Flower

by Shea Olsen

  We walk only a few steps before moving through a doorway into a building that smells faintly of dust and upholstery.

  Then the toe of my shoe meets with something hard.

  “Steps,” Tate says beside me.

  I lift my right foot, tentative at first, afraid I’m going to careen forward and land on my face. But Tate holds me firmly—one hand on the small of my back, the other laced through my fingers—as we move up a series of carpeted stairs.

  “Where are we?” I ask when we reach the top, my free hand extending forward to feel for anything that might give away our location. But my fingertips feel only open air. And Tate doesn’t answer. Instead, he leads me forward, then releases me completely. I feel unmoored, like I could fall at any second.

  “Tate?” I whisper again, reaching my fingers up to touch the blindfold covering my eyes, but he is suddenly beside me, his hands trailing up my arms, slowly, slowly. I hold in a breath, feeling his fingers glide up my neck to the back of my head, where he finally loosens the blindfold and it falls away.

  I have to blink to bring the dimmed expanse of the room into focus. It’s a theater, grand and ornate, with gold rimming the arched ceiling and red curtains draped all the way to the floor. We are on a second-floor balcony, overlooking scores of empty seats below and a massive screen at the front. There are ladders against one wall and cans of paint and white cloths spread out across the floor. The theater is under construction.

  “It’s called the Lumiere,” Tate says beside me. “Have you heard of it?”

  I shake my head, looking at him for the first time since he untied the blindfold. He looks almost anxious, like he’s hoping I’ll like the surprise. “It’s incredible,” I tell him.

  “It was one of the original theaters in Hollywood. It’s been open off and on over the years, mostly showing second-rate films. But they’re finally restoring it.”

  I walk toward the railing, touching the cool metal bar with my palms, and peer down at the first floor below. Some of the chairs are missing from the rows. “Are we supposed to be here?” I ask.

  Tate’s mouth softens into a smile. “I made arrangements.”

  I turn, noticing a small table set up beside two of the front-row chairs facing the railing. A fancy bottle of sparkling water, a massive bowl of popcorn, and little glass dishes with an assortment of colorful candies sit arranged on the white tablecloth.

  He leads me to the two chairs and we sit. Almost immediately, the lights begin to dim, controlled from somewhere I can’t see. All perfectly choreographed. I can’t believe I’m sitting here with him—Tate Collins—in a theater that’s not even open to the public. How does a person rent out a place like this? And how much did it cost him? But I wouldn’t ask any of these things. Instead I say, “What are we watching?”

  His left eyebrow lifts, a silent challenge. “You’ll see.”

  As if on cue, the massive movie screen flickers ahead of us, the pale light playing across Tate’s face. The black-and-white images take shape on the screen: a map of Africa, then it shifts to a grainy, distorted scene of a busy marketplace. The audio has that distant, echoed quality of an old movie. I smile, remembering our night at Lola’s—he’d been so surprised when I told him I’d never seen Casablanca. And now we’re about to watch it...together.

  In the darkness of the theater, I can feel Tate’s eyes on me. He seems so still, reclined back in his seat, his gaze palpable as he watches me during the first kissing scene between our hero, Humphrey Bogart, and his lost love, Ingrid Bergman, in a flashback in Paris—where they first fell in love. I wait for Tate to touch me, expect his hand to lift and cover mine where they’re folded in my lap. Once, I even think he’s going to brush my knee when he leans forward to pour me some water, but he never touches me, not once. He’s keeping his distance. Only his eyes have managed to slip across my skin.

  When the movie ends and the two lovers say their good-byes, the plane rising up into the dark horizon, the screen turns black and the lights against the theater walls illuminate once again. Tate turns in his seat. His eyes trail over my lips. “Did you like it?”

  I touch a finger to the armrest separating us, a divide that cannot be crossed. “It was wonderful,” I say, not sure how honest I should be when he’s arranged this incredible surprise.

  “But?” he asks. As usual, he hears what I’m not saying.

  “It was just so tragic.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “They don’t end up together. She leaves and then that’s it. It’s so sad.”

