I tighten my grip around the phone and my hands begin to shake, a twinge of pain lancing into the back of my skull.
He’s out at some club—right now—partying with other girls. And then the truth starts to settle into my gut: He didn’t want me at the concert. It wasn’t a mistake that I couldn’t get in—that I wasn’t on the list—he didn’t want me there. He doesn’t want me with him now; that’s why he didn’t come home after the concert. He doesn’t want me.
I can’t stay here. I won’t let him find me here in his room, waiting for him like some obsessed girlfriend who can’t take a hint. No different than Ella St. John after all. My fingernails dig into my palm, and I climb shakily to my feet, clicking off my phone and shoving it into my pocket. I think back to Tate’s face at the airport, his expression when I told him I would defer college—that I wanted to go on tour with him. That I loved him. The blank mask descending over his face, the eyes that could barely meet mine.
My head begins to ache. I let him make a fool out of me. Again. I’m so stupid. So, so stupid.
I hurry down the stairs and out the front door, desperate to get away, suddenly certain he’s going to bring those girls back here—and that I’ll be colossally, unbelievably embarrassed.
Well, I won’t let him have that satisfaction, at least. My eyes blur even though I try to hold back the tears. My car sways ahead of me, out of focus in the unrelenting rain. I press my palms to the hood when I reach it, bracing myself—for a moment, it’s the only thing holding me up.
I swerve around to the driver’s side door, wiping tears away with my forearm. I wish I wasn’t in heels, I wish I hadn’t dressed up for him. In an outfit he bought me that day at Barneys, no less. I hate him for making me give a shit. I hate him for making me fall in love with him. For making me just as much a fool as every other girl in my family. For making me break the promises I made myself, all those years ago.
The tears dull my vision and I reach for the door handle when I hear something behind me. Nothing distinct—the shuffling of feet, a low inhalation. I pause and turn around—my blood frozen in my veins, my mouth caught half open.
Standing a few feet back, just beyond the ring of light spreading out from the porch, is a figure, a dim silhouette. It could almost be imagined: conjured up from the mounting fear that scrabbles down my spine, dancing down every nerve and making the muscles in my body tense. I brush at my eyes again, trying to clear away the tears, to focus through the rain—to separate the figure from the surrounding branches.
And then the outline takes a step forward, and I know it’s real.
My heartbeat rises. “Tate?” I ask in an exhale, hating myself for the desperation in my voice, the hope that rises in my heart.
The silhouette takes several more quick steps forward. And I know in an instant that it’s not Tate. The figure is narrower, slighter. It moves closer, crossing the driveway, and finally steps into the muted light from the front porch.
I recognize the face.
It’s the girl from the bathrooms. Same short black hair, freckles, and snow-white skin. She’s wearing a black hooded sweatshirt and black jeans: dressed to be concealed, hidden in the darkness.
“What are you doing?” I ask, words that seem insufficient.
She doesn’t respond.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” I say again, reaching back behind me for the door handle of my car—but it’s locked.
“I followed you,” she answers.
A sharp stab of fear edges its way along my thoughts. My eyes flick to my car door; how fast can I get to my keys?
“Don’t,” she says, sensing what I’m thinking. And I turn my gaze back to her. The rain lightens just barely, and I can see her better in the gloom, the way her eyes stare unblinking.
“Why are you following me?” I ask, stalling as I slowly reach inside my purse.
“I tried to warn you.” Her arms are stiff at her sides and her left palm begins to run along the fabric of her black jeans. “But then I saw you at the concert, trying to get backstage.” Her eyes never leave mine. “You’re not going to stay away from him. I see that now.”
“You’re wrong,” I say, my voice shaking. “Tate and I are done. We’re over.”
“Liar,” she spits, sucking in a breath.
“It’s not a lie.” My left hand searches for my keys inside my purse, but I can’t locate them.
Her eyes narrow. “I’ve loved him longer than you have. Longer than anyone. I saw his very first concert in LA when I was fourteen. I was in the front row and he touched my hand, looked into my eyes like he was really seeing me. Like no one’s ever looked at me before. And I knew he and I were meant for each other. It’s just a matter of time; eventually, we’ll meet again, and he’ll know I’m the one.”