Flower

by Shea Olsen

And in that moment, in his arms, I have everything I could possibly want.

  * * *

  Tate and I agree on a skinny, floppy-looking tree. Nothing like what I pictured we’d choose. It sags a little on one side and bows oddly near the top, but somehow, it’s perfect. Tate carries it over one shoulder back to the entrance, where the holiday music continues to blare from the overhead speakers, now mixing with the falling snow.

  Much to my surprise, Tate’s parents selected an equally homely-looking tree. Tate’s dad studies ours, running his hands over the limbs with a serious look on his face, then turns to Tate and says, “Looks like we both know how to recognize a good thing when we see it.” And he actually smiles, clapping Tate on the shoulder. Helen laughs and brings a hand to her mouth, like she might cry seeing the tension between them lift.

  It takes Tate a second to absorb the compliment, to realize his dad is trying to make an effort, but when he does, I can see his face lighten. His eyes find me, his dimple flickering to life.

  We decide to purchase both trees. But when Tate reaches for his wallet, his dad waves it away. “You might be Mr. Moneybags, but I’m still your father.”

  His mom snaps a photo of us standing beside our chosen tree, one of Tate’s arms around my waist, the other holding up the lopsided tree. The snow drifts down around us in slow motion, and the twinkle of Christmas lights feels like a holiday dream.

  I never want to wake up.

  THIRTEEN

  WE EAT DINNER BESIDE THE fire, baby potatoes and green beans and a cauliflower soup that tastes so amazing I keep closing my eyes with every bite, just to savor it. Until Tate points out my repeated eye-closing and everyone laughs.

  We move into the living room and I steal a moment to send a text to Carlos, attaching the photo of Tate and me beside our tree, the snow like a halo around us. After a brief debate with myself, I send it to Grandma, too. Maybe it’s rubbing salt in a wound, given how we left things yesterday, but maybe she’ll see how happy we look and stop worrying quite so much.

  Helen and Bill drink wine, and tell a few stories about what Tate was like as a child. Tate looks on, face stony, but I’m too amused to make them stop. This feels just like the perfect family life I always imagined. Christmas with my grandma and sister has always been a quiet affair, with Mia often preferring to spend the day with her friends or her boyfriend du jour. And when my mom was alive, holidays usually involved spending Christmas Eve sleeping on the couch of whatever guy she was dating at the time. The thought sobers me, and as the conversation drifts off, I stare into the fire, wondering if I’m somehow making the same mistakes that she did. But this is different, I tell myself. Tate isn’t like other guys.

  “Well, Bill,” Helen says finally, setting her half-full glass of wine on the coffee table and standing up, “Tate and Charlotte might be used to waiting up for Santa, but we are not. Shall we call it a night?”

  Bill swallows down the rest of his wine, patting Tate once on the shoulder before he rises and follows his wife into the kitchen, where they put things away and flick off the lights.

  Once they’ve gone upstairs, Tate walks me to my room, touching a strand of my hair and circling it once around his finger before dropping his hand.

  “I liked this day,” I tell him. “With you.”

  His mouth edges into a smile. “I hope you get everything you want for Christmas tomorrow.”

  “I’m pretty sure I already have,” I say.

  I see the momentary struggle in his eyes. I want to touch him, pull him into my room with me. And his gaze says he might not be able to say no.

  But then he clears his throat, resolve tightening the features of his face. “Good night, Charlotte.”

  “Good night,” I respond, my voice barely above a whisper.

  He leaves me in the doorway and moves down the hall. I watch until he slips into his bedroom and quietly shuts the door.

  * * *

  I should stay in my room.

  I should go to sleep.

  The house has fallen still, but my brain won’t turn off.

  He’s all I can think about. The day has been too perfect, the heated kisses against the wall of that shed, and then his gentle kiss between the rows of trees, his touch telling me what he seems unable to say with words.

  I cross the room twice, pacing, touching the window, leaving icy fingerprints against the glass. The snow continues to fall, making half moons on the sills of the window outside.