  “So you didn’t like it?” he asks. But far from looking disappointed as I feared, he actually seems intrigued.

  “No. I did. I loved it. It’s just not how I thought it would end. It didn’t seem right.” I feel awkward admitting it, but his eyes are amused.

  “It’s a classic love story,” he reminds me.

  “But I want them to end up together. That’s the point of a love story, isn’t it? Two lovers sacrificing everything just to be together.” I’ve never been a romantic, obviously, but even I loved Romeo & Juliet.

  “They did make sacrifices.” Tate pauses as if to choose his next words. “They gave each other up, even though they were in love. Sometimes life makes it impossible to be with the person you love.”

  I know this might be too bold, maybe I shouldn’t ask, but I’m curious. There’s so much I still don’t know about him. And so much I want to know. “Have you ever been in love?”

  He stands, his jeans hanging low over his waist. “No,” he says briefly. “Have you?”

  I snort. “Please. I told you I’d never even kissed anyone.”

  I think he’s going to smile back, but instead his gaze is far away. I try to read something deeper in the cool darkness of his eyes, the subtle tightening of his jaw that makes the features of his face seem remote.

  “You ready?” he finally asks.

  I stand slowly, turning in a circle to absorb the massive theater one last time before we leave. “Thank you for this. I won’t ever forget it.”

  He reaches for my hand, twining his fingers through mine, and we walk back down the red-carpeted stairs that I couldn’t see earlier, to a metal door that Tate pushes open. The Tesla—I’ve learned Tate’s sleek black car is called a Tesla—is waiting outside. And twilight has fallen while we were in the theater.

  He opens the passenger door for me and I touch the roof of the car, about to slip inside, when I notice a group of girls sauntering down the alley, their short, glittery dresses shifting across their thighs, their heels dangerously tall. I glance down and I’m struck suddenly by the averageness of my own appearance: my plain jean shorts, my dirty navy-blue ballet flats and my brown hair pulled up into a ponytail.

  I’m ordinary. I am not those girls. I’m not the Jenna Sanchezes or Sophie Zineses of the world, commanding attention wherever I go. And even though I am completely aware that sequined dresses and heels do not make these girls any better than me, something inside me feels envious seeing them: the kind of girl I imagine Tate should be with.

  And I suddenly wish I had a wardrobe full of dresses, slinky black tops, and designer heels I could wear on dates like this. But I don’t. And somehow Tate is with me anyway.

  “Everything okay?” Tate asks beside me.

  “Sure,” I answer, sliding into the car. I was staring too long and Tate noticed.

  There is silence as we drive—not an uneasy silence, but the kind that feels like we’re both waiting for something. Once again, I can’t believe I’m here. Not just because he’s Tate Collins. I can’t believe I’m on a date, that despite everything I’ve done to build a life that guys like Tate have no part of, I don’t want today to end. It’s like my insides are at war—wanting to stay away and urging me closer.

  I tell Tate to park a block away from my
house. I don’t want Grandma or Mia to notice me stepping out of a car like this. The bouquet of flowers was one thing, but Tate Collins driving me home would be much harder to lie about.

  Tate steps out onto the curb. I notice his gaze sweeping over the surrounding houses and apartment buildings: balconies cluttered with BBQs and plastic chairs and bicycles, my neighbor’s Buick that hasn’t moved in years, rusting where it sits. A boy is dribbling a basketball up the sidewalk, making occasional karate-type moves with his arms. He doesn’t even notice us.

  “How long have you lived here?” Tate asks. I wish there was a way to gloss over what he sees, tell him it’s usually not this bad, or that we’re only just living here temporarily. But that won’t fix the truth—that this is my home.

  “Most of my life,” I say. “My sister and I moved in with my grandma when we were pretty young.”

  “Older sister or younger?”

  “Older.”

  “Is she as smart as you?”

  “Yes and no.”

  He smiles, sensing there’s a longer story there.

  “Thank you for the movie,” I say again.

  “I’m glad you liked it, but also hated it.”

