27. Painting Flowers
PAINTING FLOWERS
PRESENT
I spent pretty much my entire freshman year fantasizing about this night, playing out every scenario in every location, and…
this isn’t anything like what I pictured.
Granted, all of my imaginary dates with Wes took place around campus, at a party, in a nearby bar & grill, at the movie theater, or what have you.
I imagined wearing something sexy yet comfy, like a pair of leggings and a fitted top that showed off just enough skin to be alluring.
I imagined dancing so close we became one with the music or curled up with each other in the reading nook of the campus library where he’d leave me with a hickey.
I imagined something playful and a little mischievous.
Instead, I’m standing in front of my mirror, donned in the high-necked black dress Jase bought me, matched with ankle-booted heels.
It’s not that I’m physically un comfortable, but I thought after wearing the dress for a while that my nerves would relax.
With every passing minute, however, I just grow more anxious.
And not in a good way. The butterflies that should be in my stomach have seemingly been replaced by angry hornets.
I’ve got fifteen minutes to kill, and staring at my reflection doesn’t help soothe the anxiety, so I head downstairs.
It’s perfectly silent, so I can safely assume nobody’s here, leaving the television up for grabs.
I put on an old sitcom rerun and drop onto the couch’s armrest, thinking and rethinking about my choice of hairstyle.
Given the exclusivity of the restaurant, I wanted to appear as well polished and ladylike as possible, so I took a page out of my sister’s handbook and went with a pin-straight side-parted ponytail.
I can see why Vanessa favors the look. It draws attention to my eyes while also softening the prominence of my cheekbones.
But catching my reflection in the mirror between the family room and kitchen, I’d swear I’m looking at my sister if not for the eye and hair color.
Fraud.
The word rings through my head, and I try to smother it, turning up the volume on the TV.
“What are you wearing?”
I shriek and even jump enough that my ass slides off the armrest, making me topple into the actual seat cushions.
Amid my thundering heart, I peer over the backrest to find Jase strolling into the kitchen, his hair damp and skin smelling of body wash.
Oh, and he’s missing a shirt. Hell, he doesn’t have socks on.
The only article covering him is a pair of sweatpants that sits dangerously low on his hips, revealing the V-shaped muscles of his lower abdomen.
I scowl. “I’m wearing clothes . You should try it sometime.”
“Did you borrow that from your sister?”
He doesn’t say it in a mean way. It sounds like a genuine question…and it stings.
I stand up, brushing out the nonexistent wrinkles in my dress. I look every bit of the sophisticated young lady that Blythe swore I’d never be. Unfortunately, I still feel every bit out of my skin as well, and it appears Jase can tell.
“It’s the dress you got me, for my date tonight,” I clarify, though I don’t know why. “I take it you don’t like it?”
He smirks. “If you wanted my approval, you wouldn’t have had to put on anything.”
Damn him and his dimples, because I have to wrestle down a smile.
“Well, you can think about that when you and your bottle of Aveeno get better acquainted tonight,” I say, heading for the main hallway despite the ten minutes I still have left.
“Hey.”
There’s an unexpected somberness to Jase’s voice that has me pausing to look over my shoulder at him.
“If anything happens, don’t hesitate to call me. Okay?”
That only gives me further pause. “And what exactly are you expecting to happen?”
A small smile. “Like, maybe, the date goes off the rails and you need backup, or maybe you have car troubles again.”
“Yeah, I doubt that’ll be happening—at least for the second part,” I chuckle. He’s picking me up.”
Any trace of Jase’s smile collapses, replaced with what I can assume is concern. “Seriously?”
Yeah, I wouldn’t usually be comfortable with the arrangement either.
I appreciate a quick exit strategy, but “Half the town knows about the date. I highly doubt Wes is going to risk kidnapping or murdering me, since it would pretty much be an open-and-shut case.” I try to laugh it off, but Jase’s expression doesn’t change.
“Either way, I would feel much more comfortable if you unblocked me.”
Come again?
Reading my obvious confusion, Jase pulls out his phone, taps some buttons, and then turns it around to show me the screen. He’s calling me.
Only…
The phone in my clutch isn’t ringing or vibrating. Did I accidentally put it on airplane mode?
I pull it out and look at the settings.
No.
Everything’s perfectly normal.
