“Make that face. When you’re unhappy about something, your nose scrunches up. I like it.”
“Tate.” Annoyed he isn’t taking me seriously, I open the door on my side and step out onto the sidewalk. I try to keep my face somber, to be clear that he can’t push me around, but when I glance back, his mouth lifts fully into one of his rare grins, and I can’t help but smile back.
He climbs out of the car after me, touches my arm, holding it by the wrist, then brings it up to his lips. He kisses the triangle ink mark on the inside of my left wrist, his eyes trained on mine the entire time.
“Fine. Keep your job, but I still want to see you, and if that means I have to buy out the Bloom Room’s entire inventory of flowers every week and send them to various hospitals, then that’s what I’ll do.”
I shake my head. “Good night, Tate. Thank you for another amazing day.”
“Good night, Charlotte. I’m glad you enjoyed it.”
I walk backward for several steps, Tate watching me, then I turn and hurry the rest of the way up the sidewalk.
When I reach the front door, I hide the bags behind a large empty flowerpot, then sneak inside to make sure the coast is clear. I find Mia in the living room, half dozing, half watching TV with Leo in her lap, asleep. Grandma’s bedroom door is shut, the light just peeking through the crack at the bottom. Seizing my opportunity, I sneak the bags into my room, avoiding Mia’s eyes. She’s probably not happy with me, since I didn’t come home in time to watch Leo so she could go on her date with Greg. But I had a date of my own to worry about, and Leo, much as I adore him, is not my responsibility.
I take one final look in the mirror over my dresser, seeing the glamorous stranger reflected there. Then I wipe my face with a Kleenex, watching the beautiful makeup turn to a smear of creams and grays on the tissue. I stuff the shopping bags into the back of my tiny closet, afraid to hang the clothes on hangers in case anyone sees.
Just before bed, Grandma pushes open my partially closed door to say good night and stops at the sight of my hair. I lie—another lie. I tell her Carlos took me to get it cut and colored, that it was a belated birthday present, that he wanted me to have a brand-new style for the holidays.
She’s standing in her white cotton pajamas, the ones she’s had for years, the ones she irons each night before bed. Her auburn hair is in a braid down her back. She looks tired and there’s also something else: worry, concern, mistrust maybe, playing on the features of her face.
“It looks beautiful,” she finally tells me. And I try to ignore the surge of guilt. In all the years I’ve lived with my grandmother, I’ve never had to lie to her until now—until Tate.
After she has gone to bed, I slip between the sheets and call Carlos. I apologize for skipping out on our study date, but I don’t say anything about the day with Tate—I’m not ready to dissect every detail, to share every moment we’ve spent together. A part of me likes having a secret, something that’s mine, and mine alone.
He’s the only thing in my boring, responsible life that belongs just to me.
ELEVEN
MIA BURSTS INTO MY ROOM, the glow of her cell phone hovering over my face as I blink awake.
“What the hell is this?” she demands.
I rub my eyes, trying to focus, my gaze moving to the clock on the bedside table—it’s not quite six a.m. And just as my eyes adjust to the glare of her cell phone, the picture on the screen suddenly registers in my brain. I jolt out of bed, grabbing the phone from her hand.
I stare down at the image—at the photo of Tate. And walking beside him is me. It’s from our dinner two nights ago. The photos I didn’t think anyone would be interested in seeing.
“Wanna tell me what’s going on?” Mia asks. But I don’t answer her. I swipe through a series of four more images on the gossip site. But it’s not as bad as I feared: Tate’s hand is blocking most of my face. “I know you think I’m an idiot, Charlotte,” Mia continues to say, “but you have to realize that I know my own sister when I see her. And you’re wearing Mom’s ring. I can see it in that one.” She points a finger at the image on the screen, and there, on my left hand, lifted in the air to block the camera flash, is Mom’s turquoise ring. There’s no mistaking it.
Crap. I swallow down the sickening feeling that rises up inside my gut. The ring. I won’t be able to talk my way out of this one. “You’re right,” I admit, exhaling deeply. “It’s me. I was with him on Saturday.”
Her sharp green irises seem to swell and expand, like she’s seeing me for the first time. “What the hell were you doing with Tate Collins?”