  The rational, disciplined side of my brain tells me that just being here with him, in his house, is enough. We need to take it slow. His words ring in my ears. But why doesn’t it feel like enough—why is his touch never enough? My heart thumps against my rib cage, battling my mind.

  I want him. I don’t care if it’s reckless, if it goes against everything he’s said, everything my grandma and sister warned me about. I need him in this moment.

  I flip open the top of my suitcase and dig through the clothes inside. I find what I’m looking for: a short, lacy white dress. Tate bought it for me that day at Barneys and I’ve never worn it, and certainly never thought I’d have reason to on this trip. But I packed it anyway—I packed nearly everything in my closet, worried I’d be unprepared.

  I undress, leaving my clothes on the floor, and slip carefully into the delicate dress. The fabric is pure silk and drapes over my skin like something made of air.

  I pull on the black robe I brought as well—another gift from Tate—and tie the silky band around my waist.

  I’m really doing this.

  I leave the bedroom and tiptoe across the hardwood floor, my heart battering chaotically in my chest, unable to find a steady rhythm.

  Then something moves ahead of me in the dark.

  I freeze, holding the robe against my chest—afraid it’s one of his parents, up to grab a glass of water or late-night snack. But then the movement comes into focus, padding down the hall toward me: Rocco. When he reaches me, he lifts his head and sniffs my leg. I run a hand over his furry head, rubbing one of his ears, and his tail wags, thumping once against the wall. Then he turns, satisfied that I’m not an intruder, and ambles back to rest beside the living room fire.

  It’s cold tonight, and goose bumps begin to rise up on my bare legs.

  I stop outside of Tate’s door, my heart now a drum in my chest. There is sound on the other side—a guitar, I realize, playing faintly from inside. I lift my fist, resting it against the grain of the wood. I knock, once, then twice, but only gently. The guitar doesn’t stop playing and Tate doesn’t come to the door. My mouth trembles as my fingers grip the doorknob, pushing the door open.

  Inside, there is a lamp switched on against one corner, a chair resting beside it. On the walls I can faintly make out posters: Led Zeppelin, Jimi Hendrix, and Michael Jackson. Several skateboards are lined up beneath the large bay window and on the dresser against the opposite wall are stacks of vinyl albums next to an old record player. Everything is organized and tidy—preserved by his mom after all these years.

  And sitting at the end of the bed is Tate, a guitar held to his chest, bulky headphones over his ears, and a notebook spread open beside him. He’s humming, staring out the window at the snow swirling against the glass, and strumming his guitar so effortlessly it’s like the notes just stream from his fingers. I recognize the melody: It’s the same one he hummed in my ear on the plane.

  And then he stops, his palm pressed against the strings to make the sound abruptly end. He turns and catches me standing in his doorway.

  “Charlotte? Are you all right?” He sets his headphones on the bed.

  “You were writing music,” I say foolishly, stepping farther into his room. “You haven’t done that in a while.”

  He looks at the guitar, then the window, then back at me. The glow from the lamp send
s lazy shadows across the walls of his room, bleeding out of the darkness.

  “I was feeling inspired.” His eyes are on me now, the familiar look of wanting etched in his gaze, the iron control that always seems so close to cracking. “Did I wake you up?” he asks, standing from the bed. “Was I too loud?”

  “No.” I shake my head, steeling myself. Electricity dances and pops across my skin. “I wanted to see you.”

  His eyes settle, lowered on some part of me, but my focus has blurred slightly, the whole room swimming.

  “I’ve waited long enough,” I hear myself say. I take another step closer. He is within arm’s reach, but I don’t touch him. Instead, my fingers unravel the silky band around my robe, letting it slip open to reveal the white dress underneath. I’m not shaking anymore—I’m in control now.

  He won’t stop me this time. He wants me, too—I know he does, I can see it in his eyes, dipping low to follow the thin fabric of the dress clinging to the form of my body. He exhales, like he’s trying to steady his thoughts. I touch one shoulder of the robe, letting it glide down my arms onto the floor. Tate’s mouth opens like he’s going to speak, but nothing comes out.

