by Shea Olsen
“Depends on your answer to my question,” he says, his gaze locked firmly on mine. “Do you want to take a chance?”
I’m worried my voice won’t be there when I speak, but it rises upward from my throat, a gasp of air. “Yes,” I admit, surprising myself. “Do you?”
He shifts closer and I think he’s going to kiss me again, but instead he says, “More than anything.”
But then the light seems to leave his eyes and something else takes form there. “If we’re going to do this,” he begins, swallowing, “then we need to take it slow.”
I feel my eyebrows pinch together, not entirely certain what he’s getting at.
“I need to make sure you don’t get hurt,” he adds. I shake my head, really not understanding what he means. “There needs to be rules.”
“What do you mean, rules?”
“Guidelines for us being together.”
“You make it sound like it’s a business deal,” I say uneasily.
“It’s the only way this will work. The only way I can protect you.”
“You don’t need to protect me,” I say.
He winces slightly. “Yes, I do.”
“This sounds more like control than protection. What exactly are you protecting me from?”
He sighs. “My life can be crazy sometimes. And things move pretty fast in my world. I don’t want you to get caught up in it—I don’t want you to do anything you don’t want to do.”
“Again, I’m pretty sure I’m capable of making my own decisions.” I can feel the anger starting to burn my cheeks.
“I just mean that you might not be prepared for it—the chaos that comes with dating someone like me. You saw what happened that night outside the bar. The crazy fans, everyone wanting a piece of me. It can be overwhelming. And I want to protect you from it. That means we take it one step at a time, we don’t rush into anything.”
“What does that mean—you want to be the one who decides when we see each other, when we go on dates, how far we go?”
He runs a hand over his eyes, a weary gesture. “Look, I know it seems extreme, but you don’t understand what it’s like. That night after Lola’s, that’s the tip of the iceberg. Everything I do is amplified, it’s scrutinized and studied and judged. I... I have to have control over everything I do.”
“And you want control over me, too?”
“No. But dating me won’t be like dating anyone else. It comes with complications and I’m the one who knows how to navigate them. That means I need to set boundaries. For your protection and mine.”
“Rules, you mean. And what if I want to see you, what if I want to kiss you? Am I allowed to do that?” My tone is short, and I realize I’ve crossed my arms, blocking him from getting any closer.
He blows out a breath of air. “Yes, of course. But there will be limits, at least at first. I need you to trust me.”
I shake my head and look away from him, clenching and unclenching my teeth.
“It’s just how it has to be, Charlotte.” But his voice is not soothing or pleading. He knows I’m beyond comforting.
My mother’s ring is suddenly heavy on my finger. I touch it with my thumb. “No,” I say, a chill rising across my flesh. “This isn’t what I want—not like this. I’m trying to understand, but all you want to do is set limits. That’s not how it’s supposed to be.”
“It’s the only way.” Everything about him seems hard, suddenly.
My mouth goes dry. I can’t believe what he’s saying. I drop my arms and straighten my posture, looking him straight in the eye. “Then I guess we can’t do this.” I take a full step away from him, my eyes unable to blink, my hands shaking. My whole life has been about me having control: controlling my future, making all the right decisions. Blazing my own path, like my grandmother said. I’ve never let anyone control me, and I’m certainly not about to start now.
He doesn’t even try to stop me, to convince me to stay, but I can feel him watching me as I turn and walk through the foyer.
I want him...but not like this.
I don’t look back, rushing out through the front door, my feet slapping against the stone and my eyes stinging from the surge of tears.
The still night air sweeps over me as soon as I step outside and I gulp it in, imagining that it will cool my burning flesh, all the places where he touched me.
The places where I will never feel his touch again.
* * *
I throw back the blankets, the heat palpable, sweat rising in a sheen along the curves of my body. The window is open beside my bed, but no breeze rushes through. There’s only the sound of insects ticking and humming, a world in motion.
I force my eyelids closed, my body now splayed out across the top of the sheet. But my brain won’t stop cycling through memories of Tate. I can still taste his lips, his mouth on mine, the rush of his hands, the murmur of his voice as he sang his song against my ear.
Do you want to take a chance? he asked earlier tonight, standing in front of me right after we kissed. I have to have control over everything. It’s the only way this will work. The only way I can protect you. His words keep replaying in my head. But why does he need control? What is he so afraid of? And why is he so certain I’m going to get hurt?
I roll over in bed, cramming my face against my pillow, trying to suffocate my own thoughts so I can get some sleep.
I need you to trust me, he said. And I want to—desperately, I want to trust him. But I’m not sure how. I’ve never been with anyone before—I have nothing to compare this to. Yet I’m certain no one Carlos has ever dated needed this much control over their relationship.
I know Tate’s different. He’s famous and wealthy and lives a life I probably can’t even imagine. But Tate made it sound like he was actually worried something might happen to me—like dating him might somehow destroy my life.
I flip onto my back, eyes wide open, staring up at the white-spackled ceiling. I don’t need his protection. Just like I told him tonight: I’m capable of making my own decisions.