Yet, my phone still isn’t ringing. Instead, I can hear Jase’s end of the call go to my voicemail.
“Call me when you get this,” he says, his tone entirely teasing, before he hangs up.
Even then, I’m not notified of a new voicemail. What the hell?
“I noticed it back at the dress shop,” Jase admits, almost sheepishly. “When I, uh…dropped my phone, it accidentally called you.”
When he was too busy ogling at me in that gown.
He clears his throat. “I had your phone on me, and it was kinda hard to miss the fact that it never rang, despite it going off plenty from the other notifications coming in.”
I replay the scene in my head, and, yes, he’s right. I’d gotten at least five messages from Maggie and one call from Reed while I had been shopping. But…
The doorbell rings, and I nearly jump out of my skin, the last vestiges of my composure crumbling away.
No.
No, no, no, no. Wes can’t already be here—
The notification comes up on my phone, and I’m all too relieved to see it’s just a delivery man holding a box and clipboard.
Putting my cell into my clutch and setting it down, I hurry to answer the door and sign for the package intended for my sister.
It’s almost always clothes or beauty supplies, so I’m a little taken aback to see the printed labels stamped all over the box declaring TITAN SECURITY in big, bold letters.
Just as I shut the front door, I see a BMW pulling into the end of the driveway through the side window. Since Wes drives a Toyota, it’s safe to assume it’s one of Blythe’s friends or Dad’s golfing buddies, but to my surprise, a familiar head of wavy dark hair emerges as the driver climbs out.
Shit.
Wes is eight minutes early.
I run (or at least attempt to, given my heels) back to the kitchen and grab my clutch off the counter.
Before I can run back out, Jase catches my wrist. “You okay?”
“What? Yeah, I’m fine.” My voice comes out far too high-pitched to sound natural, but I plaster on a smile anyway.
“You sure?” His eyes drift down to where he’s holding me. “You’re shaking.”
Thankfully, it’s contained to my hands, but the effect is clearly more than first-date jitters. My anxiety is rearing its ugly head, and it’s taking everything in me not to scream just to overwhelm that nasty little voice in my mind.
Because all I can hear right now is Blythe. The way she’s going to laugh or scoff or say, “I told you so,” when word gets back to her how I embarrassed myself on my date, or said the wrong thing, or made some grand faux pas without even realizing it, proving just how puerile I really am.
And the fact that my anxiety literally has a voice only adds to the wave of emotions, because I hadn’t heard it once when I was away at school. Sure, I felt uncomfortable and awkward, like any introvert in a new social setting, but I wasn’t ever reduced to a trembling mess, not even around Wes.
I’m well aware that Blythe is one of my stressors, but it’s unsettling and infuriating and just downright disheartening that her influence has bled its way into my social life again. I thought I had put that behind me, yet I can hear her sharp guffaw ringing through my head, mocking me.
I try to drown it out with my own internal voice, but all I can manifest is a repeated track of, “You’re going to mess this up, you’re going to mess this up, you’re—”
Jase’s fingers give the lightest squeeze to my wrist, the sensation and accompanying warmth grounding me. “Seriously, if you don’t want to go, you don’t have to.”
And prove to Blythe that she’s right? That I’m so much of a mess I can’t get through a simple date? “I’m fine, really.”
He doesn’t look remotely convinced but doesn’t press the matter, letting go of me. Still, Jase adds, “Call me if you need backup or an extraction. I’ll have you out of there in five minutes.”
The tension in my chest eases ever so slightly at the smile he offers, and I let out a soft laugh. “You’re fifteen minutes from the restaurant.”
“Oh, you underestimate my ability to completely disregard speed limits.”
“Good to know.” I have a blazer just in case the restaurant is chilly, but I don’t put it on, simultaneously gripping and draping the fabric over my hands to conceal my shaking.
No matter how good or bad this date goes, it’s just that.
A date, I assure myself . Regardless of how Blythe and the others are acting, Wes isn’t a prince.
He’s just a person. A person you like . It doesn’t matter how fancy the restaurant is.
This is no different than talking to him at a party or during our study sessions—something you’ve done countless times over the last nine months.
You’re not Cinderella, and the clock isn’t about to strike midnight.
This isn’t a fairytale. This is a completely normal date with a completely normal guy.