Chapter Twenty-five
Flora
“Would you stop staring at Sean like you’re on a police stakeout?” Madison snaps. I wrench my gaze from his table with brutal force, and then adjust my seat so I have my back to him.
“I still don’t understand why you can’t give him a chance,” Carmen says. “You’re clearly into each other. Why insist on torturing him?”
Madison scowls at Carmen as if she said something ludicrous, like Crocs are acceptable footwear. She already knows I’m over getting revenge, and couldn’t be more relieved. “He’ll hurt her again, that’s why.”
Ever since Sean’s confession, I’ve been stuck in some weird emotional purgatory. There’s no master plan after the party, only the weight of my feelings and the need to ignore him for the sake of my self-preservation.
Carmen shrugs. “Any guy sweet enough to spend five hundred dollars on his kid sister’s surprise party deserves a second chance.”
“He didn’t spend five hundred dollars,” I correct her.
“I saved him a ton, and he thought the cake cost ninety dollars when it was in fact three hundred.” Sean has no clue how much a customized cake with a Lindsey figurine is worth, and I lied about losing the receipt.
“Anyway, I’m so over him. I’d rather be alone with a cactus. ”
Carmen kicks me under the table. Sean stands beside us, the top two buttons of his shirt undone, giving me a glimpse of the smooth skin underneath. He sits down and steals a piece of diced pear from my lunch tray.
“We weren’t talking about you or anything,” I say defensively.
“Of course not.” He greets everyone, my friends respond to his small talk, and we all act as amicable as a group of old people playing bridge.
Sean seems . . . different. More self-assured? He drapes his arm along the back of my chair and helps himself to the rest of my unfinished lunch. After wiping his fingers on a napkin, he turns to me. “You’re done? Let’s walk to history class together.”
“Are you my guide dog? I don’t need you to walk with me.”
He smiles. “Oh, I know you don’t need me. But I need you. History is my favorite time of day.”
“I thought AP Chemistry was your favorite subject this semester,” I say, standing up. “You get to exchange smart-people talk with Mr. Miles.”
“History isn’t my favorite subject. I said it’s my favorite time of day.”
My insides shiver uselessly, and I hide it by ignoring him all the way to the classroom. It’s difficult to concentrate knowing he’s sitting three rows behind me and slightly to the right. Halfway through the class, my phone alerts me to a text from Sean.
Sean: (x2 + y2 - 1)3 - x2 y3 = 0
Sean: Can you please solve this for me?
What is he up to? I text him back. That looks like math beyond my algebraic jurisdiction.
He replies almost immediately. Want me to walk you through it?
I text back. No, just tell me the answer . . . or don’t.
Sean: All right, if you insist. Would’ve been a lot more romantic if I showed you on Desmos, impatient young grasshopper
He sends a picture, and I open it to reveal a graph. Sean’s equation produces a looping curve that stretches outward in both directions, symmetrical across the y-axis and tapering to a sharp point at the bottm. It forms a perfect heart shape.
This is his idea of romantic?
Ugh. Flora, why are you so weak?
I turn to shake my head at him, and he rewards me with a grin.
Not going to lie—the old Flora enjoys the attention and hopes he’ll keep up his antics, although the new, sensible Flora wishes he’d leave her alone. Kind of.
* * *
When I open my locker on Tuesday, there’s a photocopied periodic table. Underneath it, Sean has printed in that goody-goody handwriting of his:
Barium Beryllium Yttrium Oxygen Uranium Rhenium Copper Tellurium
I can’t decide if it’s more considerate or condescending of him to attach the periodic table for my reference. Picking up my pen, I translate his encrypted message:
BaBe YOU’Re CuTe
I bite the inside of my cheek. Smiling at a chemistry pickup line in the crowded hallway isn’t good for my image. He’s such a dork.
* * *
After we endure another round of history class, Sean comes over. He takes the seat in front of me and sits down backward, placing his legs on either side of the chair. He gestures to my arm and holds up a pen.
“We’re going to be late for our next class.”
“This will only take a sec.” He reaches for my forearm. “Besides, your next class is right across the hall.”
