Chapter Seven
Flora
Ever since Sean and I agreed to date exclusively, I’ve been living inside a giant pink bubble.
Giddy and energized, I feel like I’m drinking champagne all the time.
I have no complaints. Well, almost no complaints, aside from the fact that he’s obscenely busy.
Once, he even texted me saying he related to how koalas are only social for fifteen minutes a day (and that he wanted to spend all fifteen minutes with me).
Personal space is important; therefore, outside those fifteen minutes, my days are filled to the brim with things to do and people to see.
When we do meet up, I try my best to plan the kind of date that blows his mind.
So far, to name a few, we’ve been on a hot-air balloon ride, played laser tag, cut German class to sneak off campus, and woken up at four to watch the sunrise from the top of my building.
That was an epic date. I prepared everything: a cashmere blanket large enough for two, rich Mayan hot chocolate infused with cinnamon and chili, a playlist of romantic songs, and a bottle of Dom Pérignon.
Sean took it all in with dazed wonder, either from amazement or lack of sleep.
By the time the sun came up, he’d fallen asleep against my shoulder. Next time, I’m bringing espresso.
This afternoon, though, we’re not doing anything original. We’re intertwined on my bed. His fingers skim somewhere between my sweater and my bra. Most of the time Sean wants to hear me talk, but today we’re purely primal.
He brushes at the clasp on my skirt, and I place my palm over his. Pushing an inch away from him, I sigh. “There’s something I need to tell you.”
“Okay.” He stops and looks at me. Sometimes I still can’t believe the cutest guy in the Pacific Northwest is lying in my bed with his shirt off.
I struggle with my words and decide on the simple truth. “I’m not a virgin.”
A few seconds later, he nods. “Okay.”
“I thought you should know.”
He rolls back a little and sits up. He gets this softness in his eyes, like he’s waiting for me to say more.
“You already know, don’t you?” I gasp. “Is that why you asked me out?”
“What? I didn’t even consider it until you brought it up. I don’t care either way.”
“Look, I’m not going to have sex with you just because I’ve already done it. In fact, the first time was so underwhelming, I’m not exactly dying to go through it again.”
He nods again.
“I mean it.”
“Flora, I like you. I’m not dating you to get laid.”
I cross my arms, tilting up my face. “So you don’t want to have sex with me?”
“I—” His lips twitch, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to smile. “I want to so badly, you have no idea. But that’s not why I’m here. If you’re not ready, I’ll wait. I won’t assume anything.”
“Really?”
“I won’t pressure you.” Then, after a pause. “I might encourage you to, though, and I can be very persuasive when I want to be.”
I chuckle. Sean always delivers his jokes deadpan, but he never fails to make me laugh.
“Do you want to talk about it?” He picks up his hoodie and throws it on. Alas. The dark pine-green fabric falls and covers his flat stomach. “Was that your last relationship?”
“It’s not a cute story like yours.” I comb a hand through my hair. “Do you know Zach Powell? He graduated last year?”
“He’s an asshole.”
“We hooked up once when I turned sixteen. My first and only time.” I stare down at my hands, tracing the edge of my nail with my thumb.
“I thought I was ready, and I said yes, but then it wasn’t what I imagined.
The sex wasn’t bad or anything, but there wasn’t any connection.
I felt like I was just trying to get it over with.
And afterward, I felt sort of empty. Like, that’s it?
That’s what everyone’s been talking about?
” The words tighten in my throat. “What hurt wasn’t the act itself, it was that he couldn’t wait to tell everyone. I mean, everyone. I was a headline.”
I try to swallow the burn rising in my chest, pushing it down with a weak laugh. “The most exciting event of the season. Really kept school life entertaining for everyone.” I glance up, half daring Sean to judge me. “You’ve probably heard about it, too, right?”
“I don’t pay attention to gossip.” There’s a shining light of affection in his eyes as he strokes my hair. “I’m sorry that happened to you.”
“Carmen and Josie were so supportive. And Jeremy waited by Zach’s car after school one day.
I don’t know what he said to him, but Zach never bothered me again.
” That’s why I forgive Jeremy every time he calls me brainless, but this Sean doesn’t need to know.
“And Mads . . . we had a fight I barely remember. We didn’t talk for three days.
