Chapter Three
Flora
The next morning, I lie in bed browsing my Instagram feed.
I’ve analyzed Sean’s behavior eight billion times already, but guys are mysterious creatures.
He said he wants to be friends, yet he drank for me and checked out my legs.
He rejected me, then he walked me home and said I make him feel special. He might’ve even flirted a little.
A group call is in order. I need help from my friends.
Madison Jenkins, my best friend, picks up first. While I show my love by letting her take the back spot when we take a selfie (so her face appears smaller and her angles sharper), she shows hers with insults and brutal honesty.
Her yearbook quote would likely be It’s fine to be a bitch as long as you stab people in the front.
Josie hops on next, yawning. She checks every box on the high school cool list: fronts a rock band, types on a MacBook Pro, and has two news articles written about her.
The fact that she’s Sean’s next-door neighbor/childhood friend doesn’t hurt either.
A girl needs all her resources, and it’s crucial to have someone on the inside.
Carmen is the last to join. To balance out my daily dose of negativity from Madison, I need the Hallmark Cards girl in our clique.
Carmen Belle brings in some much-needed virtue, since Madison is mean, Josie is jaded, and I’m (adorably) vain.
She’s my go-to when I need encouragement, and she even pretends to share my enthusiasm for Sean.
After a debriefing from me, Madison starts with, “What’s with the obsession? Sean’s not as hot as you make him out to be. You’re interested in the challenge, not him. He’s an animal head you want to mount on the wall.”
Gosh, Mads doesn’t disappoint.
“Jake is cuter,” she goes on. “But you already dated Jake, so there goes the thrill of the chase. You’re hung up on Sean because he’s hard to get.”
I sputter. “That’s so not true. And I went out with Jake once, okay? To Shake Shack.”
“Sean’s great, so if you’re not serious, don’t mess with him,” Josie says.
Who is she, his agent? Josie is definitely more Sean’s friend than mine.
“I like people,” I say. “I won’t put my social life on hold to wait for him. But I am serious about him.”
It’s true. Even though I adore all mankind, I save a special place in my heart for Sean, like I do the presidential suite at St. Regis. I let him stay there in peace, undisturbed by the meaningless flings that come through the hotel lobby.
Madison snorts presumptuously.
“Walking you home sounds like Sean,” Josie says. “That’s the gentlemanly thing to do. I wouldn’t read too much into it.”
“What do you think, Carmen?” I ask her partly because she says nice things, but mostly to make her feel included in the conversation.
“He’ll come around!” Her voice is unnaturally bright, every word laced with forced cheer. I can practically hear the exclamation points through the phone.
So helpful, this group. The most promising young women our school has to offer, who always seem to have it together, yet they’re nowhere close to figuring this out.
After I hang up, I open my contact list. I could call Raymond for a guy’s perspective—or text my mom.
Maybe. I tap on our last conversation, which is still left on Read from nine hours ago.
The text before that says In a meeting. Mom’s away on a business trip in Madrid, and with the time difference, we’re talking even less than usual.
Ray it is.
Before I can find his name, my phone vibrates in my hand. My pulse shifts from a casual stroll to a full-on stampede.
Sean Foster: Hey, can I call you?
Stay calm. Stay calm. I breathe through my mouth, like that’s going to help. I stare at the screen for too long, then—whatever—tap his profile picture and hit Call.
Think of a fun, witty, sexy opening line.
“Hi!” I squeak the minute he picks up.
“Hi.” He sounds calm, in control. “How are you feeling?”
“Oh. I’m great!” Real smooth. And here I thought I was an expert at flirting over the phone. “Um . . . how are you?” Perfect. Even worse.
“Fine, but I couldn’t really sleep last night. How badly does your head hurt?”
“Not at all.”
“That’s good.” A pause. “Did you get in trouble with your parents?”
“Actually, no. My parents weren’t even home.”
“Ah. That explains why you went so hard last night. If they were home, you probably would’ve taken it easy in case you got caught.”
“Yeah,” I say, panicking. Here I am, letting him carry the entire conversation on his own.
He’s going to hang up in a second. I order myself to come up with something—anything—as I visually rummage through my room.
My designer handbags stare back at me, offering no inspiration.
Sean won’t care to learn the differences between the Chanel 2. 55 Reissue and the Classic Flap Bag.
“Well,” he says, “glad you’re fine, I was just calling to—”
Oh no. That’s his exit line! My mouth opens on its own. “Please don’t hang up. I’ll think of something interesting to say soon!”
