think I could’ve picked up the pieces of my life without you. Or faced more crowded arenas without you telling me it was time to forgive myself.”

I know this is what he wants; I can see it in his eyes. But the irony of it kills me. I’ve inspired him to leave, when all I want him to do is stay. “How long will you be on tour?”