by Shea Olsen
Finally, my mind returns. Panic racing through me, I press against his chest so our lips break apart. I try to catch my breath, calm my crazed heart, but it’s hard when he continues to toy with my shirt, his fingers brushing against my sensitive skin.
“God, Charlotte.” He shakes his head. “I can’t...” His voice drifts, like he can’t quite figure me out.
Slowly, I look up at him, positive my cheeks are burning red. I should move away, but I stand paralyzed as he drifts his knuckles across my cheek, his touch making me shiver. I inhale sharply just as he moves in to kiss me yet again.
And then I blurt out, “I’ve never done this before.”
“What?” He pulls back an inch.
“I just... I’ve never kissed anyone before.” I close my eyes. Swallow hard, feeling like an idiot. Why did I just tell him that? Talk about a mood-ruiner. But I panicked; it was all happening so fast, it just came out.
Tate takes an almost imperceptible step back, but suddenly the night air feels cool all around me. “You’ve never kissed anyone?” He sounds incredulous.
I slowly shake my head. “I’ve never done—anything like this.”
His gaze doesn’t leave mine. “How is that possible?”
“It just...hasn’t been a priority,” I admit, glancing away from those penetrating eyes.
“But you’ve had boyfriends before, right?”
I feel my eyebrows furrow. “No, I haven’t. I’ve been waiting,” I try to explain. “But it doesn’t mean I want to stop.” I shake my head, humiliation rising through me. “I shouldn’t have said anything. I don’t know why I did. I’m sorry I ruined the moment.”
“I’m the sorry one, Charlotte,” he tells me, and I can hear a hint of regret in his voice. But I still don’t expect what he says next. “Because I can’t do this.” His voice is flat, toneless, and yet the words are a sharp edge cutting straight through me.
He steps away, and the world rushes in: the night air, the sound of the wind through the trees, a car passing in the distance.
“You should probably go.” His voice is soft but distant, and he’s suddenly a million miles away. The void between us is cold, like his body never occupied that space, as if I imagined it all. “Hank will drive you home,” he says, but I’m already having a hard time focusing on his words, my head starting to spin, unable to process what changed so suddenly between us.
I don’t nod. I can’t even speak. But I watch as he walks toward the house—feeling anchored, pressed against the stone pillar where he left me, reeling. He glances back once and a moment passes between us, but I can’t read the expression on his face: maybe regret? Or is it embarrassment that he just made out with a girl so naïve that she had completely different expectations of the night than he clearly did? He must be wishing he had never brought me here. All he says is “I’m sorry, Charlotte,” before he slips inside.
The next few minutes pass in a daze. Tate’s bodyguard, Hank, ushers me out the front door where a black town car is waiting, idling in the driveway. He opens the back door and I stare, stunned, at the massive stone façade of the house. I expect to see Tate’s face in one of the windows, curtains pulled back, watching me leave—but only the cold exterior stares back at me, leaving me completely and utterly alone.
EIGHT
IT’S WEDNESDAY NIGHT AND I’M sitting cross-legged on my bedroom floor, a textbook in one hand, Leo cradled in the other. Mia needed to take a shower and I offered to watch him. But I’m also cramming for a test tomorrow in AP History.
I tap my highlighter against the top of the textbook and look down at Leo, who is chewing happily on a teething ring that’s shaped like a set of brightly colored car keys.
It’s been over three weeks since that night. Three weeks since I let Tate humiliate me. Again.
And I still can’t shake the memory.
School has been mind-numbing: a frenzy of papers and prep for exams. Work is a series of inconsequential days, each the same as the last, with no sign of Tate. I’ve buried myself in homework, put in extra hours at my internship—anything to keep me from thinking about him. I keep expecting to see him step through the door at work, or for another bouquet of flowers to arrive at school, but they never come. Holly, of course, was dying to know what happened after I left the shop that night with Tate. I was right the first time, I told her the next day when I came into work. It was a mistake to give him another chance. He’s a total jerk. She pulled me into a hug and told me she was proud of me for taking the risk. And that I shouldn’t let this one encounter with Tate ruin my perspective on love. But it’s too late for that.
I tell myself I should be happy it’s over. It’s what I said I wanted. And yet, I can’t stop thinking about him. And I hate it.
I hear the front door close and I know Grandma is home from work. She finds me in the bedroom, and as soon as Leo spots her, his pudgy arms lift in the air for her to pick him up. Sometimes I think she’s his favorite. But just wait until he’s older, when I can take him out for milk shakes and to the beach to make sand castles. Then I’ll be the cool aunt, and Mia and Grandma won’t be able to compete.
“How’s the studying going?” Grandma asks, bending down to scoop up Leo. His cheeks pull into a smile as she lifts him high into the air, then rocks him in her arms.
“I think I’ve been staring at the same page for the last hour.”
She gives a soft murmur of understanding. “You’ve seemed distracted these last few weeks.”
“I know,” I admit. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” Even though I do—I know precisely what’s wrong. My head will not let go of him.
“I can watch Leo, give you some time to focus,” she offers, walking back to the doorway, Leo clinging to her hip, the collar of her shirt already in his mouth.
