I force my eyelids closed, my body now splayed out across the top of the sheet. But my brain won’t stop cycling through memories of Tate. I can still taste his lips, his mouth on mine, the rush of his hands, the murmur of his voice as he sang his song against my ear.
Do you want to take a chance? he asked earlier tonight, standing in front of me right after we kissed. I have to have control over everything. It’s the only way this will work. The only way I can protect you. His words keep replaying in my head. But why does he need control? What is he so afraid of? And why is he so certain I’m going to get hurt?
I roll over in bed, cramming my face against my pillow, trying to suffocate my own thoughts so I can get some sleep.
I need you to trust me, he said. And I want to—desperately, I want to trust him. But I’m not sure how. I’ve never been with anyone before—I have nothing to compare this to. Yet I’m certain no one Carlos has ever dated needed this much control over their relationship.
I know Tate’s different. He’s famous and wealthy and lives a life I probably can’t even imagine. But Tate made it sound like he was actually worried something might happen to me—like dating him might somehow destroy my life.
I flip onto my back, eyes wide open, staring up at the white-spackled ceiling. I don’t need his protection. Just like I told him tonight: I’m capable of making my own decisions.
And my own mistakes.
If this is what I want, then what am I so afraid of? If he needs control—fine. If he wants to decide how this relationship is going to work—who cares? If he wants to tell me how far is too far when it comes to being together—it’s worth it.
This is my life. And if I want him, then I deserve to have him. I don’t care about the stipulations. Or the fine print.
I roll over in bed and reach for my cell phone: 3:10 a.m. I cycle through my calls and find the number from the night at the flower shop, when he was waiting for me outside. It rings only once when he picks up, his voice deep.
“Charlotte?”
“Okay,” I say into the phone. My body is still keyed up, trembling from the sweat now cooling across my skin. “We’ll try this your way.”
I exhale as silence slips between us. I can hear his breathing on the other end, so clear that if I close my eyes, I could almost imagine him here in my room with me. “I’ve been thinking about you all night,” he says finally. “I haven’t been able to sleep.” That explains why he answered on the first ring. “I’m glad you changed your mind.” There is a smile in his voice, and that’s when I know I’ve made the right choice.
I don’t care anymore.
I don’t care about limits or boundaries.
I don’t care about sticking to my rules.
I just want him.
NINE
“WHAT HAPPENED TO YOU?” CARLOS asks, planting his elbow against the metal locker next to ours.
The memory of last night still hums inside my head: the 3 a.m. phone call to Tate, my skin ablaze from the humid night air. I suppress a smile so Carlos won’t see. I’m not ready to tell him about Tate. Maybe a part of me is worried what he’ll say—that even for all his teasing, he might actually be disappointed in me for going against my own no-dating policy. And then there’s the fact that I’m dating Tate Collins. And I don’t really want this information getting out—if I thought the spectacle of the flower delivery in the middle of class was embarrassing, I can only imagine the kind of attention I’d get if our relationship was public knowledge. So for now, for today, I’m not going to say anything. As much as I don’t like keeping it from Carlos, I’m keeping Tate’s words in mind and taking it slow.
“What do you mean?” I ask, dropping my backpack inside the locker.
“You’re glowing.”
“No, I’m not.” But I touch my cheeks with my fingertips, as if I could wipe it away. I pull out my first-period history book—the brown paper cover filled from edge to edge with sketches of exotic flowers and dancing figures I’ve drawn during Mr. Trenton’s more boring history lectures.
“You are,” Carlos says, dropping his elbow and leaning in close. “I know you—you’re glowing. Which is an improvement considering how mopey you’ve been for the last three weeks.”
Amy Rogers shimmies in beside Carlos, trying to get to her locker, but Carlos doesn’t budge, waiting for me to respond before he’ll move.
I scowl at him. “I haven’t been mopey.” The words sound lame even to me. “I’m just glad it’s Friday,” I say, as if the approaching weekend explains my radiant complexion.
Carlos seems to believe me. “Well, I’m glad the old Charlotte is back. And I’m also in desperate need of a weekend. Mrs. Duncan clobbered us with homework in calc and I’m thinking of setting fire to my textbook in protest.”
“I’m sure staging a demonstration will be a very effective solution,” I answer, smiling up at him.
“Glad you agree. I’ve also decided to binge on Netflix tomorrow to forget all my woes.”