  My vision razors, everything suddenly sharp and in focus.

  My heart is steady and I slide my hands against his chest, feeling the fabric and the hard shape of his muscles underneath. His scent is on my lips; he still smells like the ocean, even though we’re a thousand miles away.

  “Charlotte.”

  My fingers find the thin strap of the dress, pausing there before tugging it downward. There is nothing underneath this thin veil of fabric. Excitement writhes inside my belly. The strap moves easily from my shoulder, trailing down my arm.

  His hand lifts, touching the strap on my other shoulder, sliding his fingers beneath it. His touch is like fire and his eyes trace my lips. I silently plead for him to kiss me, lifting up onto my tiptoes.

  He swallows, a heavy movement, like his mind is battling the rest of his body. “I told you, Charlotte,” he murmurs, eyes focused intently on the strap he holds between his fingers. But then: “I told you how it had to be.” Tate’s fingers move swiftly, sliding out from beneath the strap—leaving it where it is—then touching my other arm, dragging the other strap back up to my shoulder.

  No, my mind shouts. My gaze snaps to his face, but his eyes are blank, the heat I swore I’d seen moments before gone as if it had never been.

  “It’s too soon,” he says, and I want to scream, I want to cower and hide. “I’m sorry—”

  “Don’t,” I interrupt, humiliation swelling big and hot beneath my skin, threatening to burn me from the inside out. “Don’t bother.”

  Those dark eyes seem to darken even more, cast over with some blackness I can’t see through.

  My head throbs, little pulses shooting through my temples. I bend down and yank the robe from the floor and leave him standing in his bedroom. I can feel his gaze on me as I leave, but I don’t look back. My eyes are already burning.

  Once inside my room, I bury myself beneath the sheets, still in the dress. The weight of my mother’s ring feels like an anchor on my finger.

  For an hour, I toss and turn. Just as I begin to drift, I hear a soft knock at the door. Eagerly, pathetically, I race to the door, certain it’s Tate. Certain he’s here to apologize, to tell me the truth about what’s happened to him, why he keeps pushing me away.

  It is Tate. But he’s not here to make up. One look at him—the set mouth, the eyes that won’t quite meet mine—and I know what he’s going to say.

  “You’re sending me home.” Because I crossed a line—I dared to breach the invisible barrier that Tate has built between us, the one he’s told me is for my own good. But studying the distant look on his face, I realize it was never about my protection. It was always about his. Keeping me at a distance, preventing me from getting too close. And when he doesn’t deny that he’s sending me home, I say, “So that’s it? We’re just done?”

  His shoulders seem to tense at my words. “Charlotte—”

  “It’s fine. It’s for the best, actually.” I can’t believe how steady my voice is, how calm. “What time am I flying out?”

  The question stretches between us. He could apologize. He could tell me that I’m wrong, that he’s sorry and that he doesn’t want me to leave. But he doesn’t say any of those things. He lets the silence bury me, suffocate me. In that moment, I think I might hate him.

  His eyes close briefly, and he almost looks pained, before opening them again to fix on something just over my shoulder. “A car will be here at seven.”

  I want to scream at him. I want to pound my fists against his chest and tell him how much he hurt me, how much he’s still hurting me. But instead I choke down every bitter thought, and turn away, closing the door on Tate. Closing the door on us.

  FOURTEEN

  A STORM IS PRESSING DOWN on the town, a wall of dark gray in the distance. We’re almost to the airport when the snow begins swirling around the car that carries me away from Telluride. It’s Christmas day, and I’m heading back to LA alone. The car skids a little, drifting toward a snowbank before the driver corrects our course, but for some reason I’m not scared. I feel an odd sense of numbness. Like I’m drifting through a dream again—but a different sort of dream.

  I board the same jet we had taken here, and the same flight attendant greets me. The green-and-blue orchid is in place in her hair, but today it looks droopy and somehow bereft.