“Thanks,” I say, smiling up at her. But it’s not Leo who’s been distracting me. It’s someone else. Someone I wish I could forget. But the more days that pass, the harder it is. Like my brain is revolting against me—and it’s getting worse instead of better.
Grandma pauses in the door, rocking Leo in her arms, and turns around to face me. “You’ve worked so hard, Charlotte,” she says unexpectedly, her face serious. “And I’ve never known you to let anything distract you from accomplishing your goals. I know how much is on your plate, with school and work, the internship and Stanford. I want you to know how proud I am of you for always keeping your future a priority. Whatever is occupying your mind these days...” She sighs. “Just remember, today’s problems are temporary. Next year at this time, you’ll be blazing your own path.”
I nod. But after she’s gone, I close my textbook and lean my head back against the end of my bed. I can’t keep feeling like this. I can’t pretend everything’s fine.
I have to do something about it.
* * *
I’m driving too fast down Sunset, letting my foot press down on the gas pedal while my Volvo squeals with the increased speed.
Last night, sitting in my room, unable to study because my mind kept slipping back to memories of Tate, I realized I wouldn’t be able to just forget. The night at his house keeps replaying over and over inside my head. And it isn’t going to stop until I know what really happened—why he kicked me out of his house once he knew I had never been kissed. Why did it matter so much? Why did he push me away? I crisscross up the streets of West Hollywood. I should be home studying. Instead, I’m about to do something I might regret.
I turn the radio up louder and roll down the window all the way, trying to drown out my thoughts, numb the painful anger that beats inside my chest. My hair whips out the window, a flurry of strands twisting and knotting together. I grip the steering wheel and press down harder on the gas. The song on the radio ends and a new one comes on; the thumping beat shakes the car doors. My throat tightens at the so
und of the voice rising through the speakers.
“If you could still love me (if you could still love me).
“If you could see what you’ve done.
“I can’t sleep without you, the bed is too cold.”
The memory blooms inside me before I can tamp it down; the way his lips felt against my ear, humming this same song, whispering the lyrics as we drifted beneath an endless canopy of stars.
“My dreams are like nightmares.
“Your hands are still on me...”
I slam my palm against the radio dial, shutting off the music in one swift motion. I make a quick right at the next intersection, turning away from home, away from the sane, rational girl who should be studying for exams tonight, finalizing my Stanford application, reading ahead in English. Instead, I follow the path we took that night, when the city lights spun and danced outside my tinted window, when Tate led us deep into the hills.
The route is easy to trace, as if my hands alone know the way, steering the car around sharp bends and up steep slopes until I reach the gate. But I don’t have a clicker to let me in. I roll down my window and peer at the tiny blinking security light.
“Who is it?” Hank’s voice comes suddenly from the speaker, surprising me, and I jump in my seat.
“Um...it’s me. Charlotte. We...we met a few weeks ago.” I have no idea why Hank would let me in. This was a stupid idea.
But then, after a pause, Hank surprises me: “Come on through.”
My hands start to twitch on the steering wheel, tapping nervously. The gate opens and I accelerate, circling down into the driveway in front of Tate’s house. I park and suck in a deep breath, finally walking up the steps. The massive front door swings open and Hank’s hulking shadow takes up nearly the entire entryway.
“How can I help you, Charlotte?” he asks, looking past me to my dilapidated car.
“I need to see Tate.” My voice comes out firm.
I hate the pity in his eyes when they return to mine. “Is he expecting you?”
I shift on the steps, looking past him into the house. The fireplace in the living room burns low, but I can’t see anyone moving in the darkness.
“Is he here?” I ask.
Hank steps forward, his voice lowering. “I’m not supposed to say.” His eyes cut back into the house for a moment, then to me. “But to be honest, he hasn’t been himself these last few weeks. It might be good for him to see you.” And then he pushes the door open wide behind him, stepping out of the way so I can walk past.
I blink up at him, shocked he’s going to just let me inside, and I take several tentative steps into the hallway. I hear Hank leave and close the door behind him.
I’m alone in Tate’s house.
Then, from the darkness, I hear footsteps. Tate emerges from the hallway to my right, wearing only a pair of jeans, his chest bare, illuminated in the flickering light. My breath catches at the sight of him. His skin seems darker in the glow from the fire, tanned by the sun.
I want to scream at him, tell him he’s an asshole, that he had no right to treat me the way he did. I want to make him feel terrible, even though some traitorous part of me hopes there’s an explanation, a reason for everything he said that night. But before I can form the words, he asks the first question. “What are you doing here?”
“I—” My hands shake, and I realize I’m nervous. I didn’t come here with an exact plan. He squints at me, like he’s trying to see me better in the dim light. Like maybe the reason is written in the lines of my face.
But then I find the words I know I need to ask. “Why did you make me leave that night?”
He turns away to face the fire, where the flames pop and spark.
“Is it because I’ve never been kissed before? You think I’m too innocent, too boring for you?” I press. I hate the way my voice sounds, but I have to know. “I just need to hear you say it.”
“No,” he says, flashing me a look across his shoulder.
“Then what?” I say, taking a step closer. “After everything you did to get me here, why did you push me away?”
