“Saw me?” I echo blankly.
“Outside the flower shop that first night. That’s why I came in, because I noticed you through the window.” He licks his lips. “You were singing, and you were practically covered in glitter, dancing to that song playing from your phone.” His eyes flick down to my hands resting in the grass. “You were so happy and beautiful. It almost didn’t seem real—like I was imagining you.”
His words are like sparks, igniting the space between us. No one has ever said anything like this to me before, and though my rational mind knows he might say this to every girl he brings home, still, my whole body is a rivulet of electricity. Nerves dance along my skin.
“I didn’t really need to buy flowers,” he says. “I just wanted to talk to you. And when I realized you didn’t know who I was, it caught me off guard.” He frowns a little. “So I lied and said I wanted flowers. But they were always for you.”
I brush my hands over my knees, trying to ignore my reaction to his words.
“After that, I knew I had to see you again,” he continues. “You...intrigued me. I can’t remember the last time I met someone who didn’t know who I was.” He actually looks a little self-conscious as he says it.
“So you only asked me out because I didn’t recognize you?” I make my voice sharp, trying to cut the tension that’s building between us.
“No. It wasn’t just that.” I can feel him looking at me now, but I refuse to turn and meet his gaze. I don’t trust myself. “There was something about you—there still is...”
I’m not sure exactly what he means and I feel my forehead crease, but I still don’t look at him. “You didn’t need to lie,” I say. The reminder of that night, with the paparazzi, and the crowd pressing in around us, triggers a knot inside my stomach. I felt so stupid. And, even though it had only been one date, completely betrayed.
“I didn’t lie,” he says, and I realize he’s right. He didn’t give me a false name or tell me things about himself that weren’t true, but it still feels like a trick. “I wanted to see if you would go out with me, even if you didn’t know who I was.”
“So it was a test?”
“No—not a test.” He shakes his head, and I feel his eyes slide over me: my cheekbones, my hair falling across my neck, my lips. “I’m curious about you.”
“You shouldn’t be,” I tell him. “I’m not that interesting.”
“I think you are,” he says. “I want to know more about you. One date wasn’t enough.”
I don’t answer. I can’t. I can hardly keep my breath steady. He takes my hand again, brings my palm to his lips. I shiver as I watch the motion, the shape of his lips, then force my eyes away, back to the starry glimmer of city lights far below.
“Is that real?” he asks, his voice close to my ear.
“What?”
He touches the inside of my left wrist with a rough fingertip, outlines the dark blue triangle drawn there.
I snatch my hand away, and brush the triangle with my own fingers. Recalling memories there. “It’s just pen,” I say. “I’ve always drawn it.”
“Does it mean something?”
“Triangles are the strongest shape,” I say. “They can withstand pressure on all sides.” I turn my wrist away so he can’t see it. “I think my mom used to tell me that, but I can’t remember.” Too bad it didn’t work for her—she was never strong enough to say no to the men who pursued her. Just like Mia isn’t strong enough either. But this symbol reminds me that I can be different.
“Do you need to be strong?”
“We all do...at some point,” I answer. Like right now, I think. I need to remember my promise to myself. My future is already mapped out; I have a plan. And it doesn’t involve Tate or the hundred butterflies quivering inside my stomach.
He exhales, loud enough that I can hear. “Do you draw other things, too?”
“Sometimes.” All the time. I’ve always loved drawing and painting—when I was little I thought I’d be an artist when I grew up. But then I learned that most artists are not actually paid to be artists. Even Van Gogh and Monet weren’t recognized in their time. So I came up with a more practical plan. Straight As, internship, Stanford, top med school, residency, job. But I don’t tell Tate this.
“I wish I could do that: draw or paint, create something out of nothing,” he says, leaning back on his elbows and tilting his head up to the sky.
“You make music,” I say. “That’s way more impressive than some doodles.”