  “Coffee?” she asks when I sit down on one of the reclining chairs. I make a point not to sit where Tate and I sat on our way here. I don’t want to remember how differently I felt on that flight, how hopeful.

  “Thank you,” I tell her gratefully.

  Once we’re in the air, I stare out the window at a world of white as we fly through layers of endless clouds. There is no blue sky, no land far below. Just white.

  “He seemed happy,” the flight attendant says midway through the trip. She is pouring me a fresh glass of water.

  “Excuse me?” I say.

  She touches her hand to the roof of the plane as we move through a stretch of turbulence, the cabin jerking from side to side before leveling out. Ordinarily, this would terrify me, but it’s like I’m blank inside.

  “Tate,” she clarifies. “I haven’t seen him that happy in a long time.”

  I let out a rush of air, and spin my mother’s ring around my finger.

  When I realize that she isn’t going away, I ask, “Do you fly with him often?”

  “I work most of his private flights. He likes to use the same crew.” She smiles. “His regular pilots were back in LA today, which is why you’ve got two new pilots—these guys are local, out of Denver.” She nods up to the cockpit, where the closed door blocks the pilots from view. “I stayed in Telluride. Figured I’d just wait, enjoy the snow for Christmas until you both were ready to head home. I don’t have much of a family anyway. My boyfriend and I split a couple months back.”

  “Sorry,” I murmur. How many people have changed their plans, their lives, for Tate Collins? Everything in his world revolves around him. He decides what he wants, who he wants, and when. He’s so afraid of losing control that he ended up losing me.

  She shrugs. “But Tate, he’s a tricky one. He’s been so different the last year. We used to fly him to Vegas every other weekend; him and a dozen friends, supermodels, and pop stars like him. He’d take impulsive trips down to Mexico or Miami. But in the last year, he’s hardly left LA. And then, the other day, he got on the plane with you, just you. I thought maybe you were the one.”

  “The one?”

  She smiles gently. “Well, he needs a dose of normal in his life.”

  I should smile politely and go back to staring out the window. Wrap the numbness around myself like a shroud.
Instead I turn to give her my full attention. “Do you know what happened to him a year ago—what made him change, leave the music world?”

  The shrug is one-shouldered this time, as if the story annoys her. “Not sure. There were rumors of course, that he got a girl pregnant and he was trying to keep it secret; that he was involved with drugs. People talk. But none of it sounded like Tate. Something else made him quit music, something bigger than all that gossip.”

  The plane begins to lurch as we enter more rough air and she grabs onto the back of a seat to keep from falling over. “Better buckle in.”

  The jolting turbulence doesn’t bother me. I stare blindly out the window as we start to descend. LA reveals itself, silvery and blue. The ocean expands out to meet the sky and I feel a sudden sense of relief—I’m home.

  The sun is high when we land at the same private airport. Tate’s town car is waiting on the tarmac, Hank standing beside the back door. Seeing him makes my throat swell, tears threatening to break free again. Someone else who’s given up his Christmas for Tate.

  “Your chariot awaits, milady,” Hank says in a falsely cheerful tone as I slide into the back of the town car, and I wait while he loads my luggage into the trunk.

  When he climbs in the driver’s seat, I can feel his eyes on me in the rearview mirror. I shrink back in my seat, praying he’s not going to mention Tate’s name, or try to tell me what a good guy he is at heart. As if reading my mind, he lets out a quiet sigh. “Let’s get you home, Charlotte.”

  I roll down the window, wanting to feel the mild California air against my face. I lift my fingers through the window as we pull away from the tarmac, feeling the breeze. We pause at the gate, waiting for it to slide open.

  But when it does, I hear the sudden rush of voices, the click, click, click I remember all too vividly. Men with cameras have gathered just outside the gate and now they are surrounding the car, clamoring next to the window, practically spilling inside. I don’t have time to block my face from view; it’s too late, they already have my picture.