Chapter Nine
Flora
We’re sitting in my bedroom the day before I’m set to leave with my family for Wyoming for vacation, and I set my chin against Sean’s shoulder. “I’m going to miss you so much during the Christmas holiday.”
“Me too.” He strokes my cheek. “I’ll call you all the time.”
“Hopefully we have the same definition of ‘all the time.’”
“Don’t worry. Hey, you haven’t opened my present yet.”
The prospect of opening gifts is always appealing, though I’ve learned not to get my hopes up with guys. It’s the thought that counts. Part of the fun is acting delighted when I’m inwardly horrified at their taste.
I open the tiny black box. Jewelry is usually a bad idea.
But a pair of exquisite earrings are nestled against soft fabric.
The metal is a soft, burnished bronze, aged with a timeless patina.
Each piece holds an oval crystal, the facets catching the light with a subtle shimmer that evokes a vintage heirloom.
I’m speechless for a second. They’re perfect. “Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you! You have great taste!”
“Madison does. I sent her a bunch of pictures and asked her opinion. She’s brutal, by the way. I’m terrified of her.”
He shows me the texts:
1. Tell me you sent that by accident. Do you hate her?
2. Is it a Christmas gift or a breakup announcement?
3. I’d rather receive a handwritten apology than this.
4. Slap yourself. Now.
5. Send me your location. I just want to talk.
6. . . . . . . . . . . . .
I burst out laughing. “Mads is ruthless. I wish you gave me a heads-up about exchanging gifts, though. Now I feel bad I didn’t get you anything.”
“You gave me the key chain.”
I scrutinize my room, tapping a finger against my chin.
“That was only a trinket. Doesn’t count.
I’m sure I can find something among this mess to give to you.
” I rope him into a game of hot or cold, shouting out random temperatures to throw him off, until he pulls out a large Louis Vuitton paper bag from the back of my closet.
His fingers freeze over it. “Baby, please tell me you’re using a Louis Vuitton bag to disguise something else.”
“I’m offended. Do I look like someone who’d do such a tacky thing? Go on, open it!”
He lifts the gift like it might detonate—a duffel bag in the classic monogram print.
I chose it for him because, even though I appreciate his simple style, a little glam wouldn’t hurt.
The deep caramel and rich tobacco tones add dimension to his usual cool-toned palette, an intentional contrast. Some people say it’s too new money, but on him, it works.
The right statement piece can elevate an entire wardrobe.
“Do you like it? You can bring this anywhere and travel in style!”
“I like it.” He bites his lower lip. “But I can’t accept it.”
“Oh my god. I knew it. I had my doubts, but I thought since your clothes are so . . . understated, maybe something bolder would work. A single standout piece against clean neutrals. I should’ve gone with something more low-key, like Bottega Veneta, but this felt like a calculated risk.”
“It’s not that. I’m no fashion guru, but I know how much this must’ve cost.”
I wave him off. “It’s not that expensive.”
(Okay, it kind of was, especially after I splurged on that tweed jacket for myself, but it was totally worth it.)
“I really, really appreciate it, but this is too extravagant.” His face is all guilt and sincerity. “I’m more of a JanSport kind of guy. Can we return it?”
“No! How appalling. My family doesn’t do returns.” I cross my arms with a dramatic huff. “If you don’t want it, I’ll give it to Jeremy.”
Relief spreads across his face. “Great, do that. He’ll love it.”
“And you shall receive his present, which is a mug with mug mittens.”
“Please give me the mug with mittens!” His voice shifts into playful pleading as he grabs my left hand with both of his. “Ever since I was a little boy, that’s all I’ve ever wanted for Christmas.”
When Sean’s this cute, I can’t stay annoyed for one second. I chuckle despite myself. “Fine, you get the mug.”
“How about I take some photos with my ex–Louis Vuitton?” he suggests to humor me. He holds the bag in his best model poses and pouts at the camera. I giggle with girlish delight, snapping photo after photo at my gorgeous boyfriend holding expensive leather.
* * *
As January begins and the date of Sean’s USAPhO looms like a comet hurtling toward Earth, I see less and less of him.
Physics Olympiad is a phrase I never expected to feature in my life before, but it’s now making a frequent guest appearance.
Sean abandons me half the time for studying sessions and the other half for basketball practices, but I try to stay positive, reminding myself that he’s a rare blend of brains and athleticism. I should be proud.
It still frustrates me to no end, however.
