Flower(70)

Well, I won’t let him have that satisfaction, at least. My eyes blur even though I try to hold back the tears. My car sways ahead of me, out of focus in the unrelenting rain. I press my palms to the hood when I reach it, bracing myself—for a moment, it’s the only thing holding me up.

I swerve around to the driver’s side door, wiping tears away with my forearm. I wish I wasn’t in heels, I wish I hadn’t dressed up for him. In an outfit he bought me that day at Barneys, no less. I hate him for making me give a shit. I hate him for making me fall in love with him. For making me just as much a fool as every other girl in my family. For making me break the promises I made myself, all those years ago.

The tears dull my vision and I reach for the door handle when I hear something behind me. Nothing distinct—the shuffling of feet, a low inhalation. I pause and turn around—my blood frozen in my veins, my mouth caught half open.

Standing a few feet back, just beyond the ring of light spreading out from the porch, is a figure, a dim silhouette. It could almost be imagined: conjured up from the mounting fear that scrabbles down my spine, dancing down every nerve and making the muscles in my body tense. I brush at my eyes again, trying to clear away the tears, to focus through the rain—to separate the figure from the surrounding branches.

And then the outline takes a step forward, and I know it’s real.

My heartbeat rises. “Tate?” I ask in an exhale, hating myself for the desperation in my voice, the hope that rises in my heart.

The silhouette takes several more quick steps forward. And I know in an instant that it’s not Tate. The figure is narrower, slighter. It moves closer, crossing the driveway, and finally steps into the muted light from the front porch.

I recognize the face.

It’s the girl from the bathrooms. Same short black hair, freckles, and snow-white skin. She’s wearing a black hooded sweatshirt and black jeans: dressed to be concealed, hidden in the darkness.

“What are you doing?” I ask, words that seem insufficient.

She doesn’t respond.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” I say again, reaching back behind me for the door handle of my car—but it’s locked.

“I followed you,” she answers.

A sharp stab of fear edges its way along my thoughts. My eyes flick to my car door; how fast can I get to my keys?

“Don’t,” she says, sensing what I’m thinking. And I turn my gaze back to her. The rain lightens just barely, and I can see her better in the gloom, the way her eyes stare unblinking.

“Why are you following me?” I ask, stalling as I slowly reach inside my purse.

“I tried to warn you.” Her arms are stiff at her sides and her left palm begins to run along the fabric of her black jeans. “But then I saw you at the concert, trying to get backstage.” Her eyes never leave mine. “You’re not going to stay away from him. I see that now.”

“You’re wrong,” I say, my voice shaking. “Tate and I are done. We’re over.”

“Liar,” she spits, sucking in a breath.

“It’s not a lie.” My left hand searches for my keys inside my purse, but I can’t locate them.

Her eyes narrow. “I’ve loved him longer than you have. Longer than anyone. I saw his very first concert in LA when I was fourteen. I was in the front row and he touched my hand, looked into my eyes like he was really seeing me. Like no one’s ever looked at me before. And I knew he and I were meant for each other. It’s just a matter of time; eventually, we’ll meet again, and he’ll know I’m the one.”

I need to get out of here, call the police, find Tate, and warn him. No matter what he’s done to me, I can’t let him come home to this—another unstable fan. One who might hurt him, instead of herself.

“You can have him,” I say. But her face hardens and grows even paler, if that’s possible. She takes another step toward me.

“I will.” And then adds, “Once you’re gone.”

My fingers finally coil around my keys, buried at the bottom of my purse. I whip around, jamming the key into the lock, and grab for the door handle. Time moves in fast-forward yet I am in slow motion: I yank open the door but she’s too quick, rushing at me, and her hands clamp down against my throat. The door bangs shut again. My lungs constrict, gasping for air. For a second I’m so stunned that my arms are limp at my sides, my vision already starting to smudge out. But then panic crawls up from my stomach and I slam my hands against her face, trying to push her backward. We stumble sideways, to the front of the car, hands around each other, my heels shuffling on the wet pavement.

We’re moving too fast, the momentum driving us along the side of my car, sliding across the fender, and then we are stumbling out away from it, across the driveway, into the dark. But we don’t make it to the edge of the driveway; the force of her body is too great, and I feel my feet catch beneath me, and then we’re both falling.

We thud hard against the ground, the concrete rising up to meet me. Little white spots blur my vision and I realize the back of my head is throbbing, heat spreading over my scalp.

I open my mouth to speak, to tell her to stop, but there is no air to form the words.

I meet her eyes, only inches from mine, coal-black pupils magnified like she’s staring straight through me to the other side—hollow but also satisfied. Her hands close even tighter around my throat: pressing, digging, fighting to push the life out of me. And everything begins to slow. I gasp and kick and claw at her, but her face twists into a sagging grin, caught somewhere between laughter and tears.