Then one afternoon, I overheard some girls in the bathroom trying to suck up to her, thinking my spot as her best friend was up for grabs. ”
Not that I blame them. People want to be accepted by Madison partly because she’s mean, the same way there’s always a huge line outside trendy restaurants where the servers have attitude problems.
“They called me a slut. Said I’d slept with the whole football team.” I roll my eyes. “So disrespectful, right? It was only the captain. You’d think they’d get their facts straight.”
Sean frowns. “It’s okay to be upset, button. You don’t have to joke about everything.”
“And then Mads shut them down. Said she didn’t associate with people who slut-shame, and that they didn’t even deserve to carry my shopping bags. When I stepped out of the stall, she looked so embarrassed, like she didn’t want me to know she had a heart.”
“No wonder you’re so loyal to her, even though she’s terrifying.”
“Yeah, Mads is the best. She said, ‘That doesn’t mean I forgive you,’ and I said, ‘Oh, but you have to! I’m in dire need of someone to carry my shopping bags for me.’ And we never fought again after that.”
Let them think whatever they want. The people who matter know the truth. They were there, and they saw me through it.
“Did you tell your parents about all this?”
“Sort of. Not in detail. They bought me that to cheer me up.” I gesture at the Hermès bag on my dresser.
“They bought you a bag?”
“Not a bag. A Kelly. It’s atrociously difficult to get one. But anyway, that’s sort of the whole charade of my last relationship.”
I exhale. Right after the story rolled off my tongue, I regret oversharing.
Sean doesn’t need to hear about the rumors or how my parents solve relationship problems. He won’t get it.
They meant well; buying something impossible to get their hands on was their way of making me feel better, to show they cared.
But sometimes I wonder if they even understand what made me sad in the first place.
It wasn’t just because it was a story for other people to tell. It was that I let someone in, was open, vulnerable, and got nothing real back. After that, I started keeping things light.
What’s the point of dwelling on it? I’m fine now, and everyone loves me.
Sean pulls me into a tight hug. “I won’t hurt you. Take as much time as you need to trust me.”
I nod against his chest. He’s warm beneath my face.
The weight of his arms around me is solid, like nothing bad could reach me.
For a second, I almost let myself sink into it.
Maybe I don’t have to keep it together all the time.
He holds me for a while, and when I feel like I might cry, I squeeze my eyes to will the tears away.
No. That’s not how I want him to see me. I don’t need saving. I’m over it.
Sean needs to desire me, not pity me. Pulling myself together, I raise my head and narrow my eyes, challenging him. “Even if you need to wait for five years?”
He smiles. “I don’t think you can resist me for five years.”
I laugh.
He’s literally perfect.
* * *
November rolls around with one of those rare warm days, the air sharp with the crisp scent of falling leaves.
The clouds above are frozen still like they’re painted on.
I park outside a coffee shop I found online—one of those places everyone seems to be posting about but that I’ve never actually tried.
Sean’s already there, settled at a corner table with his usual setup. This is his solution to my chronic tardiness: claim a table, order something strong, read, and wait for me. His caffeine addiction is borderline unhealthy.
The sight of him brooding over his laptop fills me with warmth.
My heart faithfully skips a beat for him as I pull out a chair opposite him.
He glances up and smiles. He’s wearing a charcoal-gray crewneck sweater that makes him look effortlessly put together, even with disheveled hair and bloodshot eyes.
“What are you reading?” I lean over. “CNN?” I check the screen again to make sure it’s not a porn site disguised as CNN, then catch a headline about climate policy.
“I want to know what’s happening.”
“That’s what chat groups are for, you know.”
“No thanks. I don’t need updates on who blacked out at Raymond’s last party.”
Next to his laptop, there’s a half-finished book, Surely You’re Joking, Mr. Feynman!, a metal bookmark poking out. I make a mental note to google that later. His open notebook is a war zone of physics formulas, some scribbled out, others circled multiple times.
“This Feynman guy, does he have any funny lines?”
“‘Physics is like sex: sure, it may give some practical results, but that’s not why we do it.’” He quotes and heaves a sigh.
“But I’m not having too much fun with it right now.
I need to ace this physics Olympiad thing.
” He’s too stressed. It’s up to me to help him loosen up. “Want to order anything?”
