Flower

by Shea Olsen

  “You didn’t know he was Tate Collins?”

  “You know I’m not good at that sort of thing.”

  “But he’s... Tate Collins!”

  “Trust me, I already feel like a colossal loser for not realizing it sooner.”

  “And how exactly did you end up leaving Il Cielo wearing a stunning red dress and your hair looking like that on Saturday night?” His eyes sweep dramatically over my new hair color.

  “Tate took me shopping. And to Q, the hair salon in Beverly Hills,” I admit.

  “He took you to see Steven Salazar?!”

  I nod and watch as a smile breaks across Carlos’s unwilling lips. Of course he knows where all the famous people go to get their hair done. He probably even watches Steven’s reality TV show.

  “I think I might be more hurt that you didn’t text me immediately and ask me to come join you at Steven’s salon than I am about you keeping Tate Collins a secret.”

  “It was stupid not to tell you,” I say, hoping my voice sounds as regretful as I feel. “It just all happened so fast, I barely had time to take a breath.”

  “Your shopping and beautifying day happened fast, or your romance with Tate?”

  “Both.”

  Carlos’s expression softens and he drops his hand from the locker door. “I love you, and I can’t stay mad at you.” Then his eyebrows lift. “But you better not keep a single detail from me from now on. I want to know everything. Spare nothing.”

  “Deal,” I say, risking a smile.

  Then, without warning, he wraps his arms around my waist, scooping me up and spinning me around before he plops me back against our locker. Everyone near us glances in our direction, before resuming their conversations or sipping their coffees or swapping out books from their lockers. “You’re dating Tate Collins!” he proclaims in a hush, like he wants to be sure I realize the gravity of the situation. “The fact that you’re dating at all is astounding. But gorgeous, uber-famous Tate Collins, whose music I have been obsessed with for three years but you couldn’t care less about...that Tate Collins!” Carlos sucks in a deep breath, like he’s about to pass out.

  I draw in my top lip to keep from laughing. “Yeah,” I answer softly. “I guess that would be him.”

  “When Charlotte Reed decides to date, she doesn’t waste time with average high school boys, she goes big—mega pop star big. And I’ve never been prouder of you.”

  His comment forces me to think about how not proud my grandma will be if she finds out. “You don’t think I’m weak?” I ask, my voice suddenly small. “You know my rule about dating, and I’ve just completely broken it.”

  “You’re not weak,” he says, leaning in close. “You’ve just finally realized what you’ve been missing. It’s not like anything else has changed—you haven’t given up any of your goals, you haven’t dropped out of high school. You’re just going to have a more exciting love life to go with it.” He winks and we both smile. And just hearing that Carlos isn’t disappointed in me makes me feel better.

  The bell rings, and suddenly everyone in the hallway starts to scatter.

  Carlos reaches past me into the locker and grabs his calculus textbook. “See you in English,” he says. “I’ll be daydreaming about you and Tate Collins until then.”

  I roll my eyes playfully and close our locker door, then head in the opposite direction to AP History.

  Whatever I was expecting when I got to school this morning, it’s not what I get. No one so much as glances in my direction the rest of the day. I know others have seen the photos—Jenna Sanchez and Lacy Hamilton whisper about them while Mr. Rennert lectures on symbolism in The Catcher in the Rye. But they’re focused more on the girl in the photo’s “sick” red dress than on the girl herself—and then suddenly they’re talking about Tate’s body and Carlos grins and elbows me and I force myself to pay attention to Holden Caulfield.

  But that’s when I realize I’m in the clear. Because Tate’s new mystery girlfriend could never be nerdy, bookworm-slash-good-girl Charlotte Reed. A girl like Charlotte Reed does not attract the attention of Tate Collins, worldwide music sensation. And by the end of the day, I’m grinning to myself. They’re all wrong about me.

  Incredibly wrong.

  * * *

  My life starts to feel more and more normal. I finish my college applications, go to work, study for tests, do everything just the way I’ve always done it. Except for one thing: Tate. Only Mia and Carlos know about my Friday and Saturday dates with Tate Collins, the rendezvous at his house or at intimate little restaurants where Tate reserves the whole place for just us. He tells me about his music and that he hasn’t wanted to write anything new in a long time.

  We’re more careful about the paparazzi, steering clear of any major hot spots. Tate gets asked to do interviews and talk show appearances, Rolling Stone even wants to do a feature article about his sudden reappearance after a year, and to tell the world who his new mystery girl is. But he turns them all down. He doesn’t want to talk about us, about the last year. He just wants privacy, and to be with me.

  So instead, he takes me on long drives down to Laguna Beach. Once we go as far as La Jolla, where we sit on the patio of a small, hole-in-the-wall ice cream shop overlooking the ocean, sharing a dish of lime sherbet.

  Carlos is my alibi during these late nights and weekends. I tell Grandma we’re spending all our free time studying at the library or at Carlos’s house—that it’s too hard to focus at home with Mia and Leo always there.

  When really I’m with Tate.

  But even when we’re parked in his car overlooking the Pacific, or we’re curled up on his couch watching whatever movie I choose, we still don’t kiss. Not yet, he tells me whenever I draw close. Not yet.

