Flower

by Shea Olsen

  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.”

  He nods. “They are. But when things...got to be too much for me last year, I don’t know. It was easier for me to stay away than to face that they were right.”

  “So why now? Why are you going home after all this time?”

  He lifts his head to look at me. “Because of you.”

  “Me?” I don’t understand.

  “I want them to meet you. And I want you to meet them. You’re important to me and having you there will make it easier.”

  I touch his forearm and lean forward, resting my chin against his shoulder. “I’m glad you’re taking me home,” I whisper beside his ear, and I see him close his eyes.

  The flight attendant brings us a fruit plate and sparkling water with lemon wedges and croissants. He tells me to ask for whatever I want. If I’m craving pancakes or crème brûlée or toasted hazelnuts, the flight attendant will somehow magically prepare it. The plane is fully stocked, he tells me.

  But I just want to curl up beside Tate, settle my head on his chest, and stare out at the world below. Miniature houses and patchwork farms and mountains that rise up snowy and white—I can’t resist taking pictures, even though it’s just with my phone. Maybe I can Photoshop them later, at school, work on them until they look more like the landscape that’s unfolding below me.

  Finally, I put my phone down, and close my eyes. “Sleep if you want,” Tate whispers against my temple, folding his arm around me. He begins to hum against my ear, his breath warm on my neck. It’s a melody I don’t recognize—not one of his songs—but even muted, his voice is effortless and beautiful. And I listen for a while before I tilt my head up to him and ask, “What song is that?”

  “Nothing special. Just a tune I’ve had stuck in my head.”

  “For a new song?” I ask tentatively.

  “I don’t know,” he answers softly. “Maybe.”

  I close my eyes, feeling the vibration of his lips murmuring against my ear. Sometimes the fullness of his mouth brushes across my earlobe or along my hairline and I stifle a shiver.

  I let myself drift in and out of sleep, listening to Tate Collins hum for me, my own private melody.

  * * *

  If our yard had resembled a winter wonderland, Telluride, Colorado, is the set of a Christmas movie. Several feet of freshly fallen snow have already piled up on the tarmac and more is drifting down from the dark sky. A black SUV is waiting for us when we land, and we hurry from the plane to the car, the sharp, cold air slipping through our coats.

  “You’re shivering.” Tate reaches out to take my hand from my lap. “And your fingers are freezing.”

  “All part of the winter experience,” I say, still marveling as we drive through town. It’s just after sunset, and the storefronts are lined in silver and white holiday lights, displays of paper cutout snowflakes and elves in green pointy hats set behind the glass windows. It’s a fairy tale. “I like it here. It feels like a place you’re supposed to come back to.”

  He presses my palm to his lips, holding it there for several seconds, his mouth warm.

  “Good,” he says.

  We pull up to a house on a street that winds along a low hillside. All the homes are cloaked in snow, powdery drifts that have collected on the roofs and cover the lawns. They look like gingerbread houses, twinkling with Christmas lights. Some even have blown-up snowmen in their yards and plastic Santas with reindeer on their rooftops. People put these up in LA, too, but here they look natural instead of gaudy.

  “I can’t believe you used to live here,” I say, stepping out from the SUV and standing in the driveway of his parents’ house, a two-story chalet-style home with a mailbox decorated with blinking red lights. Compared to our house, it’s a palace, but it’s nowhere near the size of Tate’s fortress in LA.

  “Me neither,” Tate says, sucking in a deep breath and taking my hand again. “Ready?”

  “I think I’m more ready than you are,” I say.

  Tate looks stiff and uncomfortable, like he’s preparing for battle. His grip on my hand tightens as we walk up the icy steps to the front door, his thumb tapping against my forefinger.

  But when we ring the doorbell and a lovely middle-aged woman with Tate’s eyes opens the door, we’re both immediately enveloped in a rush of hugs and the scent of cinnamon and pumpkin and wood burning from a fireplace. It’s hard for me to understand what could possibly make Tate nervous about coming back here.

  We shuffle into the entryway, Tate’s mom, Helen, clutching Tate while his dad, Bill, shakes my hand. Bill has speckled gray hair and the same chiseled chin and jawline as Tate. He’s wearing a festive red sweater with a Christmas tree stitched onto the front that looks like it might have fit him ten years ago, but now is being stretched along every seam. Helen probably forced him to wear it—an effort to seem in the holiday spirit.

  Then something barrels past me, a flash of brown fur, almost knocking me over. The dog is enormous—a big, fluffy, auburn-colored thing with white around his eyes and muzzle.

