Chapter Eight
Sean
Dating Flora is the single most overwhelming thing I’ve done in my life. I’m in way, way over my head, but she’s so hot she burns away every shred of my sanity.
We’re in her room, and she wants to show me everything she bought this week. Once the ribbons are untied and the packages opened, she tries things on, twirling and asking for my opinions.
What can I say? She looks wonderful in everything, and I have a lot more interest in the body underneath.
“It’s hideous. Please, take it off. All of it.”
She laughs. “This one is my favorite.” She slips on a red dress, the fabric falling around her curves. Red is definitely her color. “How was your day, by the way?”
“Great. I have an idea for my AP Chemistry project—”
“Wait, let’s take a photo.” She climbs onto the bed beside me and holds up her phone.
“What’s the occasion?”
“I want everyone to know you’re my boyfriend.”
“Isn’t that what the last fifteen photos were for?”
“They need a constant reminder.” She presses a kiss to my cheek. “The world needs to know you’re mine.”
“I am yours, don’t you worry.”
It’s flattering that she wants to claim me.
At least now her fans can ease off on the DMs. With merely five mighty posts, I’ve never cared about social media, but there’s this small part of me that does take some quiet satisfaction in the fact that she’s not hiding me.
The only person who still calls her nonstop is Raymond—but that’s fine.
They’ve been friends forever and she finds him hilarious.
She posts the photo, and I try to start again about the cloud chamber I’m building. Flora nods, but her focus is already gone, her fingers flying across her phone. I cut my story short and jump right to the conclusion.
It’s ironic. She likes that I’m STEM savvy—finds it hot, even.
But sometimes it feels like that’s all she really wants from me: the label, not the substance.
A random fact here or there? Sure. Dorky in small doses—Sean, you’re so cute, send me more.
But the second I go deeper, her attention slips away.
That’s not her fault.
I’m a boring guy who’s crazy about a girl who gets bored easily.
Even when we’re out with a crowd and enjoying ourselves, she’ll announce that she wants a change of scenery.
When Dylan broke up with Sydney (again) two weeks ago, Flora decided he needed a proper distraction.
Instead of playing pool at his house as we planned, she showed up at his basement with the entire cheerleading squad from our rival school, plus a full bar setup, with shot glasses and all.
The “breakup party” came out of nowhere, and by the time I caught on, she was taking body shots off me.
I thought I’d be teaching her how to play pool, not lying half naked on the table with salt crystalizing on my stomach.
Jake’s family runs a small wine import business, and he’s usually able to get his hands on alcohol, but even he was blown away by the scale of it. He slung an arm around Flora, laughing. “You’re a prodigy. Now I’m tempted to date someone just to break up and get this treatment.”
“How did you even get them to show up?” I asked, still trying to process everything.
Flora shrugged. “Everyone likes a good party.”
Now her phone buzzes. She checks it, eyebrows lifting. “Sydney texted—they got back together over Thanksgiving. Did you know?”
“Yes, didn’t think it was newsworthy. It’s a volatile situation.”
“Time for a so lucky to have you back celebratory party?”
“You’ll never run out of business if you throw one every time their relationship status changes.”
“Fine. A simple double date, then. It’ll be fun.”
“You know they’ll probably break up again before we even get reservations, right?”
I’m still full from Thanksgiving dinner and exhausted from all the family commitments, plus keeping up with my workload, but I don’t say no to Flora.
* * *
The next evening we’re at a dimly lit restaurant, crammed into a corner booth. We barely sit down before Dylan’s already sticking his tongue down Sydney’s throat.
“This is what you want?” I raise my eyebrows at Flora, who doesn’t seem to mind one bit. “Dinner with porn?”
She shrugs. “Want to fight porn with porn?”
Somehow, we make it through the meal between make-out breaks and bickering over appetizers. After the two disentangle from each other, they suggest hitting a board game café. We order hot chocolates and initiate a game of Wingspan, chatting in bursts between turns.
Dylan flips over a card and narrows his eyes. “I lay three eggs, then tuck a bird under another bird? This game’s got layers.”
“It’s called strategy.” Sydney stacks her food tokens into a tower.