He turns to face me fully. “I’m not right for you,” he says, as if that explains anything.
I laugh—a cold hard laugh. “Excuse me? You obviously didn’t think that three weeks ago, when you wouldn’t leave me alone.” I move closer to him, the heat from the fire intensifying. I want to understand.
“I’ll just end up hurting you.”
“What does that even mean?” I ask, my voice gaining volume, but his expression falls, his eyes sliding back to the fire. “You think I’m weak? Just because I’ve never been kissed? It’s actually a lot harder not to do that kind of stuff than it is to do it, I’ll have you—”
“That’s not it,” he cuts me off. His eyes seem suddenly tired as he faces me again.
“Because I’m not weak. And I can make my own decisions about what’s right for me,” I say. I’m surprised by my own conviction. Especially because I’m not sure what I want. Did I come here to tell him off? Or to tell him he’s making a mistake? I don’t even know anymore.
He shakes his head, so slightly I almost can’t tell. “It’s better if you just go.”
“You started all this, you sent me roses, you came to my work, you bought every last flower in the whole store. I wanted it to be over. After I figured out who you really were, I was done. But you came back, wanted to explain yourself. And I took a chance. And then you hurt me all over again. I didn’t ask for any of it. But now...now I’m here. And I just want...” But I can’t finish.
“What do you want?” he asks.
“I—” I shake my head. “I don’t know.”
He stares back at me, his lips parted, like he understands everything I’m thinking. “I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he says. “That’s not what I wanted either.”
“Then what do you want?” I ask, swallowing down the words almost as quickly as they leave my lips. I can’t even trust my own thoughts anymore, my own voice. I’m saying things I normally would never say out loud—or think, for that matter.
“Charlotte—” he starts to say, moving toward me, but tentatively like he’s afraid I’ll run, bolt for the door, and never look back. But I’m locked in place. A million thoughts slamming against my skull, a tug-of-war, words colliding into one another in confusion. “I’m sorry for the other night,” he says, eyebrows slanted like he really is sorry, like it pains him to remember the events of that night. “I’m sorry for how I acted. I was just caught off guard. I didn’t realize I was your first kiss. And there are things you don’t know about me.” He takes in a deep breath, focuses back on me. “But I’ve missed you.” His mouth flattens. “I can’t stop thinking about you. And I don’t know why...but I haven’t felt like this in a long time. And then you just show up here, and all I want to do is kiss you again, tell you not to leave. But I know that I shouldn’t.”
“Why not?” I ask.
“Because I might hurt you. Because our worlds are so different—and I don’t want to mess up your life.”
“Isn’t that my decision, not yours? I’m smart enough to know what I can handle.”
“I know you are,” he agrees. “And that’s part of what makes you so intriguing to me. You know what you want in life, you know exactly where you’re going, and I envy that.” I cringe a little at his description of me. As if I’m so responsible, so predictable. Maybe I don’t want to be that anymore—at least not the predictable part. “I just don’t want to ruin anything.”
“You act like it’s already destined to fail. Like there’s no way we could be anything but a disaster.” I can’t believe my own words—I’m actually arguing with him about a relationship we’re not even in.
“It’s how my life has been lately.”
“And so you’re just never
going to take a chance on anything ever again?” I sound like Holly, and so not like myself. I’m the queen of not taking chances, unless they’re calculated. And now I’m asking him to take one. My logical brain has completely left this conversation—I’m now being driven by my heart.
He steps to within a foot of me, his bare chest reflecting the glow from the firelight. He studies my eyes, his breathing settling into a rhythm that I swear matches mine. “Is that what you want?” he asks. “To take a chance?”
I can’t breathe. My lips part, I find words, then lose them just as quickly. I can’t admit what I’m really feeling. To myself or to him.
But before I’m able to think of a way to deflect the question, he’s suddenly moving toward me. He slides his hands up along my jawbone and draws my face forward, sinking his lips into mine. For half a second, I’m unable to react, my body rigid beneath his hands. But then the warmth of his mouth sinks through me and I give in—I kiss him back. I breathe him in, the air sliding from his lungs to mine. His lips are needy, searching. The tips of my fingers just barely touch his hard chest, and my stomach unleashes a flurry of wings.
My eyelids flutter and he draws back his lips for only a moment, testing the space between us, and then he kisses me again, gently this time. My heartbeat hitches wildly as his fingers shift across my cheek, tracing a line along my skin, down the curve of my neck.
He pulls his fingers away before going any lower and I’m afraid he’s going to repeat what he did last time, wrench away from me and leave me all alone again. But this time he stays, drawing his fingers up through a section of my hair and tucking it behind my ear. “I’m sorry,” he says, gently dropping his hand as if he’s just broken some rule, invaded my personal space—lost control of himself for one brief moment—and now he needs to apologize. “I shouldn’t have done that. But I had to.”
“I’m not as breakable as you think,” I tell him.
A smile warms his eyes. “I’m starting to realize that.”
A moment passes and my heart climbs upward in my chest, craving his touch again. Wanting to feel his lips on mine. I glance at the floor, steadying myself. “What now?” I ask.