And my own mistakes.
If this is what I want, then what am I so afraid of? If he needs control—fine. If he wants to decide how this relationship is going to work—who cares? If he wants to tell me how far is too far when it comes to being together—it’s worth it.
This is my life. And if I want him, then I deserve to have him. I don’t care about the stipulations. Or the fine print.
I roll over in bed and reach for my cell phone: 3:10 a.m. I cycle through my calls and find the number from the night at the flower shop, when he was waiting for me outside. It rings only once when he picks up, his voice deep.
“Charlotte?”
“Okay,” I say into the phone. My body is still keyed up, trembling from the sweat now cooling across my skin. “We’ll try this your way.”
I exhale as silence slips between us. I can hear his breathing on the other end, so clear that if I close my eyes, I could almost imagine him here in my room with me. “I’ve been thinking about you all night,” he says finally. “I haven’t been able to sleep.” That explains why he answered on the first ring. “I’m glad you changed your mind.” There is a smile in his voice, and that’s when I know I’ve made the right choice.
I don’t care anymore.
I don’t care about limits or boundaries.
I don’t care about sticking to my rules.
I just want him.
NINE
“WHAT HAPPENED TO YOU?” CARLOS asks, planting his elbow against the metal locker next to ours.
The memory of last night still hums inside my head: the 3 a.m. phone call to Tate, my skin ablaze from the humid night air. I suppress a smile so Carlos won’t see. I’m not ready to tell him about Tate. Maybe a part of me is worried what he’
ll say—that even for all his teasing, he might actually be disappointed in me for going against my own no-dating policy. And then there’s the fact that I’m dating Tate Collins. And I don’t really want this information getting out—if I thought the spectacle of the flower delivery in the middle of class was embarrassing, I can only imagine the kind of attention I’d get if our relationship was public knowledge. So for now, for today, I’m not going to say anything. As much as I don’t like keeping it from Carlos, I’m keeping Tate’s words in mind and taking it slow.
“What do you mean?” I ask, dropping my backpack inside the locker.
“You’re glowing.”
“No, I’m not.” But I touch my cheeks with my fingertips, as if I could wipe it away. I pull out my first-period history book—the brown paper cover filled from edge to edge with sketches of exotic flowers and dancing figures I’ve drawn during Mr. Trenton’s more boring history lectures.
“You are,” Carlos says, dropping his elbow and leaning in close. “I know you—you’re glowing. Which is an improvement considering how mopey you’ve been for the last three weeks.”
Amy Rogers shimmies in beside Carlos, trying to get to her locker, but Carlos doesn’t budge, waiting for me to respond before he’ll move.
I scowl at him. “I haven’t been mopey.” The words sound lame even to me. “I’m just glad it’s Friday,” I say, as if the approaching weekend explains my radiant complexion.
Carlos seems to believe me. “Well, I’m glad the old Charlotte is back. And I’m also in desperate need of a weekend. Mrs. Duncan clobbered us with homework in calc and I’m thinking of setting fire to my textbook in protest.”
“I’m sure staging a demonstration will be a very effective solution,” I answer, smiling up at him.
“Glad you agree. I’ve also decided to binge on Netflix tomorrow to forget all my woes.”
I’m nodding along, but then my phone chimes from inside my purse, and I quickly rummage for it.
“I’ll see you in English,” Carlos says. “And, Charlotte...welcome back.” He turns and wends his way through the sea of students already headed to first period.
I pull out my phone, the screen still glowing from a text.
It’s from Tate.
Can I see you?
My chest flutters, ignites, and I glance around the crowded hall, as if anyone walking by might somehow be able to figure out that I’m texting with Tate Collins. But everyone ignores me—as usual.
Yes. I type back.
Another text pops up on the screen. Today?
I’m about to respond when the four-tone bell blares from the hallway speaker above me: only five minutes until class starts. I slam the locker shut and weave into the crowd. As I walk, I type back, Tell me where, and hit SEND.
The day ticks by with excruciating slowness. We’re reviewing more material for our exams, but I barely take it in, and there is a pop quiz in history that I hardly remember finishing.
Aside from a serious lack of sleep that’s making it impossible to focus, I also keep checking my phone, waiting for a response from Tate that never comes.
At the end of the day, Carlos and I exit through the massive double doors, the sun streaming through the row of palm trees lining the street, and I lift a hand to shield my eyes. Carlos keeps talking, telling me how in PE today he accidentally nailed Amanda Coats in the face playing dodgeball.
“I felt terrible, obviously,” he’s saying. “But that girl wears too much makeup during PE and it’s like the balls are drawn to her face—” If his story continues, I don’t hear it. My gaze has drifted out to the street, past the mob of students fanning out away from the school.
There, at the curb, is Tate’s car.
“I heard Mike Logan’s having a party tonight.” Carlos’s voice slips back into my ears. “Maybe we should go. It might be entertaining.”
“I can’t,” I say, turning my gaze from the car back to Carlos. He hasn’t noticed it yet.