Between admiring the artwork and unsolicited trivia about migratory patterns, Flora takes over the role of talk show host and veers into couple dynamics. “What’s the most romantic thing Dylan’s done for you?”
Sydney squares her shoulders. “He beat up a couple of seniors for me and got detention. Also, we were stranded in the rain once, and he played guitar and sang to me until it stopped.”
Not surprising. Underneath all the bravado and eff bombs, Dylan’s the kind of guy who crouches to talk to little kids at eye level, helps grandmas carry groceries without making a big deal out of it, and chops vegetables for his mom, waiting up to eat dinner with her after she gets home from her law office.
Serenading? Checks out.
Sydney tosses the same question back at Flora, who blinks a few times. “Sean texts me the sweetest things?” She picks up her phone. “I love his texts. He sends me biology trivia, for example—”
“You don’t need to show them,” I interrupt.
Dylan leans forward and places his palms on the table. “I’m intrigued. Do share. Does Seany text you in Morse code?”
“Here’s one about how zebras need their herd to feel safe, and he calls me Zebra One to his Zebra Two. And—oh, this one. ‘I miss how you feel against my largest organ.’”
Sydney’s eyes widen, and Flora clarifies, “Skin, Sydney. It’s the skin.”
Dylan smirks. “Yeah, that’s not my largest organ.”
“It’s not as large as you might think.” Sydney glares at him and he grins, then shakes his head at me. “Dude, you’re embarrassing.” This is premium roast material. I’ll never live it down.
The things I do for you, Flora. I could be at home right now, in sweatpants.
We keep playing, swapping more couple secrets as I pretend to study the wetlands habitat bonus card, and I die a little more every second. Every new reveal is a fresh nail in my coffin, but Flora’s having fun, so there’s that. Glad my lameness counts as currency.
At one point, a waitress comes by to refill our water, wearing a shirt with a plunging neckline. When she leans down, the outline of her purple bra is hard to miss. Dylan, being a pal, kicks me under the table.
He could’ve been a little more tactful because Sydney catches it too.
Dylan used to be a serial cheater, and even though he’s pulled his shit together, the history is enough to keep Sydney on edge.
Instead of calling him out directly, she goes for the jugular by bringing up his contributions to the game last Friday.
“You only scored two points,” she says. “It wouldn’t even matter if you were off the team. ”
Dylan is his own worst critic, and he gets that look when he’s beating himself up. He doesn’t deserve to be dragged through the mud like that.
“He’s the point guard,” I say, even though I should stay out of it. Flora would never do this to me. “He’s not supposed to shoot that much. His job is to set things up and create opportunities for the rest of us, not rack up points for himself.”
“Exactly.” Dylan perks up. “I pass to Sean and Jake, who are the primary scorers. My job’s to get them the ball.” He pauses to grin at me. “Sean’s performance could be a little more consistent, though.”
And that’s the thanks I get for sticking up for him.
Sydney scoffs. “Then a point guard must be someone who sucks at shooting.”
“Dylan has one of the highest free throw percentages on the team,” I say.
“Yeah, Syd. Maybe you should shut up before people realize you’re stupid,” Dylan says. “Or is it too late?”
Flora’s mouth falls open for half a second before she smooths it over with a bright smile.
“Oh, come on, Dyl, don’t be like that.” She swings an arm around Sydney’s shoulder.
“And Syd, I love watching them play, don’t you?
They look so good in their basketball jerseys.
Remember that buzzer-beater Dylan made last month?
We’re so proud to be part of the Wolverines family. ”
Flora’s skills in diffusing tough situations are epic.
She’s familiar with our plays, can break down strategies, and makes insightful comments that surprise me all the time, but she dumbs herself down to lighten the atmosphere.
My chest aches in the best way, and all I want is to take her home, away from these people.
By then, Dylan’s chugging water quicker than rain absorption in the Sahara Desert so that our waitress comes by for refills more frequently. Finally, Sydney says, “Why don’t you ask her for some duct tape so you can attach your face to her cleavage?”
Dylan shrugs. “If I had duct tape, I’d use it over your mouth.”
Sydney picks up her glass and throws the water in his face.
Flora stands up. “I have to make a call outside.”