  “Rocco!” Tate says, burying his hands into the dog’s fur. Soon they are a tangle on the floor, Rocco licking Tate’s face over and over again. I can’t
help but smile, seeing him like this—where he grew up, in his old house, with a dog he obviously loves. It reveals a side of him I haven’t yet seen. Even though he was nervous coming here, it hasn’t taken long for him to open up. And I feel lucky that I get to experience this with him, see who he used to be before all the fame.

  “Charlotte,” Helen says, leading me away from the doggy reunion and into the cozy living room, gesturing for me to sit on the gigantic red plaid couch. She plops down beside me. “You’re even more beautiful than Tate described,” she says. Her cheekbones are high and her short brown hair slides across her shoulders like a curtain. She’s pretty, with delicate features and tiny hands.

  “He described me?” I ask stupidly. I shouldn’t be surprised, considering he had to warn them he was bringing someone home for the holidays, but every reminder that I’m on Tate’s mind brings its own fresh thrill.

  “Of course. When he told me he was coming home and he was bringing his girlfriend, I wanted to know every detail.”

  Girlfriend. My mind reels at the word. We’ve yet to discuss any labels, both of us content just to live in the moment. I glance down at Tate, who is still on his knees, wrestling with his old pal.

  “We got Rocco when Tate was nine,” his mother tells me. “That dog practically raised him.”

  “And Tate hasn’t been back to see him in years,” his dad says, his voice edged with accusation. A second of uneasy stillness overtakes the room.

  Tate’s eyes flash to his dad, then to me—his jaw a hard line.

  Helen rushes to say, “It’s so nice to have you both here now. I’ve made up the guest room,” she adds. “I hope you’ll be comfortable, Charlotte.”

  “I don’t need much,” I assure her, smiling at her and then at Tate, who is finally pushing himself up from the floor, his hands still scratching the dog’s ears.

  “Our kind of girl,” Bill says. And I sense he implies more than just the obvious. I think about what Tate said on the plane: how his parents didn’t agree with his lifestyle. The money and the big house and the private jets—they don’t understand any of it. They are ordinary people and they appreciate ordinary things. In which case, we’re going to get along perfectly.

  After a pause that Tate makes no effort to fill, Helen stands from the couch. “Well, I guess I’ll show Charlotte to her room.” Her mouth is curved in an uneasy smile. “Tate, honey, your room is just how you left it last time you were here. You can put your things in there.”

  “Your mom keeps it like a museum,” Tate’s dad says. “Like she’s waiting for you to move back in.” I can’t tell if it’s meant to be a joke—nobody laughs.

  Tate and his dad bring in our suitcases while his mom leads me down a hallway on the first floor to the room where I’ll be staying—not with Tate. Obviously not with Tate. I’m not sure what I was thinking.

  “Coming, Charlotte?” Tate’s mom calls from in front of me.

  I shake my head, bringing myself back to the moment. “Be right there.”

  * * *

  The next day, we drive to a massive lot that has been converted into SANTA’S TREE WORKSHOP—as the wooden sign hanging from a fence announces when we pull in. Apparently, picking out a huge, beautiful tree on Christmas Eve is a Collins family tradition. I can’t help sighing with envy.

  At our house, Grandma pulls out a deteriorating plastic Christmas tree she’s had since the nineties. We position it in the corner of the living room beside the TV, and hang a single strand of lights and the dozen or so ornaments she’s had for equally as long. We’ve never had a real live tree.

  “Divide and conquer?” Tate’s dad says as we stand in line for cups of hot chocolate. The girl working the stand is dressed like an elf—complete with stick-on pointed ears.

  “Works for me,” Tate says, not meeting his dad’s gaze.

  “Each couple brings back a tree; whichever is the best goes home with us.”

  “Deal,” Tate agrees, and shoots me a look—he clearly intends for us to win. But my mind is stuck on the word couple. Is that really what we are—Tate and I?

  Before we separate, I steal a last look at Tate’s mom. Her eyes are bright and dewy from the cold. She seems happy to finally have her son home, even if there is still obvious tension between Tate and his dad. Her family is back together. And that’s a start.

  Santa’s Tree Workshop is gigantic, far larger than any of the corner lot tree stands we have in LA. There’s a small outpost called Santa Land where kids line up to sit with a jolly-looking Santa. There are booths where you can buy festive knit hats, toy trains, even a small fenced area where you can pet a reindeer. This is more than tree shopping; this is a holiday emporium of everything tinsel-laced and candy-cane coated.