“What could you possibly be doing tonight? It’s Friday, Char. Homework and studying can happen tomorrow. And you said Holly gave you the night off.”
“I know—” I say, touching a strand of hair and tucking it behind my ear. “It’s just... I should get a head start on studying for the next history exam. I think I bombed the quiz today.”
“Doubt it. Charlotte Reed never bombs quizzes.” He’s right, except I haven’t been as focused these last three weeks and even an A– would be a setback with Stanford looming on the horizon.
“I’ll make it up to you next week. Coffee and reality TV at my house?”
Carlos exhales loudly. “Fine.” But even annoyed with me, he kisses my cheek before heading away. “Call me tomorrow! I need your help with calc, don’t forget!”
I wave him away, pretending to search for something in my backpack. When Carlos crosses the street and is out of sight, I walk down the steps toward the car. It hasn’t moved since I stepped outside. I start to doubt myself as I get closer; maybe I’m wrong—maybe it’s not Tate.
But then the door swings open.
I pause, staring at the dark interior.
“You coming?” a voice speaks from the darkness—Tate’s voice.
My heart leaps upward, and I do a quick sweep of the parking lot and front lawn. Only Jenna Sanchez, who I think is still upset that I got roses that day in English and she didn’t, stares at me briefly from her circle of friends chatting on the sidewalk. But then she turns away.
I take off my backpack and slide into the passenger seat. Inside, Tate smiles at me. He looks almost shy. “Hey,” he says.
“I didn’t know you were picking me up.”
“I wanted to surprise you.”
“It worked.” I try to keep a smile from breaking across my lips. I don’t want him to know how happy I am to see him. It feels silly and girly and not like me.
“I know you probably still have doubts. But when you called last night, I... I couldn’t wait to see you again.”
I shift my eyes to his. He is curved lips and dark eyes and a million mysteries I haven’t yet solved. And my heart starts to climb just by looking at him. Any exhaustion I felt earlier has quickly evaporated. Being here with Tate sets alight every nerve ending.
And then, in his hands, I notice a black strip of fabric. “What’s that?” I ask.
“A blindfold.” The dimple winks at me. “I want to take you somewhere and it’s a surprise.”
I hesitate, shifting uneasily in the seat. A blindfold, seriously? I should get out now. Head home and work on my Stanford essays, tackle my homework, give Mia a break with Leo, anything but this. But instead, I stay put.
“Charlotte,” he says, his voice soft. “Do you trust me?” He said something similar last night. I know it’s important to him and I want him to know that I’m trying. That I want to give this a shot with him.
So I nod. “I trust you.”
I turn around in my seat, facing the window. My reflection stares back: wide eyes, hair drifting over my face. And then my reflection is gone. Tate wraps the black fabric across my eyes and I bite down on my lower lip.
“Is it too tight?” he whispers in my ear.
I shake my head. A heady warmth unspools in my stomach at the feeling of his breath, hot against my ear.
“No peeking,” he adds.
The car begins to move, gliding out into traffic.
With my sight gone, the rest of my senses are heightened. I can hear the slow, easy breathing of Tate beside me. His scent is of clean, crisp cologne and something else, like the salty air of the beach. I imagine him moving closer, what it would feel like to have his hands on me, without my being able to see him.
There is silence between us for several blocks and then Tate finally speaks. “What are you thinking?”
“What about the ocean?”
“The air,” I say. “It smells like salt and sun, and also slightly green. And—” I pause, but Tate doesn’t speak. I can barely even hear his breathing now, like he’s suspended, waiting for me to continue. “I’m thinking about the feel of the waves,” I add, “when they rise up over your legs. When I was little, I always thought the sea was alive, trying to drag you out with it. It’s so...desperate, like it tugs from the farthest part of the ocean floor. Sometimes I want to let it—let it take me out into the deep, where I could drift for thousands of miles. Until I wash ashore on some distant continent. I like the idea of that.”
There’s a long silence, and I wonder if he’s looking at me. “I like the way you think about things,” he says finally, and I hear him shift on the seat.
I lick my lips, then bite the bottom one. I hear Tate inhale. “Charlotte...” he says, his voice pleading.
“What?”
“Just...don’t do that, okay?”
“Why not?” I say, and to my surprise, I’m comfortable again. I’m enjoying this. I take my lip back between my teeth, bite down gently. Knowing his eyes are on me makes me tingle all over. Like he’s touching me, even though he’s not. Like it’s his teeth on my lip.
“Charlotte. I don’t think I can handle it,” he tells me, and I can hear the smile in his voice. “You’ll make me crazy.”
So he’s not the only one with power here, no matter what he says. I lean back in my seat, smiling to myself.
The car comes to a slow stop and I realize the sounds of the city have dulled. We’re not on a main street anymore.
I feel a sudden swirl of wind when the car door opens—it coils around me and sends chills rushing down my arms even though the air is warm and balmy. Tate’s hands touch mine in a burst of electricity, and he guides me out of the car. A horn honks in the distance. I have no idea where we are.
