“I don’t know, Tate.” I’m still facing the window. “A year is a long time.” Especially when his life will be so extreme on tour—so many temptations, so many things to pull him back into his old habits. Will I be able to trust him? Could we survive a year long-distance—it seems almost impossible with so many forces working against us.
“It’ll be hard,” he admits. He touches my arm and turns my chin to face him. His mouth is warm, soft and reassuring as he tries to kiss away my doubt. I run my hands over his scalp, touching him, wanting to remember the way he feels, the way he tastes against my lips, the way his hands move easily across my shoulders and down my arms. He’s only just back and now our days are numbered again.
“We’ll still see each other,” he says. “Just not as often. You’ll have school breaks and weekends, and I’ll have the jet.” But my mind is already whirling forward, picturing the next year of my life without him: alone at Stanford—studying, sleepless—while he travels the world, girls sneaking backstage, wanting him, begging for him.
“What if we could be together?” I ask.
He leans back to study me. “Charlotte...what are you talking about?”
The idea had already been taking shape inside my mind, ever since I had stood up and walked out on my internship at the lab. Professor Webb had called and left me messages, but I hadn’t called him back. I hadn’t known what to say, how to explain that I have been living the wrong life. How to explain that the internship, the lab—it’s not what I want. “What if I didn’t go to Stanford,” I say.
“But you are going to Stanford.”
“What if I went with you on tour instead?” My voice rises. I don’t like the way it sounds, but I don’t care.
“You can’t give up school for me.”
“I wouldn’t be giving it up—I can defer it for a year. People do it all the time.”
His eyes slide away from me. “I can’t let you do that. You’ve worked too hard to get into Stanford.”
“It’s my decision,” I say, more sharply than I mean to. Are we back to this? Why does everyone in my life think they know what’s best for me? “I’m finally making decisions for myself,” I add. “I thought you would understand.”
“I do, but...” His gaze settles on some far-off point across the tarmac, and I feel my frustration hit the breaking point.
“Tate, I love you. I know that’s a loaded statement for you, and I understand why. But I want you to know how I feel, and why I know this is the right choice for me. For us.” I will him to look at me again, to see how serious I am. “I can’t just wait around for you to fit me into your schedule. It’s been hard enough doing that these past few weeks and trying to focus on school. Stanford will still be there next year, and I know what I want.”
“T,” Hank calls from the other side of the car. “It’s time.”
Tate nods and finally his eyes meet mine, so turbulent it’s like we’re back on the balcony on a rainy New York night. He opens his mouth, and for a minute I think he’s going to say everything I want to hear. “I have to go. I have sound check in a few hours and I need to get ready.”
I feel the hard twist of a knot forming in my stomach.
Then he sighs and closes his eyes briefly. Whatever I thought I’d seen is gone by the time he opens them again. “Tonight will be fun,” he tells me. “I promise. I’ll put you on the list to go backstage. At eight o’clock, go to the steel double doors near the south entrance—they’ll let you in.”
“And after?” I ask.
“We’ll go back to my house. We’ll talk. We can figure this out.” He’s saying everything right, but his eyes still look empty. I feel a chill move through me.
He kisses me on the lips, once and then again, lingering this time, and I watch him duck into the back of the SUV. Tate and Hank give me a ride back to the airport parking lot where my car is waiting. I hop out when we pull up next to my car, trying to ignore the sensation that everything is wrong between us. I watch the Escalade pull out of sight, trying to get myself excited for the concert tonight. My rock star boyfriend is bringing me backstage for his big comeback performance. What could be better? Nothing, I tell myself. And then I will my heart to listen.
TWENTY-TWO
THE BEDROOM DOOR CLOSES WITH a click behind me and I tiptoe the length of the hall until I reach the living room. Mia is on the couch, typing on her cell phone. Leo is sitting beside her, playing with a stuffed elephant that rattles every time he shakes it.
“I heard Tate’s back in town,” Mia says, catching me slinking through the kitchen. The media must already know he’s back, and Mia has already read about it on her favorite celebrity gossip sites.
The front doorknob is cool beneath my palm and I squeeze it—my escape.
“Yeah, he is,” I confirm. But I don’t mention that I just saw him, that I was there when he landed back in LA.
“You’re going to see him, aren’t you?” Mia asks, as if she could sense my intention just by looking at me. My black skinny jeans, white blouse, and black heels also don’t help.