  I pull Tate over to the reindeer. The majestic creature stands behind the fence, munching a pile of hay, and I lean against the fence and gently extend my fingers to feel his woolly coat. He blows hot air across my hand and licks me with his long tongue.

  “Hey,” Tate says beside me, stroking the reindeer’s mane. “This girl’s taken.”

  I smile and pull my hand away. The reindeer drops his head back to the hay.

  “He’s cute.” I lean against Tate, pressing my forehead into his chest. Breathing him in, feeling his heartbeat rise beneath his coat, makes my body flood with a warmth that the cold cannot reach. Tate seems so different here—he’s not worried about the paparazzi trailing him wherever he goes, and so far, no fans have recognized him. Maybe because no one expects Tate Collins to be strolling through a Christmas fantasyland in Telluride, Colorado. But it also feels like more than that. Like there are burdens that weigh on him in LA, but he’s managed to leave them behind.

  “Shall we start our search for the perfect tree?” Tate asks into my hair.

  I nod and pull away. But he keeps his hand laced in mine.

  “This contest is rigged, you know,” Tate murmurs, still not looking at me. Some of the hurt and vulnerability from yesterday returns to his face. “My father thinks he knows what’s best—no exceptions.”

  “Then let’s just have fun,” I suggest, and duck around the side of the reindeer’s pen, our bodies hidden by the wood siding of a shed.

  “I can work with that.” Tate surprises me by pinning me tightly against the wooden wall. His body against mine, his hands around my wrists, his breath hot against my neck make me feel bold. I smile up at him, silently daring him to kiss me.

  His gaze drops to my lips and lingers there, just before he places his mouth on mine. I kiss him back fiercely, my wrists bound by his fingers, his body caging me in.

  I want more.

  He breaks away to kiss along my jaw, my neck. His mouth is hot, his teeth nibbling on my skin. When he lifts his head to look at me, I see the dark need in his gaze. Our eyes remain locked as he kisses me. A simple kiss, a mere brush of lips on lips. Again.

  And again.

  Until our eyes close at the same time and our tongues meet, his hand gripping my hips. I reach for the zipper on his coat and undo it. He moans against my lips and a thrill goes through me.

  In this terrifying, wondrous, overwhelming moment, I would let him do anything.

  Anything at all.

  He moans again, then breaks the kiss. “What are you doing to me?” he asks, sounding tortured. His face is stark and serious, his lips swollen and damp from our kisses.

  “I think you’ve got it backward,” I whisper, breathing deeply. I can’t believe the way Tate makes me feel—like I’m being drawn to him by some invisible thread. I’ve always pictured myself trudging up a steep hill, forcing myself forward under the weight of school and work and my own impossible expectations. With Tate, I feel light. I feel free.

  He doesn’t say anything more, just shakes his head, then pulls me deep into the rows of trees, an endless sea of cho
ices. We drag out several, examining them more closely.

  “Why did you ever leave Colorado?” I ask, finally breaking the silence as he wedges himself back between a cluster of trees, certain he sees the perfect one tucked in the back.

  “I always knew I would. I wanted to be a musician since I was young.”

  “But you left without your parents?”

  “Sort of. I won a singing competition in Denver when I was fifteen. They flew me out to LA so I could perform in front of a record exec. He signed me on the spot.”

  “And?” I prompt.

  “And...everything changed. I went on tour, I made two records that both went platinum within a year. It happened so fast I didn’t really have time to think about what was happening.”

  “And your parents didn’t move with you to LA?”

  “They did at first. Traveling back and forth between here and there. But as things got crazy, as I got more...well-known, they started trying to tell me how to live my life. Maybe they were right, but I didn’t want to listen.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  Tate steps out from the crush of tree limbs, bringing with him the thick scent of fresh pine needles. “I did things I wish I could take back,” he says more seriously now. “But I’m not that person anymore, Charlotte. I want you to know that.”

  I’m not entirely certain what he means—it feels like there are still things he isn’t telling me, important things, but his face has turned guarded. I decide not to ask, not right now.

  Instead, I move in to give him a chaste kiss. “Charlotte,” he whispers against my lips, then kisses me again. His lips are warm and our breath comes out as vapor in the cold air. I don’t want him to let go. I want his mouth to press against mine until winter evaporates into spring. I want to stay here, hidden among the Christmas trees until the night shifts over the sky and everyone has gone home. But Tate lifts his mouth from mine, both of us a cloud of warmth in the frosty snow. And then I feel the flakes, floating down from the muted gray sky. It’s snowing. Soft crystals land in my hair and on Tate’s shoulders.