I hand her back the phone and cross my arms. “I’m...seeing him.” It’s actually a relief to say—a sequence of words I’ve never said before in my entire life. Admitting it feels like stepping off a cliff, taking a leap, but once you’ve done it, you realize you can fly, and the weightlessness is incredible.
“Like, you’re dating him? You’re dating Tate Collins?” It occurs to me how many people refer to Tate by his full name—like he’s a larger-than-life entity, not a living, breathing person, flaws and all. Maybe that’s why he hung around me in the beginning; to me, he was just Tate, and that was a novelty.
Mia’s temples twitch and her brow wrinkles. I can’t tell if she’s mad I didn’t tell her sooner, or if she’s jealous. I’ve never had anything for her to be jealous of before, at least not in the boy department. Sure, sometimes I think she wishes she still had her freedom—wishes she could go out on a Saturday night without needing a babysitter. But I never had my freedom either. Not really. I was bound by a promise I made, a predetermined life that didn’t involve boys. Didn’t involve Tate. But now I find myself tumbling faster and faster into a different life. And I don’t want to turn back.
“Yes,” I answer plainly. “I’m dating him.”
She slips her cell phone into her sweatshirt pocket. “I should’ve known the new hair wasn’t really a gift from Carlos. Are you going to tell me how you met a world-famous pop star in the first place? And how he asked you out?”
I sigh. “He came into the flower shop one night. And then...it all just happened. I didn’t plan any of it.”
“Grandma is going to be furious. This will destroy her.”
I step quickly toward her. “You can’t say anything, promise me. Grandma can’t know.”
Mia slides her jaw side to side, then clamps it back in place. “And why should I keep your secret?”
“Because I’ve covered for you plenty of times,” I say. I can’t believe how difficult she’s being. I guess she liked it better when I was the boring sister who didn’t have a life. “I watched Leo for you last month so you could go meet up with some guy after you told Grandma you were going to a job interview. And remember the night you came into my room at one a.m. and asked me to sleep in your bed next to Leo’s crib so you could sneak out to see that guy you met—the married guy? I didn’t get any sleep that night and I had a final the next day. And—”
“Fine,” she snaps, cutting me off before I can continue listing all the times I’ve saved her ass. Not that I ever did it for her, exactly. I did it for Leo. “But when Grandma does find out,” she adds, “I’ll deny ever knowing anything. I won’t have her pissed at me, too.”
I brush my fingers back through my hair. “Okay,” I say, cringing at the idea of Grandma ever finding out about Tate.
Mia moves absently to my dresser, touching the assortment of books and lip balm and pens scattered across the top. “I can’t believe Perfect Charlotte has finally broken one of her own rules,” she says, and I can’t tell if it’s concern or satisfaction in her voice, or some complicated mixture of both. “And with Tate Collins, no less.” Her mouth tugs to one side. “Have you slept with him yet?”
“No,” I retort. “Of course not. Not that it’s actually any of your business.”
“You’re right. It’s your life, Charlotte,” she says, and now she just sounds weary. “You can mess it up if you want to.”
“I’m not messing anything up, Mi. I’m just...living.”
“I’ve said that very same thing before,” she says, walking to the doorway. I can hear Grandma out in the kitchen, starting a pot of coffee. “Just be careful.”
Once she’s gone, I grab my cell phone from the bedside table. There are photos of us online, I type to Tate, then hit SEND.
*
An hour later, I’m standing in front of my closet, trying to decide what to wear to school, my mind stuck cycling through the paparazzi images of Tate and me. Will anyone else figure out it’s me? Will Grandma somehow see the photos?
I pull out the large shopping bag of brand-new clothes tucked in the back of my closet. I really want to wear one of my new outfits—I want to feel even an ounce as confident as I did on Saturday. But I also don’t want to draw any more attention to myself.
Then my phone dings from the bed and I grab it quickly, hoping it’s from Tate. And it is. Saw the photos, it reads, in reply to my earlier text. Are you okay?
Fine. My sis figured out it’s me. But so far that’s it. Are you okay?
I’m only worried about you.
I really want to talk to him, hear his voice, but I can’t risk Grandma overhearing.
Another text chimes through. My publicist says the media doesn’t know who you are. They’re just calling you the Mystery Girl. My team is working to keep it that way.
Thanks, I reply. His team. He has a team, the “people” he’d spoken of early on. Yet another reminder of the vast differences between us. I shake my head and check the time on my phone. I have to get dressed or I’m going to be late. Heading to school. Can we talk later?