Flower

He’s all I can think about. The day has been too perfect, the heated kisses against the wall of that shed, and then his gentle kiss between the rows of trees, his touch telling me what he seems unable to say with words.

I cross the room twice, pacing, touching the window, leaving icy fingerprints against the glass. The snow continues to fall, making half moons on the sills of the window outside.

The rational, disciplined side of my brain tells me that just being here with him, in his house, is enough. We need to take it slow. His words ring in my ears. But why doesn’t it feel like enough—why is his touch never enough? My heart thumps against my rib cage, battling my mind.

I want him. I don’t care if it’s reckless, if it goes against everything he’s said, everything my grandma and sister warned me about. I need him in this moment.

I flip open the top of my suitcase and dig through the clothes inside. I find what I’m looking for: a short, lacy white dress. Tate bought it for me that day at Barneys and I’ve never worn it, and certainly never thought I’d have reason to on this trip. But I packed it anyway—I packed nearly everything in my closet, worried I’d be unprepared.

I undress, leaving my clothes on the floor, and slip carefully into the delicate dress. The fabric is pure silk and drapes over my skin like something made of air.

I pull on the black robe I brought as well—another gift from Tate—and tie the silky band around my waist.

I’m really doing this.

I leave the bedroom and tiptoe across the hardwood floor, my heart battering chaotically in my chest, unable to find a steady rhythm.

Then something moves ahead of me in the dark.

I freeze, holding the robe against my chest—afraid it’s one of his parents, up to grab a glass of water or late-night snack. But then the movement comes into focus, padding down the hall toward me: Rocco. When he reaches me, he lifts his head and sniffs my leg. I run a hand over his furry head, rubbing one of his ears, and his tail wags, thumping once against the wall. Then he turns, satisfied that I’m not an intruder, and ambles back to rest beside the living room fire.

It’s cold tonight, and goose bumps begin to rise up on my bare legs.

I stop outside of Tate’s door, my heart now a drum in my chest. There is sound on the other side—a guitar, I realize, playing faintly from inside. I lift my fist, resting it against the grain of the wood. I knock, once, then twice, but only gently. The guitar doesn’t stop playing and Tate doesn’t come to the door. My mouth trembles as my fingers grip the doorknob, pushing the door open.

Inside, there is a lamp switched on against one corner, a chair resting beside it. On the walls I can faintly make out posters: Led Zeppelin, Jimi Hendrix, and Michael Jackson. Several skateboards are lined up beneath the large bay window and on the dresser against the opposite wall are stacks of vinyl albums next to an old record player. Everything is organized and tidy—preserved by his mom after all these years.

And sitting at the end of the bed is Tate, a guitar held to his chest, bulky headphones over his ears, and a notebook spread open beside him. He’s humming, staring out the window at the snow swirling against the glass, and strumming his guitar so effortlessly it’s like the notes just stream from his fingers. I recognize the melody: It’s the same one he hummed in my ear on the plane.

And then he stops, his palm pressed against the strings to make the sound abruptly end. He turns and catches me standing in his doorway.

“Charlotte? Are you all right?” He sets his headphones on the bed.

“You were writing music,” I say foolishly, stepping farther into his room. “You haven’t done that in a while.”

He looks at the guitar, then the window, then back at me. The glow from the lamp sends lazy shadows across the walls of his room, bleeding out of the darkness.

“I was feeling inspired.” His eyes are on me now, the familiar look of wanting etched in his gaze, the iron control that always seems so close to cracking. “Did I wake you up?” he asks, standing from the bed. “Was I too loud?”

“No.” I shake my head, steeling myself. Electricity dances and pops across my skin. “I wanted to see you.”

His eyes settle, lowered on some part of me, but my focus has blurred slightly, the whole room swimming.

“I’ve waited long enough,” I hear myself say. I take another step closer. He is within arm’s reach, but I don’t touch him. Instead, my fingers unravel the silky band around my robe, letting it slip open to reveal the white dress underneath. I’m not shaking anymore—I’m in control now.

He won’t stop me this time. He wants me, too—I know he does, I can see it in his eyes, dipping low to follow the thin fabric of the dress clinging to the form of my body. He exhales, like he’s trying to steady his thoughts. I touch one shoulder of the robe, letting it glide down my arms onto the floor. Tate’s mouth opens like he’s going to speak, but nothing comes out.

Shea Olsen's books