by Shea Olsen
He turns to face me, my fingers still against his mouth.
“Charlotte.” The word is throaty and deep.
He touches my hand with his, pulling it away. “If I kiss you now, I won’t be able to stop. I won’t stop until...” He squeezes my hand, then rests it back in my lap. I see his eyes trail over my legs hidden beneath the dress, then back up to my neck and then my lips.
I open my mouth to speak, but he stops me. “Not yet,” he says.
I exhale and every ignited cell of my body turns to ash, extinguished by his words. My heart thuds down into my stomach.
I never imagined I could feel this way, that I would be the one pressing him for more, wanting a kiss that he won’t give me. But he has boundaries I don’t understand. Rules that make no sense to me.
My brain switches into practical mode, rescuing me from my drowning thoughts. I glance down at my dress. I can’t go inside like this.
“I need to change,” I say.
Tate looks at me, hesitates, then nods, understanding. He ushers me out the passenger door and into the backseat, where the bag that holds my old clothes is waiting alongside the other shopping bags from today. He slips in the door after me so he won’t be seen by any unsuspecting neighbors, but then color rises in his cheeks as if he realizes suddenly how close we are back here.
“I won’t look,” he says, turning his head away as if to punctuate his words.
I realize he expects me to change right here, in the car. The windows are tinted nearly black, so there’s no risk of anyone outside seeing me, but still, Tate is right beside me, a breath away.
But I don’t really have another option.
I unstrap the black heels and slip my feet out one at a time. The soles of my feet had begun to ache, and I rub my heels briefly. I attempt to unzip the back of my dress, but in this awkward position I can’t reach the clasp or the top of the zipper. “Could you...” I wave a hand to indicate what I mean, the words somehow too intimate to say aloud.
He turns and his eyes seem darker, steady and unblinking.
I shift on the seat so my back is to him, and for a moment he doesn’t touch me. But I can hear his breathing, hear the hesitation in every exhale.
Then his hands are against the base of my neck, lingering a moment too long, before finally finding the clasp and then sliding the zipper all the way down to my waist. I feel his breath faintly against my exposed back and I press the front of the dress to my chest, then peer around to look at him.
His face looks almost pained, like it’s taking every ounce of effort for him to not reach out and touch me again—to keep from tearing the dress the rest of the way off of me. Then, noticing my gaze on him, he quickly turns to face the other window, giving me a sliver of privacy.
I arch my back, sliding the dress down my legs to my ankles. It sits like a mound of red silk on the carpeted floor of the car, still shimmering even in the dimness of the backseat. The air is mild, but I feel a tingle across my bare skin. I fold the dress quickly, then place it in the salon bag, pulling out my old clothes and dressing as fast as I can. The entire time, Tate never twitches, never turns to catch a glimpse of my partially naked body.
When I’m done, I feel like Cinderella after midnight, returned once again to normal in my everyday Charlotte clothes.
“Okay,” I say softly, so he knows I’m done.
He starts to open his door, then stops, turning back to face me. For a moment he still looks uncomfortable, like the idea of me half naked sitting right beside him is still playing through his mind. “I want to see you again,” he says, searching my face. “This week.”
I feel my eyebrows pinch together. I want to see him again, too—I don’t even want to say good-bye. But a reminder of all the things I have to do this week slams through me at once: an upcoming calc test, an AP English paper that’s due. “It’s a crazy week at school. Plus I told Holly I’d pick up an extra shift.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t work at the flower shop anymore,” he says.
I tilt my head, thinking maybe I misheard him. “What—why?”
“So I can see you more. You already have so much going on.”
“I need the job and the money,” I say, wiping away a wispy tendril of hair when it drifts into my face.
“I could buy the flower shop from your boss, then hire someone else to work there for you.”
“Tate,” I say, frowning, shocked to hear him talking like this. Is it his control thing again? “I like working there. And just because you have a lot of money doesn’t mean I’m looking for a free ride.”