Excuse me? I’m done. Done.
The back of my neck prickles when Sean’s light laugh comes through. “I was going to ask if you want to meet for coffee, if you’re not doing anything later. I figured I owe you a coffee after stealing your drink last night, but I didn’t want to ask you out over text.”
And now, after nine failed attempts at small talk, five uneventful group dates, one tutoring session, two shared classes, and one drunken confession, I’m finally going on a first date with Sean Foster.
* * *
Sean waits for me in front of the coffee shop he suggested, the Pavement, with sunlight in his hair. One look at him and I forget all the first date questions I googled. I melt like caviar on an epicurean’s tongue.
“Hi! You’re here,” I say unnecessarily. “Sorry I’m late.” Ten minutes late, which isn’t technically too late, but I know my manners.
We’re standing across from a tree-lined park, where birds trill from branches overhead, and the steady splash of a fountain echoes somewhere in the distance.
Sean glances over at me, taking in my blush silk cami with delicate straps and my floral skirt, a soft watercolor print that flutters just above my knees, then pushes open the heavy wooden door.
“You’re worth the wait.”
Yes! Off to a good start.
The café has an industrial feel, with exposed metal and weathered wood, and sunlight flooding through tall windows. “Is this okay?” he asks, as a whiff of freshly ground coffee hits my nose. “I’m here a lot. To do homework.”
This is where he hangs out.
“I love it!”
Except maybe it’s too quiet for my taste. The only sound is the humming of the coffee machine, while I prefer places with music and chatter, where I can laugh out loud. Never mind that, because I’d agree to whatever Sean says, even if he suggested bird watching.
“Do you want anything to eat?” He points at the glass showcase that holds desserts. Everything beckons to me, from the glossy pecan cheesecake, to the golden apple strudel with its flaky crust, to the rows of freshly baked cookies.
“I can’t decide. It’s a tough call between cinnamon roll and blueberry muffin. Everything looks amazing. I guess . . . cinnamon roll?”
“Sure. And coffee?”
“Chai latte. Wait, I changed my mind. Blueberry muffin.”
Sean nods. “Find us a seat? Let me get this.”
Should I fight with him over the bill? But maybe this is important to his male ego, so I let him pay. I sit down at a table near the back and watch Sean at the counter.
He likes his coffee black, my brain notes furiously. Poor kid also doesn’t own a wallet. He has all his cash clipped together with a metal clip, which is awfully . . . sophisticated.
From now on, money clips and black coffee are the definition of cool.
Sean comes back, balancing the tray. I push aside a tiny ceramic vase to clear space for him. He places the drinks on the table first, then lifts two plates and slides them in front of me—one with a blueberry muffin, the other with a cinnamon roll. “Try both. I’ll eat the rest if you can’t finish.”
The cinnamon roll is the fluffiest I’ve ever had, with vanilla cream glaze swirling in my mouth. The blueberry muffin is fresh and buttery, packed with juicy bursts of flavor. Out of this world.
“Do you like it?”
I nod, too busy to answer. When I swallow, I let out a satisfied sigh. “I love this place.”
Sean’s shoulders relax. He smiles and looks . . . relieved? Somehow that makes me a bit relieved as well, knowing he’s not entirely cool and collected about this. Between bites, my mouth carries out conversations on its own.
“Do you have any pet peeves?” I ask, after learning that he’s a dog person, his favorite place in the world is his bedroom, he enjoys bass fishing on Lake Sammamish with his grandad, and that if he won the lottery, he’d still go to school the next Monday.
“People who blame everyone but themselves for their problems. Also, drivers who switch lanes without signaling. How about you?”
Note to self: stop whining and use the blinker from now on.
“I hate it when I buy ice cream and the scoop isn’t a perfect sphere. Or when it starts dripping at the bottom halfway through. That irritates me to no end.”
Oh god. Can I change my answer?
“I hate that too,” Sean says, “and when it melts too fast and runs down the side of the cone. Sometimes they only give you a tiny piece of napkin, which does no good other than sticking to the cone.”
“Yes! And then you try to peel if off and it tears apart.”
He chuckles, picking up a fork as I push my unfinished baked goods his way. There’s a raw spot on the skin around his thumbnail that I didn’t notice before. He cuts into the muffin, the fork making a soft clink against the plate.
“How does it feel to be the star of the basketball team?” I ask, as if I’m interviewing him. To be honest, Sean isn’t that good, but I don’t mind giving him a little confidence boost. Guys like that.