“But you’ll be late for yours.”
“I can run fast.” He scribbles along the inside of my arm, while his other hand lingers over my wrist. The warmth of his fingers sears my skin. What he’s writing begins with www.
“Couldn’t you have texted me this?”
“Where’s the fun in that?” He finishes writing and looks up. “You don’t have to use it if you don’t want to, but I designed a blog for you. It’s a style blog.”
“A style blog?”
“Yes, so you can put your talent to good use. Write about what you wear every day and offer fashion tips. Rip apart this year’s Met Gala too.”
“Why would I want to do that?” This is the exact kind of thing I might do.
“You want to be a fashion editor. Not sure how the fashion industry works, but I figure a blog won’t hurt, especially if yours takes off.
Your book of buttons is incredible, but it’s good to have reach with a digital platform.
You could cross-link it to your Instagram handle as part of a broader online presence. ”
God, how is he now doing everything right? He’s so good at this, making me want more than I should. Better not to get sucked into this. I pull my arm away from his grasp.
“Show-off.” I get up to leave. “You just want to prove you can build a better web page than anyone else.”
“I don’t know if it’s better,” he says with a sunny grin, “but I made it with love.”
* * *
On Wednesday at lunch, Sean swings by my table and drops a jumbo pack of Hershey’s Kisses on my lunch tray. When he saunters back to his table, I pick up the plastic bag and weigh it in my hand.
“That’s a lot of kisses,” Carmen says.
“That’s a lot of calories.” Madison narrows her eyes. “What’s that about?”
I shrug, suppressing the bubbles rising inside me. Sean is basically declaring himself in front of my friends. “He’s been doing a lot of cute things lately.”
Carmen tears open the bag.
Madison makes a face. “That’s considered cute? You’d probably find it cute if Sean gave you a toilet plunger.”
“Give him a break,” Josie says. “He’s in uncharted territory. First time he’s ever chased a girl.”
We share a few pieces (while Madison glares, since Sean didn’t offer a vegan option), but there are too many. As the self-appointed goodwill ambassador of Lakeridge High, I get up and hand chocolates to everyone nearby, slowly working my way over to where Sean is.
I stop in front of him. “Sorry, Sean. No kisses for you.”
He shrugs. “That’s okay. I don’t want anything less than the real deal anyway.”
My brain freezes. He’s declared himself in front of his friends, who’re all snickering like they’re some sort of deranged woodland hyenas. “Dare to dream.”
“Oh, but I already did.” He gets up to walk me to class, and I blush furiously underneath my makeup. Behind us, Dylan makes a guttural animal noise like it’s supposed to mean something, and Jake fake-whispers, “They grow up so fast.”
We head for history in silence, but my mood is light. I still ignore him, but Sean smiles at me when we reach the classroom, holds the door for me, and as always, gives me breathing problems.
* * *
On Thursday during history class, Sean sends a paper airplane sailing onto my desk.
This might not have been a big deal coming from someone else, but Sean is a compulsive note taker.
The idea of him pausing in the middle of the lecture to fold a paper plane is unbelievable, and, of course, everyone watches as he flies it at me.
Written on the wings of the plane is: Please pass on to Flora Morgan if I missed.
Sean and his precautions. I unfold the plane.
I want to be yours.
Please. I’ll do anything. I miss you.
Chills run down my arms and a lump forms in my throat.
Tears prick behind my eyelids without warning.
Back when we were together, he used to say he was mine, that he belonged to me, as if it’d make him sound less possessive.
I blink, fighting the emotions rising to the surface.
It’s not only that I miss him, but the ache of wanting to be someone he can’t let go of.
When class is over, I push the plane aside. “Are you in third grade? A paper plane?”
“Hey, I’m out of tricks,” he replies. “And if I was in third grade, I’d put little yes-no boxes underneath and ask you to respond ASAP.”
I laugh despite myself.
“What’s your answer?”
I pick up my books. “You’re a smart guy, figure it out.”
* * *
And then, nothing.
All through Friday, Sean does nothing. No cute notes, no texts, no walking to class together, and no snacks at lunch.