  I smile up at him. “I didn’t hate it,” I argue. “It was just the ending I didn’t agree with.”

  “You’re a romantic, then?” he asks.

  “Only recently,” I say and feel myself blush.

  We stand only a few inches apart, the air between us so still that I feel light-headed for a moment. Being this close reminds me of the way his mouth felt on mine last night, how he pressed his body against me, bare-chested, the heat from the fireplace making my skin thrum.

  I take an unconscious step toward him, closing the distance between us to the merest inch. I want to feel him again, the taste of his mouth, hot and cold all at once. I stop breathing.

  His fingers touch my waist, pressing into my hip bone. But he doesn’t draw me nearer, just pushes gently against me, stopping me. He blinks, then refocuses.

  “We’re taking it slow, remember?” he says.

  His eyes shift from my lips up to my eyes and I nearly laugh. I’ve spent my life avoiding guys—guys like Tate, especially. I thought they’d only want one thing from me and now here he is, telling me to slow down.

  “Right,” I say, forcing my body to straighten.

  I should be glad that he wants to go slow. I shouldn’t want anything more. And yet...

  “Good night, Charlotte Reed,” he says, releasing his fingers where they have lingered against my hip.

  “Good night, Tate Collins,” I answer, my voice much softer than his, and I take a step away, up the sidewalk.

  I can hear the low hum of the Tesla idling behind me, but I don’t look back. I refuse to be the girl who looks back. But I know his eyes watch me until I disappear around the corner.

  And I can still feel his eyes on me long after I’ve buried myself between the cool sheets of my bed, pulling a pillow over my face and replaying the way his fingers swept deftly across my hip, keeping me from moving any closer, from touching him, from kissing him.

  And I fall asleep dreaming about his hands.

  TEN

  MY PHONE IS VIBRATING ON the bedside table. I roll over just in time to see it fall from the edge onto the floor, still buzzing.

  I reach down and pick it up.

  I slept in. It’s nearly ten a.m.

  There’s a missed call from Carlos, a voice mail, probably asking me what time I can meet up to study today. And there’s a text from Tate.

  Immediately, I open the text: I want you to see what I see.

  I read it again, then twice more. I drop the phone onto the pale yellow comforter I’ve kicked off me and brush my hair back from my eyes. What does he mean? I think about responding with a question mark, but my phone vibrates again.

  Tate: I’m outside.

  I spring up from the bed.

  There’s no time to shower, so I shimmy out of my pajama shorts and tank top and dig through my narrow dresser for a clean bra and underwear, texting my excuses to Carlos in between pulling on each article of clothing. My bedroom window is open and the morning breeze is balmy. I dress in jean shorts—not the same pair from yesterday—and a pale pink shirt with a scoop neck that clings to the curves of my body. Every time I wear it Carlos whistles and says, “Damn, girl.”

  On Saturday mornings, Grandma goes to the senior center for Zumba. So the only person I have to contend with is Mia.

  I find her in the kitchen, washing Leo’s bottles, her sleeves rolled up and hair slipping out of a low bun.

  “Where you going?” she asks, wiping her forearm across her forehead, water dripping down her temple.

  “Out...to meet Carlos,” I say.

  “You usually do homework on Saturdays,” she says absently, like she’s not really interested in the answer.

  I reach the front door, gripping the knob. I would prefer to tell as few lies as possible—so the sooner I leave the better. “Yeah. That’s what we’re doing. Working on calculus stuff.” I wince—my voice sounds so false. But Mia doesn’t seem to notice.

  “I thought you could watch Leo for me tonight. I’m supposed to meet Greg at the Palapa. They’re having live music.”

  “Greg?” I ask.

  “Yeah, you know, Greg. The guy I had to cancel on a few weeks back because your extracurriculars are way more important than helping out your sister and spending time with your nephew?” Her words are harsh but her voice just sounds tired. “So, can you watch Leo tonight?”

  I stare down at my hand on the knob. I want to help her—I really do. “Sure,” I say. “If I’m back in time.” I turn the doorknob quickly. I need to get out of here before she asks any more questions. “But no guarantees.”

