Flower(7)

Now I push up from the stool, walk to the front window, and flip over the CLOSED sign.

I’m about to grab my purse and keys when the chime over the front door sounds behind me, signaling someone has just stepped through the doorway. “Sorry, we’re closed,” I say, spinning around to politely usher whoever it is back outside. But my entire body freezes in place.

“I’ve always had bad timing.” Tate stands with his hands in his pockets, lips quirked slightly to one side.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

“I wanted to see you.”

I exhale through my nose, my heart stuttering, then starting again. “You shouldn’t have sent me those roses today.”

“Why not?” The question hangs in the air between us, and his eyes pour over me like he could touch my skin with only his stare. He unnerves me. And I hate the part of me that likes the feeling. I’ve dealt with boys like this before at the shop—guys who act like I should swoon over them, who think they can make me crumble with just one look, but it’s always had zero effect on me. Tate shouldn’t be any different. He isn’t any different. So why does it feel like I can’t breathe when he’s standing this close?

“You don’t even know me,” I manage to say.

“I know you like purple roses.”

“That’s only one detail.” I glance back at the counter, wishing for a distraction, like my phone to magically start ringing. But no such luck. Taking a breath, I fight the urge to twine my hair around my finger.

“Most girls like a guy who notices the details.” He raises an eyebrow and pushes his hands deeper into his pockets.

I grind my teeth in frustration. “I’m not most girls.”

“No,” he says, and the dimple is back for a moment. “I’ve noticed that.”

“And you’re here because...”

“Go out with me,” he says out of nowhere.

It catches me off guard and I take a step back. “What?”

“You said I don’t know you. Go on a date with me so I can.” His voice is deep, provocative, and his eyes sway over me, through me, stripping me into pieces. He’s dressed almost identically to how he was yesterday: faded jeans and a simple white T-shirt. But on his left wrist he wears a silver watch that I don’t remember. It looks expensive.

“I—” My mouth hangs open, my mind unable to close around a thought. And something catches in my chest, a pressure I can’t explain. I wish he would just leave.

But he doesn’t. He steps closer to me and stops only a couple feet away, never taking his eyes off mine. My skin feels like glass, cracking and splintering just under the surface.

A car horn honks from the street, breaking the spell, and he glances over his shoulder just as a truck pulls away from the curb. His expression turns uneasy for a second before he relaxes once more into that thoughtless confidence. “I want to take you out,” he says again.

I can’t deny the tingle of excitement at the base of my neck. But I cross my arms, tightening my hands into fists, ordering my body to behave. “No,” I say, and the word is hard against my throat. “I need to lock up, and I need to go home.” I force my eyes to meet his, wanting him to see that I’m serious.

The dimple peeks out for a second, like he finds this funny. Or maybe he just enjoys a challenge. I imagine he probably doesn’t hear the word no very often.

He glances at his watch, then at the door. “Good night, then...Charlotte,” he says, his voice coiling over my name. And I suck in a breath, watching him slip out through the glass doors and vanish into the dark.

*

“He asked you out?” Carlos screeches.

I sink down in my chair, cringing. “Say it louder next time. I don’t think they heard you in Orange County.”

We’re sitting in Mrs. Dixon’s computer lab, where the Pacific Heights High newspaper club meets once a week after school on Wednesdays. This week Carlos is writing an article about the sycamore tree beside the west entrance that’s slowly dying because everyone keeps carving their names into the soft bark of the trunk. During lunch, I used the school’s ancient camera and took photos of the tree, documenting the hearts and names etched into the wood: Weston luvs Cara. TM + AY, which everyone knows is Toby McAlister and Alison Yarrow, their names eternally branded into the tree even though they only dated for two weeks and hate each other now.

“Sorry,” Carlos says, not sounding sorry at all. “But my best friend just got asked on a date by Mr. Tall, Dark, and Delicious. I think I’m allowed to get caught up in the moment.”

“I told him no,” I remind him. I’m at one of the computers against the bank of windows overlooking the street outside, sorting through the photos I took earlier, but the screen keeps freezing and I’ve already had to restart it twice. The computer lab is just another example of the school’s dire lack of funds. But working on the Banner is good for my application to Stanford. At least, that’s why I signed up, but I’ve actually started to enjoy it. Taking photos feels more anonymous than writing articles for the paper, and yet, sometimes it also feels more important, like a single photo can say more than four hundred double-spaced words.

“And you wonder why I worry. What else did he say?” Carlos prods from his computer next to mine.