IT’S WEDNESDAY NIGHT AND I’M sitting cross-legged on my bedroom floor, a textbook in one hand, Leo cradled in the other. Mia needed to take a shower and I offered to watch him. But I’m also cramming for a test tomorrow in AP History.
I tap my highlighter against the top of the textbook and look down at Leo, who is chewing happily on a teething ring that’s shaped like a set of brightly colored car keys.
It’s been over three weeks since that night. Three weeks since I let Tate humiliate me. Again.
And I still can’t shake the memory.
School has been mind-numbing: a frenzy of papers and prep for exams. Work is a series of inconsequential days, each the same as the last, with no sign of Tate. I’ve buried myself in homework, put in extra hours at my internship—anything to keep me from thinking about him. I keep expecting to see him step through the door at work, or for another bouquet of flowers to arrive at school, but they never come. Holly, of course, was dying to know what happened after I left the shop that night with Tate. I was right the first time, I told her the next day when I came into work. It was a mistake to give him another chance. He’s a total jerk. She pulled me into a hug and told me she was proud of me for taking the risk. And that I shouldn’t let this one encounter with Tate ruin my perspective on love. But it’s too late for that.
I tell myself I should be happy it’s over. It’s what I said I wanted. And yet, I can’t stop thinking about him. And I hate it.
I hear the front door close and I know Grandma is home from work. She finds me in the bedroom, and as soon as Leo spots her, his pudgy arms lift in the air for her to pick him up. Sometimes I think she’s his favorite. But just wait until he’s older, when I can take him out for milk shakes and to the beach to make sand castles. Then I’ll be the cool aunt, and Mia and Grandma won’t be able to compete.
“How’s the studying going?” Grandma asks, bending down to scoop up Leo. His cheeks pull into a smile as she lifts him high into the air, then rocks him in her arms.
“I think I’ve been staring at the same page for the last hour.”
She gives a soft murmur of understanding. “You’ve seemed distracted these last few weeks.”
“I know,” I admit. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” Even though I do—I know precisely what’s wrong. My head will not let go of him.
“I can watch Leo, give you some time to focus,” she offers, walking back to the doorway, Leo clinging to her hip, the collar of her shirt already in his mouth.
“Thanks,” I say, smiling up at her. But it’s not Leo who’s been distracting me. It’s someone else. Someone I wish I could forget. But the more days that pass, the harder it is. Like my brain is revolting against me—and it’s getting worse instead of better.
Grandma pauses in the door, rocking Leo in her arms, and turns around to face me. “You’ve worked so hard, Charlotte,” she says unexpectedly, her face serious. “And I’ve never known you to let anything distract you from accomplishing your goals. I know how much is on your plate, with school and work, the internship and Stanford. I want you to know how proud I am of you for always keeping your future a priority. Whatever is occupying your mind these days...” She sighs. “Just remember, today’s problems are temporary. Next year at this time, you’ll be blazing your own path.”
I nod. But after she’s gone, I close my textbook and lean my head back against the end of my bed. I can’t keep feeling like this. I can’t pretend everything’s fine.
I have to do something about it.
*
I’m driving too fast down Sunset, letting my foot press down on the gas pedal while my Volvo squeals with the increased speed.
Last night, sitting in my room, unable to study because my mind kept slipping back to memories of Tate, I realized I wouldn’t be able to just forget. The night at his house keeps replaying over and over inside my head. And it isn’t going to stop until I know what really happened—why he kicked me out of his house once he knew I had never been kissed. Why did it matter so much? Why did he push me away? I crisscross up the streets of West Hollywood. I should be home studying. Instead, I’m about to do something I might regret.
I turn the radio up louder and roll down the window all the way, trying to drown out my thoughts, numb the painful anger that beats inside my chest. My hair whips out the window, a flurry of strands twisting and knotting together. I grip the steering wheel and press down harder on the gas. The song on the radio ends and a new one comes on; the thumping beat shakes the car doors. My throat tightens at the sound of the voice rising through the speakers.
“If you could still love me (if you could still love me).
“If you could see what you’ve done.
“I can’t sleep without you, the bed is too cold.”
The memory blooms inside me before I can tamp it down; the way his lips felt against my ear, humming this same song, whispering the lyrics as we drifted beneath an endless canopy of stars.
“My dreams are like nightmares.