After school one day, we chat for about eight seconds before he announces he’s heading to the library, again. Since Wikipedia exists, why would anyone need the library?
“I want to spend more time with you.” It’s been over four months since our first kiss, three months since we went exclusive. Thanksgiving and Christmas have come and gone, and my infatuation is still going strong. “Can I come with you?”
“No, I can’t concentrate with you there.” He leans against the brick wall, navy Herschel bag slung over one shoulder.
“I won’t say a single word. I’ll sit near you and do my own stuff.”
Such as continuing my research on cloud chambers (it’s a real thing, apparently).
Sometimes Sean talks to me about his science projects, and I change the topic—not because I don’t care, but because he’ll realize how ignorant I am.
There’s only so many times I can ask him to explain it like I’m five before it starts feeling pathetic.
And every time I sit there, nodding along, I wonder if he can tell I’m pretending to keep up.
“But I’ll keep looking at you.”
“It’s just an English essay.” I’m on the verge of tearing out my hair. “I don’t get why it’s taking you a week.”
“School’s important to me.” His tone isn’t patronizing, but somehow it lands that way.
For my most recent paper, I wrote about fashion in Victorian literature and focused on ornate hats, velvet accents, fur trims, and lace details, and threw in a couple of Oscar Wilde quotes to round it out.
I got an A minus with the comment “insightful,” and I achieved that in two hours. Time management at its best.
“I want to get into a good university. I’ll need a scholarship if I end up somewhere other than MIT,” Sean says, like there’s any real chance he won’t get in. “Not everyone has the kind of money your family does.”
“I can’t control my family or circumstances.”
“I’m saying you’re very lucky, but sometimes I have more important things to do than go to the mall with you.”
Kind of a low blow, isn’t it? I never mentioned shopping—at least, not today. Rational me starts to crumble, and defensive me steps up fast. “You’re suggesting I can’t get into a good college, but I won’t starve because my parents won’t let me die on the street.”
“No. I think you can do anything you want in life if you put your heart into it.”
“I already put all my heart into getting the one thing I want in life,” I say. “You.”
He laughs. “Right. That’s the easiest thing you could’ve done. I’m defenseless when it comes to you.”
It doesn’t quite soothe the knot in my chest. I feel like a dumb cheerleader whose only purpose is to entertain.
I’m also mildly jealous that he’s so driven.
It’d be kind of cool if I could also associate myself with words like academic or intellect, but I have the attention span of a three-year-old who watches too much SpongeBob SquarePants.
Sean pulls me into his arms. When he strokes my hair, I catch the shadows under his eyes.
“Have you been getting enough sleep?” I ask.
“Not really. I’ve been staying up to finish homework after we hang up. And with the Olympiad coming up, there just isn’t enough time.”
My heart softens. Poor kid. “Sorry. I won’t keep you, then. I’ll find someone else to bother.”
Don’t be clingy—that’s not sexy.
Before he leaves, he tugs me behind the building to kiss me. “I’m so lucky to have a girlfriend like you. You’re intelligent, fun, interesting, witty, and supportive.”
He pauses to kiss me after every adjective, and I laugh, somewhat relieved that he cares enough to offer me a half-hearted consolation. Even if, right now, I’m competing with the entire universe for a scrap of his time.
* * *
I join Carmen, Jake, Dylan, and Sydney for an afternoon treat. When no one has a better idea, we stop at Amber’s, our go-to ice-cream place, and as usual, the smell of fresh-baked waffles and the red vinyl seats comfort me.
“Did you have a good Christmas break?” Jake scrapes the bottom of his bowl. “Bet you went somewhere luxurious again.”
“I went to a resort in Jackson Hole with my parents.” And they talked to each other every day about value propositions and clinical trials while I played with my phone. “You?”
“Eh. Me and my sister helped my dad renovate the bathroom. My mom picked the worst tiles. They’re near impossible to remove.” Jake has this way of smiling that makes everything seem like a private joke, like his eyes are always laughing. I wonder how he can be so perpetually happy.
“We didn’t go anywhere either,” Dylan says.
He means him and his mom. Sean told me Dylan’s dad flew for Alaska Airlines before he passed, and now Dylan spends as much time with his lawyer mom as he can.
I ran into them at a restaurant once, and they were fully engaged in conversation in Spanish.
She didn’t seem bored, and he never checked his phone.
Apparently, highly educated professionals can have a decent sit-down dinner with their kid. Who knew?