  “Charlotte,” she calls, but I’m already shutting the door behind me. I jog down the stairs before Mia can say anything else.

  Tate is waiting for me a block away, the Tesla purring in place, around the corner where he dropped me off last night. My heart is thumping from the sprint and I take in a deep breath before opening the door.

  “I was beginning to think you were standing me up,” Tate says when I slide onto the passenger seat.

  “You didn’t give me much warning. I was still in bed.”

  His dimple flashes and his eyes flicker from some thought skating through his mind. I smile as he revs the engine and pulls away from the curb.

  “I realized that I need to work harder to impress you,” Tate says as we cross over into the polished neighborhoods of Beverly Hills, where the hedges are ten feet tall and gates guard the mansions inside. It’s a funny thing about living in LA: A crappy house like ours is only a short drive from the biggest mansions in the world. A girl like me can meet a guy like Tate, like we exist in the same world. It’s hard to imagine, and yet here we are.

  “Impress me?” I ask, facing him. He watches the road as we glide past silver Mercedes and white Bentleys and steel-gray Ferraris, all with windows rolled down to let in the warm Pacific air.

  “Renting out the famous Lumiere Theater to watch Casablanca apparently does not impress Charlotte Reed.”

  “Trust me, I was impressed.”

  “It’s okay,” he says, one eyebrow lifting, like he’s not buying it. “I like a challenge.”

  He makes a sudden turn, pulling to a stop in front of a small valet stand.

  “You don’t need expensive things to be beautiful,” Tate continues, his gaze seeming to take in each feature of my face. “But I want you to have them anyway.”

  “I don’t understand,” I say as he opens his door. “What are we doing?” But he’s already walking around to my door, extending a hand to help me out. I step onto the sidewalk and look up at an impressive bla
ck awning, the words Barneys New York in white letters.

  “Tate?” I ask, craning my head upward. I’ve seen Barneys from the outside, of course, but I’ve never stopped, never actually gotten out of the car. As if I knew they wouldn’t even allow me to park my Volvo anywhere near here.

  “Come on,” Tate says, suddenly beside me, tossing his keys to a valet. He slips his fingers into mine and pulls me forward, but I stop at the doors before going inside, my stomach starting to flutter with nerves.

  “I don’t think—” I begin, unsure how to explain what I’m feeling.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “You don’t need to do this,” I say, but he folds his arm around my waist and draws me to him. It’s the most contact we’ve had since I showed up at his house the other night, and my body catches fire at the feeling of his arms around me.

  “Charlotte, I saw the way you looked at those girls yesterday—after the movie? And I don’t know how many times I can tell you how beautiful you are, but for some reason you don’t see it. So I was thinking last night that maybe you need to feel beautiful, too. That maybe I can do that for you.”

  I smile, blushing again at the word beautiful. I know I’m pretty enough, mostly because Mia and I look so similar, but I’ve always downplayed my looks. They’re not important to me, they never have been. But I can’t help but glance toward the doors of Barneys, and wonder what’s inside.

  “You do,” I tell him, meeting his dark eyes. “You already make me feel that way. But this...it’s too much.”

  “It’s not. And I told you, I like a challenge.” He tilts his head down, his lips grazing my cheek.

  A shudder races through me, and I draw in a shallow breath, biting the edge of my lower lip. “Okay,” I acquiesce and he pulls me inside, his fingers strumming against mine: a rhythm, a beat tapping from his fingertips, as if music is inside him, wanting to be let out.

  Inside the store, Tate speaks to a woman who seems to have been expecting us, and before long I am being led by two salesgirls through what can only be deemed a fashionista’s paradise. They pull short sequined dresses and silky tops and black leggings from the racks, swiftly carrying them away as soon as I’ve agreed to try them on. They lead me through floor after floor, a whirl of departments and brands and price tags far too expensive. And the entire time Tate is close by, sometimes looking distracted, like he’s worried he might be seen by one of the other customers moving about the store, but whenever our eyes meet, he smiles—enjoying this maybe more than I am.