  * * *

  The first night of winter break, I sleep fitfully. Images of Tate crisscross through my mind, melting into my dreams. We are in my bedroom, alone, but it feels normal, like he’s supposed to be here. I can barely make out the features of his face in the dark, but I know his eyes are pouring over me, I can feel it. And then he reaches out and pulls me against him, kissing me. His hands move quickly and I feel dizzy even in the dream. My heartbeat quickens and his fingers are suddenly beneath my shirt, tearing it over my head and I am pulling him to my bed. And then his voice is there, clear and smooth against my ear, Charlotte. Charlotte.

  But then the voice is too sharp, too loud. “Charlotte!”

  My eyes flinch open.

  “Charlotte.”

  I sit upright. It’s Mia, standing in my bedroom doorway.

  “Are you awake?” she asks.

  “I am now.”

  “Look out your window. You have to see this.”

  “What?” I pull the blankets up to my chest. It’s morning, but it’s insanely early, the light outside still a dim bluish gray, the sun not yet up over the horizon.

  “I noticed it when I got up with Leo. You have to see.”

  “See what?” I ask, not wanting to leave the warmth of my bed.

  Mia walks into my room, yanking open the curtain. “Look,” she demands.

  I throw back the blankets and follow her to the window.

  At first I can’t see; it’s brighter outside than I thought and I press my palms to my eyes—it reminds me of the night with Tate, when the photographer’s flash blinded us as we left Il Cielo. And then I realize why it seems so bright. Everything is white.

  Snowy white.

  The yard below my window is blanketed in fluffy, crystalized snow. It hangs over the limbs of the palm trees; a smooth, frosting-like layer. All the way out to the sidewalk, it coats our yard like a Christmas scene from a classic movie.

  “How?” I ask aloud.

  Mia shrugs, rocking Leo from side to side. He makes a little sucking noise, his lips
puckered. “I have no idea. I don’t think it’s ever snowed in LA.”

  “And it’s too warm,” I say, sliding open my window and sticking a hand out into the mild air.

  Then our green eyes meet and we both know.

  “Tate,” I murmur, closing the window. I grab my phone from the bedside table and see I missed a call from him five minutes earlier, since my phone was set to silent. Quickly, I go to the closet, grab a sweater, and pull it over my pajama shorts and tank top. But I stop short before going out the door. Mia is still standing beside the window, watching me. She could tell Grandma, she could go wake her up if she wanted to.

  But then she shrugs, and gives me a little nod. “Go on.”

  I smile at her, then hurry into the hall and out the front door.

  It’s like stepping into a winter wonderland.

  I’ve never seen real snow before, but it looks just as beautiful as I’d always imagined. Suddenly, I wish I had a professional camera with me so I could take pictures—the light, with the sun just about to rise, is pinkish and gorgeous, refracting across the crystalline layer.

  Everything is quiet. A stillness that seems amplified by the snow. No one has walked through it yet, there are no other footprints—I am the first one. It feels powdery and icy and slightly crumbly all at once, sending shivers up through my feet, barely protected by my flimsy slippers.

  How did he do this? And why?

  At the side of the yard stands a picture-perfect snowman, catching some shade under one of the palm trees. A bright red scarf has been tied around its neck and two black stones sit in its snow-packed skull for eyes. And tucked in one of the twigs that form the snowman’s arms and hands is an envelope.

  I carefully pull out the card inside.

  The stationery is solid white, a hint of glitter sifting off the top. Written in cramped block letters, it reads: Look in the backyard.

  Normally our backyard is just a sad square that backs up against a chain-link fence dividing our house from the neighbors’. But in the snow, it’s transformed. And there, sitting on the old rickety bench where Mia and I used to play pirate ship and capture-the-castle, is Tate.

  His dimple flickers as I run to him.

  “Why?” I breathe.

  “You said you’d never seen snow.”

  I’m smiling so big it almost hurts. “This is definitely a first.”

  He taps my nose, gently. “But not the last. I want you to come home with me, to Colorado. For Christmas. A snowy Christmas.”

  I can’t help it—I lean in and kiss him. And finally he doesn’t stop me, just pulls me onto the bench, which he’s covered with pillows and blankets that are soft against my bare legs as I curl up beside him.

  “Are you warm enough?” he asks, his mouth close to my ear.

  “Almost.” A shiver races through me and I shudder.

  His arms tighten around me. “Better?” I feel his lips brush against my earlobe and I can only nod in reply. I’m overwhelmed with him actually being here, at my house, in my backyard, holding me. Inviting me to go home with him, meet his family. It’s all so perfect.

  My heart light, I start to pull away, but he draws me back toward him, his mouth landing on mine once again. He cups the side of my face, his fingers gentle despite his searching mouth. His other hand moves to my waist, his fingers gathering my sweater up, up, until I feel the warmth of his fingers against my skin.

  I can’t wait to go home with him—see where he grew up, better understand who he is and why he’s so guarded. And then a thought skitters through my mind: If he wants me to meet his family, then I want him to meet mine. I’ve spent so much time keeping him a secret, denying even to myself how I’m starting to feel about him. But if he’s serious enough about me to bring me home with him, then I need to show him that I’m serious about him, too.

