“Your hands are still on me...”
I slam my palm against the radio dial, shutting off the music in one swift motion. I make a quick right at the next intersection, turning away from home, away from the sane, rational girl who should be studying for exams tonight, finalizing my Stanford application, reading ahead in English. Instead, I follow the path we took that night, when the city lights spun and danced outside my tinted window, when Tate led us deep into the hills.
The route is easy to trace, as if my hands alone know the way, steering the car around sharp bends and up steep slopes until I reach the gate. But I don’t have a clicker to let me in. I roll down my window and peer at the tiny blinking security light.
“Who is it?” Hank’s voice comes suddenly from the speaker, surprising me, and I jump in my seat.
“Um...it’s me. Charlotte. We...we met a few weeks ago.” I have no idea why Hank would let me in. This was a stupid idea.
But then, after a pause, Hank surprises me: “Come on through.”
My hands start to twitch on the steering wheel, tapping nervously. The gate opens and I accelerate, circling down into the driveway in front of Tate’s house. I park and suck in a deep breath, finally walking up the steps. The massive front door swings open and Hank’s hulking shadow takes up nearly the entire entryway.
“How can I help you, Charlotte?” he asks, looking past me to my dilapidated car.
“I need to see Tate.” My voice comes out firm.
I hate the pity in his eyes when they return to mine. “Is he expecting you?”
I shift on the steps, looking past him into the house. The fireplace in the living room burns low, but I can’t see anyone moving in the darkness.
“Is he here?” I ask.
Hank steps forward, his voice lowering. “I’m not supposed to say.” His eyes cut back into the house for a moment, then to me. “But to be honest, he hasn’t been himself these last few weeks. It might be good for him to see you.” And then he pushes the door open wide behind him, stepping out of the way so I can walk past.
I blink up at him, shocked he’s going to just let me inside, and I take several tentative steps into the hallway. I hear Hank leave and close the door behind him.
I’m alone in Tate’s house.
Then, from the darkness, I hear footsteps. Tate emerges from the hallway to my right, wearing only a pair of jeans, his chest bare, illuminated in the flickering light. My breath catches at the sight of him. His skin seems darker in the glow from the fire, tanned by the sun.
I want to scream at him, tell him he’s an asshole, that he had no right to treat me the way he did. I want to make him feel terrible, even though some traitorous part of me hopes there’s an explanation, a reason for everything he said that night. But before I can form the words, he asks the first question. “What are you doing here?”
“I—” My hands shake, and I realize I’m nervous. I didn’t come here with an exact plan. He squints at me, like he’s trying to see me better in the dim light. Like maybe the reason is written in the lines of my face.
But then I find the words I know I need to ask. “Why did you make me leave that night?”
He turns away to face the fire, where the flames pop and spark.
“Is it because I’ve never been kissed before? You think I’m too innocent, too boring for you?” I press. I hate the way my voice sounds, but I have to know. “I just need to hear you say it.”
“No,” he says, flashing me a look across his shoulder.
“Then what?” I say, taking a step closer. “After everything you did to get me here, why did you push me away?”
He turns to face me fully. “I’m not right for you,” he says, as if that explains anything.
I laugh—a cold hard laugh. “Excuse me? You obviously didn’t think that three weeks ago, when you wouldn’t leave me alone.” I move closer to him, the heat from the fire intensifying. I want to understand.
“I’ll just end up hurting you.”
“What does that even mean?” I ask, my voice gaining volume, but his expression falls, his eyes sliding back to the fire. “You think I’m weak? Just because I’ve never been kissed? It’s actually a lot harder not to do that kind of stuff than it is to do it, I’ll have you—”
“That’s not it,” he cuts me off. His eyes seem suddenly tired as he faces me again.
“Because I’m not weak. And I can make my own decisions about what’s right for me,” I say. I’m surprised by my own conviction. Especially because I’m not sure what I want. Did I come here to tell him off? Or to tell him he’s making a mistake? I don’t even know anymore.