Who’s not here.
He hasn’t emailed yet. Fourteen days into the month, and I haven’t heard a peep from him, not even a mention that he’s alive and well. The last couple days of January, he sent me a bouquet of red roses. I think he meant for them to arrive today. At least I hope so—that way I’d know he still thinks about us and hasn’t planned to end our relationship for good.
My mother’s comment at the Fizzle event hasn’t calmed my worries either. If she thinks I need a “backup” plan, I wonder who else believes he’ll ditch me when he returns home.
That paranoia—it festers like a sore. I glance at the glass vase on my end table. The roses droop and wilt, but the card sits open. Remembering the words in Lo’s messy scrawl eases me a little.
These are real.
My chest swells. These are real.
3 YEARS AGO
Reality TV blares through my flat screen. Nothing beats faking sick on a school day and staying home in pajamas to watch trashy television. I lazily unwrap the individual chocolates from the heart-shaped Valentine’s box on my lap when a knock bangs on my door.
For a moment, I debate on hiding the sweets, but I go against it. Too much work, and really, what’s the probability that my mother is on the other side of the door? The last time she willfully entered my room was probably two years ago when our housekeeper accidentally shelved one of Daisy’s debutant dresses in my closet. I opened my door to find my mother hysterically screaming at the air—haphazardly flinging my clothes in wild distress and anger. When she found the maroon gown, she told me I should have realized the dress was misplaced. And then she stomped away.
Leaving me alone.
It’s safe to say the knock did not come from her.
My door slowly swings open without an invitation, and I immediately relax. Lo fills the archway, wearing his Dalton Academy uniform: black slacks, white button-down, and the skinny blue tie that has been loosened at his neck. It fits him well…maybe too well.
He scans me in a long once-over, and then his brows rise in accusation. “No runny nose, no clammy skin, cough or even a wad of tissues,” he says. “I must say, Lil, you are the worst at faking sick.”
“Good thing I’m not really trying.”
“Why didn’t you tell me you were going to skip?” he asks, still lingering by the door frame. Odd, but I try not to question it.
“I didn’t want you to feel obligated to skip with me.” I straighten up and lean against my headboard. The truth: pretending to be in a relationship with Lo consists of PDA. Lots of it. Since it’s Valentine’s Day, I didn’t want to be in class and have a candy gram delivered to me. Or be in the hallways trying to escalate the flirty looks and make out sessions just to show off our fake romance. I’m exhausted just thinking about it.
His eyes land on my nightstand. Twenty-four red roses bloom in a crystal vase. The little card sticks out from the sea of petals. I already read it out loud this morning at Daisy’s request. Happy Valentine’s Day. With all my love, Lo.
“Nice touch,” I tell him after the moment of silence. “Daisy nearly died when she saw them, and I think my mom was really pleased.” We’re definitely selling our fake relationship well. Six months in and no one has questioned it thus far.
“Do you like them?” he wonders, undoing the rest of his tie.
I break away to look at the roses again. No boy has ever sent me flowers. On my birthday, the house will be overflowing with lilies to commemorate the occasion, but they’re usually from family or friends of my parents.
At first I thought these roses were another pretend gesture of our fake relationship. Now that Lo asks me if I like them, I’m not so sure anymore.
“They’re pretty and much better than lilies,” I admit.
“I’m the best fake boyfriend ever then,” he says with an easy smile. And my suspicions sputter out. Fake boyfriend. Of course. He finally closes the distance between us and plops down next to me. He tilts my box of chocolates with his finger and grimaces. “You’re nasty.”
“I don’t like the fillings.” All the chocolates are bitten in half and some have been spit back out into the box. I have yet to find one that isn’t revolting.
“Well, I can’t look at this.” He closes the box and sets it on the nightstand. He scoots nearer, leans a little closer and gently rests his palm on my forehead, successfully invading my space and causing my breath to whoosh from my lungs.
“You’re not warm,” he says softly and drops his hand to my neck and lightly presses. “Lymph nodes aren’t swollen.”