I skim the menu and snort. “Who named these drinks? ‘Midsummer Lament’? ‘Velvet Remorse’? I want a latte, not an existential crisis.”
Sean doesn’t look up, but the corner of his mouth twitches. “You picked the place. Own it.”
“I bet at least fifteen percent of the proceeds go straight to therapy.”
A voice cuts in, smooth and warm. “Not a fan of our literary masterpieces?”
I look up. “Nick? Nicholas Ridge?”
“Flora Morgan! It’s been a while.”
“Nick, this is Sean. Sean, Nick.” Standing up, I pull Nick into a hug. We met during Christmas shopping last year, when he gave me spot-on advice about which tie to get my dad. “I can’t even remember the last time we talked. We need to change that!”
“Definitely. I upgraded my phone and lost half my contacts.” Nick pulls out his phone, checking. Of course he doesn’t have my number. I share it again, tossing in my Instagram handle for good measure. “Can’t risk losing touch again.”
“I’ll call you when my shift is over. What can I get you?”
I glance back at the menu. “I usually go for a chai latte, but I’m up for something different. Which of these tortured-soul specials would you recommend?”
“Try our Solstice Reverie. Our bestseller and truly life-changing.” He winks. “And it’s on the house. Only for a special friend like you.”
“You’re way too nice. I hope the drinks are as cool as you.” I hand the menu back to him, then eye his beige shirt, printed with tiny zeppelins. “Love the shirt, by the way.”
He flashes one last grin before he leaves with my order. I turn to Sean, excited to share my joy of getting in touch with an old friend, but he’s rubbing at his temples.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“Yup.” His tone is light, too light, like he’s deliberately keeping it that way. Then he sighs and pushes his notebook away. “All right. To be honest, sometimes maybe you flirt a little too much with everyone.”
My mouth falls open. “Come on, I was being friendly!”
“Why didn’t you tell him I’m your boyfriend?”
“I—I didn’t think. I wasn’t even sure you’d want me to introduce you like that.”
“Why wouldn’t I want that?”
My fingernails dig into my thighs. Get it together.
Are you stupid? This is the first time Sean has shown even a hint of frustration, and it hits hard.
He’s always been so patient—indulgent, even—and I let my guard down.
I got too comfortable with his affection, so much that I forgot it wasn’t something I was owed.
He’s as mature as the dark-roasted coffee he drinks, while I’m a lollipop—bright, shiny, all sugar on the outside and empty calories underneath. I’m lucky to have his attention at all, and now is not the time to blow it.
Sean pushes his hair back with one hand. “I overreacted. I’m sorry. I’ve been so stressed lately, and I let it get to me more than it should have.”
“I’ll go back there and tell him you’re my boyfriend.” Through this whole mess, there’s at least a small consolation that Sean acknowledges himself as that, my boyfriend. Sean Foster is my boyfriend. Intelligent, handsome, respectful, irresistible. He chose me, and I need to do better.
“Oh no, that’ll be weird. Forget I said anything.”
“How about we go social media official?”
“Like the grid and everything?”
I nod.
“If you’re going to do that, at least let me approve the photo.” His smile doesn’t make cute crinkles around his eyes like it usually does. “No, you don’t need to do anything. You did nothing wrong. I’m sorry I made you feel bad.”
But the guilt is already sinking in. What can I offer him? How can I impress him?
There’s only one thing in the world I know better than he does: having fun. So I playfully push the lid of his laptop down, determined to make him laugh, and remind myself to plan something exciting for later.
In my head, I review all the new rules on my imaginary list:
Stop being late. Drive slower. Follow CNN. Google Richard Feynman for insightful quotes. Don’t flirt with other guys—no, don’t even hang out with them, especially random ones you met eons ago. Plan more fun dates.
Make Sean happy.
November 17
Flora: Sorry about today
Sean: Don’t worry about it. I’m sorry too
Sean: I’m worried about the exam and I took it out on you
Flora sent a photo
Sean: Is that what you’re wearing right now??
Flora: What? It’s just a top
Flora: What are you doing?
Sean: I was studying,
Sean: But now you’ve turned me into quantum mechanics
Flora: What’s that like?
Sean: Hard
Incoming call from Flora