Flower(74)

“So you’re living in Italy now and you’re a photographer?” Carlos raises one eyebrow at me. “Every time I think I’ve figured out who the real you is, I’m totally wrong.”

I collapse onto the bed next to him. “You and me both.” Despite our words, nothing has changed in our friendship. It feels good to be with someone I know so well after being away. I snuggle in next to him.

Carlos touches my wrist, lifting my hand into the air. “No more triangle?”

I run my fingers over the place on my skin where I used to draw the symbol. Now my skin is clear and tan, not even a remnant of ink left behind. I used to do it almost religiously, drawing it over and over, thinking the triangle would protect me. “I guess I don’t need it anymore.”

“Guess not.” He squeezes my hand, then sets it back on the bed before he hops up.

Carlos grabs his book bag, sliding into his loafers. “When is Mia’s big party?”

“Today at four.” I had decorated the house all morning, blowing up balloons and pinning streamers across the doorways while Grandma baked the cake. Mia and Grandma seem different—happier. Mia’s gone back to school part-time and Grandma is actually dating someone, a guy named Paul. I’ll get to meet him tonight at Mia’s party. Everything’s changed...not just me.

“I’ll be back later for the festivities,” Carlos says, then lets himself out. I pull on my boots and leave a few minutes later. There’s someone I need to see, too.

*

When I enter the store, Holly practically runs to the front doors to wrap her arms around me. “Tell me everything,” she says. We sit at the counter and I tell her about riding the train from Spain into southern France; about the retired couple I met who had been traveling through Europe for over a year and let me ride with them through Genoa and down into Italy. I tell her about the aqua water and the towns that cling to the white cliffs that rise up from the sea. I tell her about getting the museum pass in France, and the miles and miles of gorgeous art, how inspiring it all was, how I’ve been keeping a sketchbook as I go and photographing everything. She’s thrilled to hear about my flower shop job halfway across the world. Yet when I’m done, she leans forward and asks, “What about Tate?”

I haven’t heard his name spoken out loud in so long that it sends goose bumps down my arms. Traveling through Europe has been a nice distraction, and it’s helped me resist Googling his name to see how the tour is going, see how he looks, see if he’s back to his old ways: hot girls, late nights, too much of everything. The last time I saw him was in the hospital room. But I’ve thought about him more often than I’d like to admit. “I haven’t seen him,” I say.

“But you miss him?”

I nod. “I can’t help it.”

“He was your first love, those are always the toughest to get over. And you’ve sure gone out of your way to get as far away from him as you can.”

“I didn’t leave LA to escape him,” I say.

“It may not have been your only reason for leaving, but if it wasn’t for him, you might never have realized that you needed to experience the world.” I know she’s right, but it’s still hard to admit that anything good came from Tate and I being together. It feels more like he tore me down the center, my heart spilling onto the floor.

“Keep sending me postcards,” Holly says when she hugs me good-bye at the front of the store. “My refrigerator is covered with them.”

She kisses me on the forehead before I go. Tears well in both of our eyes as we wave good-bye.

I drive down all the old streets. I can’t help but remember the rides with Tate along the same roads, and all the places we went to together. I lived here my entire life, yet everything reminds me of those brief few months with him. I wish I could forget.

But I can’t. I don’t think I ever will.





TWENTY-SIX

AFTER ONLY FIVE DAYS AT home, I’m escaping the city once again. The first leg is to New York, and then I’ll go on to Rome from there. I shuffle down the aisle of the plane and find my seat: the window seat in the second-to-last row. I’m relieved to be leaving. I’m not ready to be back in LA, to face the real world and the rest of my life just yet. Being here for five days was hard enough.

People are still shoving their luggage into the overhead bins and trying to locate their seats when a flight attendant weaves her way down the aisle. I buckle my seat belt, and when I glance back up, the flight attendant has stopped beside my row. She leans over the man in a suit sitting in the aisle seat. “Charlotte Reed?” she asks. In her hand is a folded piece of paper.

“Yes?” I say

“You’ve been upgraded.”

“Excuse me?”

“To first class, you’ve been bumped up to first class. Would you like to follow me?”

I don’t move—for a moment, my mind goes blank.

“Must be your lucky day,” the man in the suit says, smiling at me. But I just blink across the empty middle seat at him.

“Are you sure?” I ask, gazing up at the flight attendant.

“You’re the only Charlotte Reed we have on the plane, so pretty sure.”

“Don’t argue with the woman,” the man says good-heartedly, raising a bushy eyebrow. “Take your upgrade before they give it to someone else.” He stands up and takes a step back, making room for me to exit the row. I grab my neck pillow and my bag filled with books for the flight, and follow the flight attendant to the front of the plane.