  “Come inside, Tate,” I tell him. “I want you to meet my family.”

  TWELVE

  “THIS IS A BAD IDEA, Charlotte.” Grandma stands in the doorway as I sit on my suitcase to zip it up.

  “You can’t change my mind,” I tell her, trying to keep my voice gentle.

  “After everything you’ve worked so hard for, you’re just going to fly to Colorado with some boy you hardly know? Some celebrity who lives in a completely different world from you? What about your promise not to date, to focus on your future—you’re just giving all that up now?”

  “I’m not giving up anything.” I grab my phone from the bed and shove it into my back pocket. “Nothing’s changed, except there’s someone in my life who I care about, and he cares about me—obviously enough that he wants me to meet his parents. I thought you’d be more understanding.”

  Grandma met Tate the other morning, after he surprised me with the snowy invite to Colorado. Mia had stood in the kitchen doorway holding Leo, tongue-tied for once in her life as she eyed Tate like he was some foreign species she’d never seen before. I thought she was going to start snapping photos of him right there. And even though Grandma was polite and shook his hand, offered him coffee and breakfast, and smiled sweetly, as soon as he left, she began grilling me with questions, telling me I had completely lost my mind. She scoured various gossip sites, studying up on his history of bad behavior. “He’s not like that,” I told her, but I can tell she doesn’t believe me. She thinks his every documented mistake is the whole of who he is. But of course she can’t see what I do.

  “How do you expect me to understand you throwing your life away?” she says now.

  “I’m not throwing it away.” I sigh. “And if you choose not to support me, it’s won’t change anything. I’m doing this whether you like it or not.”

  “I didn’t want it to come to this, but you’re not leaving me a choice. My house, my rules.” It’s the first time she’s ever spoken to me this way—her voice laced with a combination of frustration and futility I’d thought was reserved for Mia and, when we were younger, our mother. “I won’t let you make the same mistakes the rest of this family did. You’re not going with him to Colorado, and we’re done discussing it.”

  I lift my suitcase from the bed and meet her gaze. “I’m eighteen, so you can’t stop me from doing anything.” I regret the statement almost as quickly as I’ve said it when I see the look on her face. But I don’t allow myself to back down. This may be her house, but it’s my life. “Please just trust me, okay?” I add more softly, hoping she’ll see how important this is to me. “I’m smart, remember? Trust me enough to make my own decisions.”

  “You can be brilliant and still be stupid at love,” she says. “The women in this family always are.” It’s nothing I haven’t thought myself over the years, but hearing her say it now is like a physical blow. The choices my family made in the past might not have led to happily ever after, but Mia and I wouldn’t be here if those choices had been different. Neither would Leo. It’s tough not to feel in this moment like my grandmother resents our very existence. I wheel the suitcase around her, then down the hallway. She doesn’t reach out for me, doesn’t physically try to stop me—maybe because she knows there’s nothing she can do.

  I try one more time when I reach the front door. “I know you’re worried, Grandma. I love that you care so much about me. But you taught me to have a good head on my shoulders, and I know what I’m doing.”

  Her shoulders sag, and where before there was anger on her face, now there’s only weariness. “I’m not so certain you do.”

  I feel a pang of guilt as I open the door and step outside with my suitcase. She doesn’t hug me good-bye, doesn’t offer any other parting words. I’m going, and there’s nothing she can do about it. This is my life, I remind myself. And I close the door behind me.

  Tate sent a limousine to pick me up and bring me to the airport, and the sleek, shining car stands out starkly in our dingy street. Kids
point and stare as I quickly dart toward the limo and get inside. These same kids made snow forts and snow angels in our yard before everything melted. We’re definitely the most popular house on the block these days.

  But once we start driving, my worries fall away. The day is mild and warm and I roll down the window, letting my hand make swooping waves in the air as we drive.

  I think the driver is taking me to LAX, but instead we go north, eventually pulling into an airport I didn’t even know existed. VAN NUYS AIRPORT, the gate reads as we drive through. The limousine drives right out onto the tarmac, where a white jet sits with the stairs already down and the door open.

  My heart begins to thud as I climb the steps, glancing back at the limo and the driver as he hands my suitcase to another man, who carries it toward the plane—a private jet, I realize.

  When I step inside the first thing I see is Tate, sitting in the far back on a cream-colored couch that stretches the entire length of one side of the plane. He’s wearing a plain gray T-shirt and jeans, effortlessly handsome. He stands as soon as he notices me.

  “Hi,” I say almost shyly. I haven’t seen him in a few days, and I can’t take my eyes off him. He looks like the Tate Collins right now, the bad boy, the rock star every girl at my school would die to be able to utter a single word to. And I am standing across from him in his private jet.

  “Hi,” he says back, dimple pulling inward. “I’ve missed you.”

  “It’s only been a few days,” I say, trying not to seem too pleased. “I had to do Christmas early with Grandma and Mia and Leo.”

  He walks across the space separating us and runs a hand down my hair. “I’m glad I got to meet them. But I’m even gladder to have you all to myself for the moment.”