I’m half expecting an argument, but instead a smile creeps onto his lips, punctuated by his dimple. “I like it when you do that.”
“What?” I ask, still feeling a little defensive.
“Make that face. When you’re unhappy about something, your nose scrunches up. I like it.”
“Tate.” Annoyed he isn’t taking me seriously, I open the door on my side and step out onto the sidewalk. I try to keep my face somber, to be clear that he can’t push me around, but when I glance back, his mouth lifts fully into one of his rare grins, and I can’t help but smile back.
He climbs out of the car after me, touches my arm, holding it by the wrist, then brings it up to his lips. He kisses the triangle ink mark on the inside of my left wrist, his eyes trained on mine the entire time.
“Fine. Keep your job, but I still want to see you, and if that means I have to buy out the Bloom Room’s entire inventory of flowers every week and send them to various hospitals, then that’s what I’ll do.”
I shake my head. “Good night, Tate. Thank you for another amazing day.”
“Good night, Charlotte. I’m glad you enjoyed it.”
I walk backward for several steps, Tate watching me, then I turn and hurry the rest of the way up the sidewalk.
When I reach the front door, I hide the bags behind a large empty flowerpot, then sneak inside to make sure the coast is clear. I find Mia in the living room, half dozing, half watching TV with Leo in her lap, asleep. Grandma’s bedroom door is shut, the light just peeking through the crack at the bottom. Seizing my opportunity, I sneak the bags into my room, avoiding Mia’s eyes. She’s probably not happy with me, since I didn’t come home in time to watch Leo so she could go on her date with Greg. But I had a date of my own to worry about, and Leo, much as I adore him, is not my responsibility.
I take one final look in the mirror over my dresser, seeing the glamorous stranger reflected there. Then I wipe my face with a Kleenex, watching the beautiful makeup turn to a smear of creams and grays on the tissue. I stuff the shopping bags into the back of my tiny closet, afraid to hang the clothes on hangers in case anyone sees.
Just before bed, Grandma pushes open my partially closed door to say good night and stops at the sight of my hair. I lie—another lie. I tell her Carlos took me to get it cut and colored, that it was a belated birthday present, that he wanted me to have a brand-new style for the holidays.
She’s standing in her white cotton pajamas, the ones she’s had for years, the ones she irons each night before bed. Her auburn hair is in a braid down her back. She looks tired and there’s also something else: worry, concern, mistrust maybe, playing on the features of her face.
“It looks beautiful,” she finally tells me. And I try to ignore the surge of guilt. In all the years I’ve lived with my grandmother, I’ve never had to lie to her until now—until Tate.
After she has gone to bed, I slip between the sheets and call Carlos. I apologize for skipping out on our study date, but I don’t say anything about the day with Tate—I’m not ready to dissect every detail, to share every moment we’ve spent together. A part of me likes having a secret, something that’s mine, and mine alone.
He’s the only thing in my boring, responsible life that
belongs just to me.
ELEVEN
MIA BURSTS INTO MY ROOM, the glow of her cell phone hovering over my face as I blink awake.
“What the hell is this?” she demands.
I rub my eyes, trying to focus, my gaze moving to the clock on the bedside table—it’s not quite six a.m. And just as my eyes adjust to the glare of her cell phone, the picture on the screen suddenly registers in my brain. I jolt out of bed, grabbing the phone from her hand.
I stare down at the image—at the photo of Tate. And walking beside him is me. It’s from our dinner two nights ago. The photos I didn’t think anyone would be interested in seeing.
“Wanna tell me what’s going on?” Mia asks. But I don’t answer her. I swipe through a series of four more images on the gossip site. But it’s not as bad as I feared: Tate’s hand is blocking most of my face. “I know you think I’m an idiot, Charlotte,” Mia continues to say, “but you have to realize that I know my own sister when I see her. And you’re wearing Mom’s ring. I can see it in that one.” She points a finger at the image on the screen, and there, on my left hand, lifted in the air to block the camera flash, is Mom’s turquoise ring. There’s no mistaking it.
