Flower(9)

“Black, no frills?” he asks, his gravelly voice making the question sound much more personal than it is.

I shake my head.

His eyes pass over the cups, then back to me. “Mocha, extra whipped cream?”

“Nope.”

“Caramel latte with skim milk?”

I shake my head again. I’m actually starting to enjoy myself. Denying each option feels good, like I’m reminding us both that he doesn’t have anything I want.

His eyes narrow, undeterred. Then he lifts one of the cups and holds it out to me. “Chai with steamed almond milk and a dash of cinnamon.”

My head tilts to the side. Without answering, I take the cup from his hand, careful not to let our fingers brush. Dammit.

I detect the slightest self-satisfied smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“This doesn’t mean I’m going on a date with you,” I say.

“I’m not asking.”

I take a sip of the chai and it instantly warms my tongue; it’s exactly what I need to help me get through the rest of my homework tonight. “Thanks,” I manage.

His eyes lower, focusing on my mouth, and I draw my bottom lip between my teeth as a sudden heat races through me. Then, because he never seems to do the expected, he grabs the two trays from the counter—still full, minus one cup—and turns for the door.

I open my mouth, about to say, That’s it? That’s all you came here for? When I remember myself and press my lips together.

He stops halfway to the door, says, “Enjoy the chai, Charlotte,” and once again, he’s gone. But this time, I can’t help but hope he’ll come back.





FOUR

THE NEXT DAY, IN ENGLISH, I don’t tell Carlos about Tate.

At lunch, I don’t tell Carlos about Tate.

After school, when I say good-bye before I head to UCLA for my internship, I don’t tell Carlos about Tate.

I’m not sure what holds me back. Except maybe that talking about him will only make it worse. Because as much as I try not to... I can’t stop thinking about Tate.

*

On Friday, it feels like my body is a charged electrical current, buzzing and snapping at the ends. I’m anxious to get to work—to see if Tate will come in again. I know I shouldn’t hope for it; I know I shouldn’t care either way. But no matter how many deep, calming breaths I take, the edginess remains.

The hours pass slowly, and any time the door opens, it’s never him. When the last customer has left, I move to the front of the store, peeking out through the glass windows onto the sidewalk—looking for him. He isn’t there. I tell myself it’s better if he doesn’t show up tonight—or ever again. But that doesn’t ease the disappointment.

I remind myself again why I promised myself to stay away from guys—especially guys like Tate. My grandmother worked hard to give my mom a better life, and then Mom had us. Too young, not ready to support us. Our dads came and went, just like the rest of the boyfriends who demanded her attention, who took her money and time and happiness. I think about Mia and Leo, little Leo, who doesn’t yet know what his mom could have been, that she’s as smart as me, maybe smarter. But Mia won’t be going off to college; her life is stalled now, stuck with all the potential in the world. There’s no word worse than potential. It’s the story of everything that will never be.

I carry my keys to the door, flip over the CLOSED sign, lock up, and turn off the overhead shop lights. I’m about to turn around, do my last sweep of the shop before I leave for the night, when I notice a sleek black car pull up directly in front of the store. The headlights send out beams of bluish light and the car makes almost no sound as it comes to a stop. It looks expensive. Really expensive.

The driver’s side door swings open...and Tate steps out.

He turns toward the shop, the car making a swift beeping sound behind him. When he reaches the door and touches the handle, he realizes it’s locked. He looks up and his eyes meet mine through the glass. My heart collides with my ribs.

He glances down at the metal door handle as if expecting me to let him in. But I lift the keys into the air and wave them briefly in front of him. Sorry, I mouth through the glass, smiling a little.

I catch a hint of disbelief on his face and it fills me with satisfaction. I may have waited around all evening for him, but that doesn’t mean I’ll jump at his sudden arrival.

I close out the register and watch him from the corner of my eye. Then I see him pull his phone from his pocket and press it to his ear.

A vibration buzzes from inside my purse. I dig out my cell to see a number I don’t recognize. I glance out at Tate and he gestures for me to answer. I hesitate, but finally hit the green button. “Hello?”

“You locked me out.” I try not to let the thrill of his voice wash through me.

“We’re closed,” I say into the phone.

“Hmm,” he murmurs, as if weighing his options, what he might say to convince me to let him in.

“And how did you get my number anyway?”

“I’ve had it for days.”

“That doesn’t answer my question. And PS, it’s more than a little creepy that you’re calling me when I haven’t even given you my number.”

“I wouldn’t have had to call if you’d unlocked the door,” he says with irritating logic, and I look out at him standing on the other side of the glass. He tilts his head, staring up at the night sky, and then looks back at me. The night suits him somehow, the light from a streetlamp washing over him, illuminating the planes of that impossibly symmetrical face. For the briefest second I feel it again—that sense of familiarity that has nothing to do with the past few evenings at the Bloom Room. Then he shifts and the feeling fades.