Of course. And then: Going crazy without you already.
I opt for basic jeans and a T-shirt. I’m not yet sure what I’m going to face at school; better to blend in, act like nothing’s changed.
But as I weave through the hall, the weight of Monday morning is evident on everyone’s faces. Nobody knows, I tell myself. How could they? Sure, there are photos of Tate Collins and some mystery girl now circulating every online forum and blog and social website, but the face of the girl was obscured, a blurry wash of makeup and dirty-blond hair. Only my sister would make the connection.
But then a tall figure eases in beside me, blocking my slanted view of the hallway from my locker. “Hiding won’t help anything.”
I lift my head and Carlos is staring down at me, his eyebrows forming a perfect arc across his forehead. But he’s not looking at me with sympathetic eyes. He’s mad at me. He knows.
“Carlos,” I begin. But he lifts his right palm in front of my face—long, elegant fingers, the swooping lines across his palm that tell his fortune: three kids, loads of money, and a life that will stretch to at least ninety years old. We once had our palms read in Venice by a woman who smelled like onions. She said my fate line split in two—not necessarily a good thing—and that I had two possible choices, two life paths I could take. I had forgotten about that moment until now, with Carlos’s palm hovering in front of my face.
“Should I ask the obvious question, or do you want to just go ahead and spill everything?” he asks, dropping his palm and shoving both hands into the pockets of his gray slacks. His button-up shirt is navy blue with the eggshell buttons fastened all the way to the top so the collar presses tightly against his throat.
“I didn’t want to keep this from you,” I start.
“But you did.”
“I know. I just didn’t want anyone to know...not yet.”
“I’m not anyone, I’m your best friend.”
“I’m so sorry.” Looking up into Carlos’s eyes, my heart feels like it’s being crushed and all the life squeezed out of it. “I was going to tell you.”
“When? If those photos hadn’t been taken, if I hadn’t noticed a strikingly unique turquoise ring on the left hand of the mysterious blond-haired girl walking beside Tate Collins, and then found you looking suddenly very blond this morning, when exactly would you have told me?”
I swallow—he’s obviously really, really mad. “Soon,” I tell him, trying to sound convincing. “I was just...waiting for the right moment.”
He blows out a breath through his nostrils, not buying it. “And Tate Collins?” His finger taps against the open locker door. “Mind explaining how that happened?”
“He came into the flower shop,” I say, echoing what I told Mia this morning. “Then he sent me those roses.”
“Tate Collins is Mr. Gorgeous and Mysterious?” His mouth falls open, eyes equally as shocked.
“Yeah.” It really starts to sink in how long I’ve been keeping this from him—since the beginning. And I can see it registering in Carlos’s face as well. I’ve been a terrible friend. “I turned him down several times. I tried to make him go away,” I say, as if this explains my lack of honesty with him. If Tate had just vanished after that first night, there would be nothing to tell—nothing to hide. “But he just kept coming back. Finally I went on a date with him, and that’s when I realized who he was.”
“You didn’t know he was Tate Collins?”
“You know I’m not good at that sort of thing.”
“But he’s... Tate Collins!”
“Trust me, I already feel like a colossal loser for not realizing it sooner.”
“And how exactly did you end up leaving Il Cielo wearing a stunning red dress and your hair looking like that on Saturday night?” His eyes sweep dramatically over my new hair color.
“Tate took me shopping. And to Q, the hair salon in Beverly Hills,” I admit.
“He took you to see Steven Salazar?!”
I nod and watch as a smile breaks across Carlos’s unwilling lips. Of course he knows where all the famous people go to get their hair done. He probably even watches Steven’s reality TV show.
“I think I might be more hurt that you didn’t text me immediately and ask me to come join you at Steven’s salon than I am about you keeping Tate Collins a secret.”
“It was stupid not to tell you,” I say, hoping my voice sounds as regretful as I feel. “It just all happened so fast, I barely had time to take a breath.”
“Your shopping and beautifying day happened fast, or your romance with Tate?”
“Both.”
Carlos’s expression softens and he drops his hand from the locker door. “I love you, and I can’t stay mad at you.” Then his eyebrows lift. “But you better not keep a single detail from me from now on. I want to know everything. Spare nothing.”