He opens the passenger door for me and I touch the roof of the car, about to slip inside, when I notice a group of girls sauntering down the alley, their short, glittery dresses shifting across their thighs, their heels dangerously tall. I glance down and I’m struck suddenly by the averageness of my own appearance: my plain jean shorts, my dirty navy-blue ballet flats and my brown hair pulled up into a ponytail.
I’m ordinary. I am not those girls. I’m not the Jenna Sanchezes or Sophie Zineses of the world, commanding attention wherever I go. And even though I am completely aware that sequined dresses and heels do not make these girls any better than me, something inside me feels envious seeing them: the kind of girl I imagine Tate should be with.
And I suddenly wish I had a wardrobe full of dresses, slinky black tops, and designer heels I could wear on dates like this. But I don’t. And somehow Tate is with me anyway.
“Everything okay?” Tate asks beside me.
“Sure,” I answer, sliding into the car. I was staring too long and Tate noticed.
There is silence as we drive—not an uneasy silence, but the kind that feels like we’re both waiting for something. Once again, I can’t believe I’m here. Not just because he’s Tate Collins. I can’t believe I’m on a date, that despite everything I’ve done to build a life that guys like Tate have no part of, I don’t want today to end. It’s like my insides are at war—wanting to stay away and urging me closer.
I tell Tate to park a block away from my house. I don’t want Grandma or Mia to notice me stepping out of a car like this. The bouquet of flowers was one thing, but Tate Collins driving me home would be much harder to lie about.
Tate steps out onto the curb. I notice his gaze sweeping over the surrounding houses and apartment buildings: balconies cluttered with BBQs and plastic chairs and bicycles, my neighbor’s Buick that hasn’t moved in years, rusting where it sits. A boy is dribbling a basketball up the sidewalk, making occasional karate-type moves with his arms. He doesn’t even notice us.
“How long have you lived here?” Tate asks. I wish there was a way to gloss over what he sees, tell him it’s usually not this bad, or that we’re only just living here temporarily. But that won’t fix the truth—that this is my home.
“Most of my life,” I say. “My sister and I moved in with my grandma when we were pretty young.”
“Older sister or younger?”
“Older.”
“Is she as smart as you?”
“Yes and no.”
He smiles, sensing there’s a longer story there.
“Thank you for the movie,” I say again.
“I’m glad you liked it, but also hated it.”
I smile up at him. “I didn’t hate it,” I argue. “It was just the ending I didn’t agree with.”
“You’re a romantic, then?” he asks.
“Only recently,” I say and feel myself blush.
We stand only a few inches apart, the air between us so still that I feel light-headed for a moment. Being this close reminds me of the way his mouth felt on mine last night, how he pressed his body against me, bare-chested, the heat from the fireplace making my skin thrum.
I take an unconscious step toward him, closing the distance between us to the merest inch. I want to feel him again, the taste of his mouth, hot and cold all at once. I stop breathing.
His fingers touch my waist, pressing into my hip bone. But he doesn’t draw me nearer, just pushes gently against me, stopping me. He blinks, then refocuses.
“We’re taking it slow, remember?” he says.
His eyes shift from my lips up to my eyes and I nearly laugh. I’ve spent my life avoiding guys—guys like Tate, especially. I thought they’d only want one thing from me and now here he is, telling me to slow down.
“Right,” I say, forcing my body to straighten.
I should be glad that he wants to go slow. I shouldn’t want anything more. And yet...
“Good night, Charlotte Reed,” he says, releasing his fingers where they have lingered against my hip.
“Good night, Tate Collins,” I answer, my voice much softer than his, and I take a step away, up the sidewalk.
I can hear the low hum of the Tesla idling behind me, but I don’t look back. I refuse to be the girl who looks back. But I know his eyes watch me until I disappear around the corner.
And I can still feel his eyes on me long after I’ve buried myself between the cool sheets of my bed, pulling a pillow over my face and replaying the way his fingers swept deftly across my hip, keeping me from moving any closer, from touching him, from kissing him.
And I fall asleep dreaming about his hands.
TEN
MY PHONE IS VIBRATING ON the bedside table. I roll over just in time to see it fall from the edge onto the floor, still buzzing.
I reach down and pick it up.
I slept in. It’s nearly ten a.m.
There’s a missed call from Carlos, a voice mail, probably asking me what time I can meet up to study today. And there’s a text from Tate.
Immediately, I open the text: I want you to see what I see.
I read it again, then twice more. I drop the phone onto the pale yellow comforter I’ve kicked off me and brush my hair back from my eyes. What does he mean? I think about responding with a question mark, but my phone vibrates again.
Tate: I’m outside.