Crap. I swallow down the sickening feeling that rises up inside my gut. The ring. I won’t be able to talk my way out of this one. “You’re right,” I admit, exhaling deeply. “It’s me. I was with him on Saturday.”
Her sharp green irises seem to swell and expand, like she’s seeing me for the first time. “What the hell were you doing with Tate Collins?”
I hand her back the phone and cross my arms. “I’m...seeing him.” It’s actually a relief to say—a sequence of words I’ve never said before in my entire life. Admitting it feels like stepping off a cliff, taking a leap, but once you’ve done it, you realize you can fly, and the weightlessness is incredible.
“Like, you’re dating him? You’re dating Tate Collins?” It occurs to me how many people refer to Tate by his full name—like he’s a larger-than-life entity, not a living, breathing person, flaws and all. Maybe that’s why he hung around me in the beginning; to me, he was just Tate, and that was a novelty.
Mia’s temples twitch and her brow wrinkles. I can’t tell if she’s mad I didn’t tell her sooner, or if she’s jealous. I’ve never had anything for her to be jealous of before, at least not in the boy department. Sure, sometimes I think she wishes she still had her freedom—wishes she could go out on a Saturday night without needing a babysitter. But I never had my freedom either. Not really. I was bound by a promise I made, a predetermined life that didn’t involve boys. Didn’t involve Tate. But now I find myself tumbling faster and faster into a different life. And I don’t want to turn back.
“Yes,” I answer plainly. “I’m dating him.”
She slips her cell phone into her sweatshirt pocket. “I should’ve known the new hair wasn’t really a gift from Carlos. Are you going to tell me how you met a world-famous pop star in the first place? And how he asked you out?”
I sigh. “He came into the flower shop one night. And then...it all just happened. I didn’t plan any of it.”
“Grandma is going to be furious. This will destroy her.”
I step quickly toward her. “You can’t say anything, promise me. Grandma can’t know.”
Mia slides her jaw side to side, then clamps it back in place. “And why should I keep your secret?”
“Because I’ve covered for you plenty of times,” I say. I can’t believe how difficult she’s being. I guess she liked it better when I was the boring sister who didn’t have a life. “I watched Leo for you last month so you could go meet up with some guy after you told Grandma you were going to a job interview. And remember the night you came into my room at one a.m. and asked me to sleep in your bed next to Leo’s crib so you could sneak out to see that guy you met—the married guy? I didn’t get any sleep that night and I had a final the next day. And—”
“Fine,” she snaps, cutting me off before I can continue listing all the times I’ve saved her ass. Not that I ever did it for her, exactly. I did it for Leo. “But when Grandma does find out,” she adds, “I’ll deny ever knowing anything. I won’t have her pissed at me, too.”
I brush my fingers back through my hair. “Okay,” I say, cringing at the idea of Grandma ever finding out about Tate.
Mia moves absently to my dresser, touching the assortment of books and lip balm and pens scattered across the top. “I can’t believe Perfect Charlotte has finally broken one of her own rules,” she says, and I can’t tell if it’s concern or satisfaction in her voice, or some complicated mixture of both. “And with Tate Collins, no less.” Her mouth tugs to one side. “Have you slept with him yet?”
“No,” I retort. “Of course not. Not that it’s actually any of your business.”
“You’re right. It’s your life, Charlotte,” she says, and now she just sounds weary. “You can mess it up if you want to.”
“I’m not messing anything up, Mi. I’m just...living.”
“I’ve said that very same thing before,” she says, walking to the doorway. I can hear Grandma out in the kitchen, starting a pot of coffee. “Just be careful.”
Once she’s gone, I grab my cell phone from the bedside table. There are photos of us online, I type to Tate, then hit SEND.
* * *
An hour later, I’m standing in front of my closet, trying to decide what to wear to school, my mind stuck cycling through the paparazzi images of Tate and me. Will anyone else figure out it’s me? Will Grandma somehow see the photos?