Really? Abandoning me in the middle of the battlefield? After she’s the one who suggested this? They’re on the verge of a breakup right in front of me, and I’m left scrambling to keep the peace—and the plastic egg tokens—from rolling off the table.
My phone rings, and Flora says, “This is your rescue call. Come join me outside.”
Dylan and Sydney are too busy tearing each other apart to care when I leave. I push open the door to find Flora laughing.
“Happy now?” I pinch her nose.
“How did we go from a wholesome bird-themed board game to—what the heck was that?”
“One of the duller episodes of The Sydney/Dylan Show.”
She puts her arms around my neck. We kiss for a while in the corner of the coffee shop, relieved to have a moment alone. No noise, no second-guessing if she’s already getting bored. When we leave that evening, we’re convinced we’re the best couple in the world.
* * *
About a week after the double date from hell, Flora and I are hanging out in her room. I’m on the floor flipping through my German vocab list while she sprawls on the mattress, scrolling through shorts about Korean skincare trends.
“What are we doing this weekend?” Flora asks.
“Can we go skating again?” I was so proud when I came up with the idea, because Flora had skied but never ice-skated. Seeing her delight as she clung to my arm, laughing every time she lost her balance, made me feel like I had given her something new.
“Again? But we already did that.”
I swallow the disappointment and shift gears. “What do you want to do? I’m fine with anything.” And it’s not a lie. Flora likes arranging our dates, and I prefer leaving it to her, as long as we can spend time together. She’s so fun and knows everything about everything.
“Let’s go to a themed party!”
She’s so excited I can’t bring myself to refuse.
If it was up to me, I wouldn’t mind watching Netflix at home, but with Flora that seems to be the last resort.
Deep down, I miss when it was just the two of us, grabbing coffee and talking for hours.
Keeping up with her whirlwind energy is so far out of my comfort zone.
Doubt lingers at the back of my mind. Between her short attention span, the pull of her overflowing social life, the flood of unread texts lighting up her phone, and that natural flirt gene wired into her DNA, there’s always that fear.
What if I’m not enough?
But I’m fascinated by Flora. Most of the time I simply give in and accept the fact that I’m one among her many fans. “If that’s what you want to do, I—”
“Yay! Then it’s decided. Oh, before I forget, I got you something. I saw this and thought of you.” She hops off the bed and dives into the mountain of shopping bags piled in the corner. After rummaging through a few, she pulls out a small paper bag and hands it to me.
I have limited fashion knowledge, but this one I recognize.
“Gucci?” I ask, alarmed.
“You know? I’m so proud of you.” Flora beams. “Open it.”
I pull out a palm-sized key ring. It’s metal, shaped like a heart, with intricate toothed gears inside, the exposed mechanics resembling the inner workings of a clock.
Flora leans in, studying my reaction. “Is it too girly? Gucci is all about maximalism and gender fluidity now.”
“No, it’s not that. But this had to cost a lot, right?”
She rolls her eyes. “Come on, this is the least expensive thing you can possibly find in the store.”
“Thank you, baby. But I don’t feel comfortable when you spend money on me.”
“Please. This is nothing. Let’s be happy you have a rich girlfriend, okay?” She touches my face and smiles, so dazzling that she should be in a Gucci ad campaign.
“I’m not dating you for your money.”
“I’m not dating you for your looks, either, but I sure won’t complain about them.”
“Oh, I’m not so sure you aren’t dating me for my looks.”
“Busted.” She laughs. “Oh, come on, it’s to symbolize that you have my heart. I offer you the best two things I can give you”—she pauses dramatically before holding out her arms—“label, and love.”
I should correct her, but I don’t want to come off as too serious. I can joke too. “That’s not the best you can give me. You can give me something that starts with a b—” . . . and ends with job.
“Bacon? Binoculars?” She frowns, pretending not to get it. “Ah, a baby! We barely know each other. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”
That part’s true. We really don’t know enough about each other.
She throws the best parties with a snap of her fingers, gives me expensive gifts, buys everyone caramel macchiatos at Starbucks as she pleases, takes me on the craziest dates . . .
But ungratefully, sometimes I worry. Even with all the science trivia in the world, I’m not interesting enough for her.