Her shoulders sag, and where before there was anger on her face, now there’s only weariness. “I’m not so certain you do.”
I feel a pang of guilt as I open the door and step outside with my suitcase. She doesn’t hug me good-bye, doesn’t offer any other parting words. I’m going, and there’s nothing she can do about it. This is my life, I remind myself. And I close the door behind me.
Tate sent a limousine to pick me up and bring me to the airport, and the sleek, shining car stands out starkly in our dingy street. Kids point and stare as I quickly dart toward the limo and get inside. These same kids made snow forts and snow angels in our yard before everything melted. We’re definitely the most popular house on the block these days.
But once we start driving, my worries fall away. The day is mild and warm and I roll down the window, letting my hand make swooping waves in the air as we drive.
I think the driver is taking me to LAX, but instead we go north, eventually pulling into an airport I didn’t even know existed. VAN NUYS AIRPORT, the gate reads as we drive through. The limousine drives right out onto the tarmac, where a white jet sits with the stairs already down and the door open.
My heart begins to thud as I climb the steps, glancing back at the limo and the driver as he hands my suitcase to another man, who carries it toward the plane—a private jet, I realize.
When I step inside the first thing I see is Tate, sitting in the far back on a cream-colored couch that stretches the entire length of one side of the plane. He’s wearing a plain gray T-shirt and jeans, effortlessly handsome. He stands as soon as he notices me.
“Hi,” I say almost shyly. I haven’t seen him in a few days, and I can’t take my eyes off him. He looks like the Tate Collins right now, the bad boy, the rock star every girl at my school would die to be able to utter a single word to. And I am standing across from him in his private jet.
“Hi,” he says back, dimple pulling inward. “I’ve missed you.”
“It’s only been a few days,” I say, trying not to seem too pleased. “I had to do Christmas early with Grandma and Mia and Leo.”
He walks across the space separating us and runs a hand down my hair. “I’m glad I got to meet them. But I’m even gladder to have you all to myself for the moment.”
It’s strange how desire can sneak up on you. I never knew what it was to feel this way, but when I’m with him, my body craves things my brain knows I shouldn’t. And with Tate’s breath so close to my lips, all I want to feel is his mouth on mine, for him to kiss me. But he shakes his head, as if shaking away the temptation, and drops his hand.
A woman steps out from a little room near the front of the plane. “I can take your coat and purse, if you want,” she offers with a gleaming smile. Her hair is fastened like a pinwheel at the back of her head, with a fake green-and-blue orchid clipped on the side. She’s pretty and tan and I wonder how many exotic locations she’s flown to in the last week.
“Thank you,” I say, handing her the coat draped over my arm—the winter coat I just bought, never needing one until this trip. Carlos helped me pick it out, dragging me to nearly every thrift store in town until we found a coat that looked hardly worn and was within my budget. Promise you’ll text me every day, he had insisted. And I agreed.
The flight attendant busies herself at the front of the plane, and Tate watches me as I look around.
The sofa is long and modern, and from a glass vase I assume is glued to the end table, purple roses bloom. I finger one of the tender petals, then smile up at him. Tate doesn’t miss a trick.
“So?” he asks, arching a brow.
It’s nothing like the planes I’ve seen in movies. And I’ve never flown anywhere before. I sink down on the leather couch and make a mental note not to eat or drink anything—knowing me, I’ll spill all over the place. “This is more than I was expecting,” I tell him.
Tate sits beside me, resting a foot on his opposite knee, totally at ease.
“It’s grotesquely large,” he admits. “You can say it.”
“Do you always fly like this?”
“Not always. But it’s easier. Less hassle.”
“Fewer fans and paparazzi, you mean.”
His expression turns rueful. “Yeah. That, too.”
“Are you excited to see your family?” I ask.
He leans forward, dropping his leg and resting his elbows on his knees. “It’s good I’m going home. It’s been a while.”
I notice that doesn’t exactly answer my question. He has a habit of avoiding topics that make him uncomfortable. “How long?” I ask him.
His shoulders lift. “A few years.”
“Are you serious? You haven’t seen your parents in years?”
“They haven’t exactly agreed with my lifestyle. With everything that’s happened. They don’t really understand.”
“But they must be proud of you—of everything you’ve accomplished.”