I pull out the large shopping bag of brand-new clothes tucked in the back of my closet. I really want to wear one of my new outfits—I want to feel even an ounce as confident as I did on Saturday. But I also don’t want to draw any more attention to myself.
Then my phone dings from the bed and I grab it quickly, hoping it’s from Tate. And it is. Saw the photos, it reads, in reply to my earlier text. Are you okay?
Fine. My sis figured out it’s me. But so far that’s it. Are you okay?
I’m only worried about you.
I really want to talk to him, hear his voice, but I can’t risk Grandma overhearing.
Another text chimes through. My publicist says the media doesn’t know who you are. They’re just calling you the Mystery Girl. My team is working to keep it that way.
Thanks, I reply. His team. He has a team, the “people” he’d spoken of early on. Yet another reminder of the vast differences between us. I shake my head and check the time on my phone. I have to get dressed or I’m going to be late. Heading to school. Can we talk later?
Of course. And then: Going crazy without you already.
I opt for basic jeans and a T-shirt. I’m not yet sure what I’m going to face at school; better to blend in, act like nothing’s changed.
But as I weave through the hall, the weight of Monday morning is evident on everyone’s faces. Nobody knows, I tell myself. How could they? Sure, there are photos of Tate Collins and some mystery girl now circulating every online forum and blog and social website, but the face of the girl was obscured, a blurry wash of makeup and dirty-blond hair. Only my sister would make the connection.
But then a tall figure eases in beside me, blocking my slanted view of the hallway from my locker. “Hiding won’t help anything.”
I lift my head and Carlos is staring down at me, his eyebrows forming a perfect arc across his forehead. But he’s not looking at me with sympathetic eyes. He’s mad at me. He knows.
“Carlos,” I begin. But he lifts his right palm in front of my face—long, elegant fingers, the swooping lines across his palm that tell his fortune: three kids, loads of money, and a life that will stretch to at least ninety years old. We once had our palms read in Venice by a woman who smelled like onions. She said my fate line split in two�
��not necessarily a good thing—and that I had two possible choices, two life paths I could take. I had forgotten about that moment until now, with Carlos’s palm hovering in front of my face.
“Should I ask the obvious question, or do you want to just go ahead and spill everything?” he asks, dropping his palm and shoving both hands into the pockets of his gray slacks. His button-up shirt is navy blue with the eggshell buttons fastened all the way to the top so the collar presses tightly against his throat.
“I didn’t want to keep this from you,” I start.
“But you did.”
“I know. I just didn’t want anyone to know...not yet.”
“I’m not anyone, I’m your best friend.”
“I’m so sorry.” Looking up into Carlos’s eyes, my heart feels like it’s being crushed and all the life squeezed out of it. “I was going to tell you.”
“When? If those photos hadn’t been taken, if I hadn’t noticed a strikingly unique turquoise ring on the left hand of the mysterious blond-haired girl walking beside Tate Collins, and then found you looking suddenly very blond this morning, when exactly would you have told me?”
I swallow—he’s obviously really, really mad. “Soon,” I tell him, trying to sound convincing. “I was just...waiting for the right moment.”
He blows out a breath through his nostrils, not buying it. “And Tate Collins?” His finger taps against the open locker door. “Mind explaining how that happened?”
“He came into the flower shop,” I say, echoing what I told Mia this morning. “Then he sent me those roses.”
“Tate Collins is Mr. Gorgeous and Mysterious?” His mouth falls open, eyes equally as shocked.
“Yeah.” It really starts to sink in how long I’ve been keeping this from him—since the beginning. And I can see it registering in Carlos’s face as well. I’ve been a terrible friend. “I turned him down several times. I tried to make him go away,” I say, as if this explains my lack of honesty with him. If Tate had just vanished after that first night, there would be nothing to tell—nothing to hide. “But he just kept coming back. Finally I went on a date with him, and that’s when I realized who he was.”