I check my phone again, switch it to airplane mode, then back on just in case.
When the last class ends, I search my locker for the fifth time to make sure there isn’t any love letter stuck in a corner.
“What have you been up to lately?” Sean asks.
My heart jumps. I forget if I should be mad at him or pleased that he showed up. He leans against the locker next to mine in his varsity jacket, his backpack slung over one shoulder. The ultimate high-school dream.
“You know, the usual.” I fumble with my number lock. “Staying at home, knitting, writing a symphony, that sort of thing.”
“Interesting,” he says. “Hey, I was wondering if you could help me with a relationship problem. I met someone. I’ve never felt this way before.”
“Isn’t that nice—”
“But after we shared a scandalous kiss, and there’s even a pair of ridiculous wings involved, she’s ignored me for two weeks,” he says, deadpan.
“To be exact, it’s been thirteen days. Thirteen agonizing days.
The question is, do you think I should try harder?
Or should I stop because I’m beginning to feel like a stalker? ”
I smile even though I don’t want to.
“Or maybe she’s too busy writing a symphony?” he presses.
“Maybe you kissed lousily.”
He scratches his chin, pretending to consider, then he shakes his head. “Impossible.”
I laugh. I’m seriously too weak. “Maybe you should try harder.”
“Okay, Flora. I’ll try harder.” He stares straight into my eyes, and I just about crumble to a puddle of pink pulp around his feet. He turns, pulling open the zipper of his backpack, and takes out a large envelope. “This is for you.”
Inside is a framed photo. It’s the one Daniel took of us in the cafeteria, with me laughing and Sean gazing at me. It made me emotional the first time, and the second time isn’t any easier either, especially since it’s from Sean. He understands what’s captured in that picture too.
“I look hideous,” I say, trying to act nonchalant.
“You’re beautiful.”
“And look at you.” I tilt the picture. “It’s clear. Admit you’re into me.”
“I already told you I like you,” he says. “You’re all I think about.”
And there it is. All the questions I tormented myself with, all the doubts I fed into my own head—they vanish.
Why did I waste time anguishing over winning and losing?
Why did I bother making him prove he wants me?
I could spend a lifetime figuring out how to keep my heart safe, but I just want to be with him.
I want those late-night conversations and text messages filled with corny lines.
I want to hear him laugh, even if I’m always the one who cares more.
Fine, he broke my heart before. Maybe it’ll happen again.
I’m probably still not good enough for perfect Sean.
But this. Him. He’s right here, and I’m done pretending I don’t want him.
I’m down for whatever lies ahead if I get to have him, for as long as I can, even if it’s only until he gets tired of me.
His smile, his touch, and his kiss will always be stuck in my head like one of those annoyingly catchy songs.
“Hey, I know what I want for my second wish,” I say, the words slipping out before I can stop them.
He swallows. “Okay?”
“Go out with me tomorrow. You can’t leave until I say so.”
“Am I a date or a subscription service with no cancellation policy?” He smiles, then it falters. “Wait. This seems overly easy. You help me throw a party, and I get a kiss and a date? What’s the catch?”
I shrug.
He nudges me with his elbow. “Come on, admit you like me a little too,” he says, glancing down.
Oh, who am I kidding? I’m smitten. “Fine, I like you. I like you a lot. I thought it was pretty obvious. I just thought that, maybe, you should make an effort. I feel like I’m always the one to initiate things, and . . .” It sounds so stupid when I explain it out loud. “You know what? Never mind.”
“Fair enough, but I’m initiating this.” He puts one hand on the locker door next to my face, and the other lifts my chin. Then he lowers his head to kiss me.
A locker kiss!
This is as public as it gets, and Sean, who hates attention, doesn’t seem to mind. He’s kissing me like there’s no one else in the world. People are staring, but I’m too caught up in the moment to care. My head spins. This is long overdue.
“Wow.” I gasp after he pulls back, my arms still circling his waist. “Wouldn’t something as tacky as a locker kiss ruin your reputation?”
“Why would kissing the most beautiful girl in school ruin my reputation?”
He kisses me again.