My cell dings in my purse, a high-pitched whistle that sounds like a faraway train. I dig through tubes of lip balm, receipts, and a Lone Bean napkin, finally extricating the phone.

It’s a text from Carlos, my best friend since middle school. What are you up to?

Top secret, I reply, with two flower emojis for emphasis. Carlos knows I’m at work—I’ve worked at the Bloom Room, an upscale flower shop, every Monday after school for the last three years.

Don’t you want to see ONE of Farrah’s parties before we graduate? Carlos sends back.

Farrah Sullivan throws a party every time her dad leaves town, which is usually once a month. And even if it’s a school night, most of the Pacific Heights student body shows up to get trashed. Farrah has a pool and a Ping-Pong table in her backyard. And her fridge is always stocked with free beer—or so I’ve heard. Carlos just doesn’t want to go by himself because his crush will be there: Alan Gregory, the boy with two first names who goes to Worther Prep in Beverly Hills and who has been flirting with Carlos since they met at some indie concert in West Hollywood last month.

I sigh and lean my elbows on the front counter. Sorry, I type. You’ll do great without me, like always. I miss out on all of the social functions: the parties, the clubs, the trips down to Venice Beach to watch the sunset while sipping rum from a flask. Sometimes I think it’s a miracle our friendship has survived this long. But Carlos and I are soul mates, in the most platonic way. I am the predictable, dependable half, the one he calls whenever his latest relationship implodes, or when he gets sick and needs a mountain of gossip mags and a revolving selection of soup from his favorite restaurant in Santa Monica. And in return, he drags me to see bands I’ve never heard of in hole-in-the-wall basement venues on the rare night I’m not working or studying. He forces me to stay awake half the night talking to him on the phone and giggling until we fall asleep with our phones still connected. He makes me laugh. And I keep him from spiraling whenever he falls face-first in love with the wrong guy or panics that he’ll never get accepted into a good college. We balance each other out. I can’t imagine my life without him.

My phone chimes again: I NEED MY CHARLOTTE.

I laugh, blowing my choppy bangs away from my eyelashes.

Alas, your Charlotte told Holly she’d close tonight. Go have fun for both of us. You got this, I type.

This is my life: school; work four days a week at the flower shop; research internship at UCLA on Thursdays; then home to study at the tiny house I share with my grandmother, older sister, and baby nephew. Lather. Rinse. Repeat. It’s not that I’ve set out to be the biggest social outcast in all of Los Angeles. But I have set out to be the first woman in my family to go to college, and I don’t want to get derailed the way my mom and sister did—pregnant before they were twenty, and a trail of ex-boyfriends in their wake. Which is why, at eighteen, I’ve never kissed a boy, never held hands in the hallway between classes, never even been to a school dance.

Carlos texts a series of weeping emoji.

I reply with a kissy face.

Feeling like the loser friend who never gets to do anything fun, I open up the music app on my phone and hit start on a random playlist. An oldies song comes on—something my grandma would listen to—“My Girl” by the Temptations. I crank it up, surprisingly into it, and then turn my attention to decorating several bouquets for an eight-year-old’s princess-themed birthday party. As the music crescendos, I twirl in circles, feeling a little silly, but determined to forget how structured and precise my life is. How it leaves zero room for anything spontaneous. I grab pink and white and yellow ribbon; I toss glitter onto the tulip petals and glue sequins to the vases; I sing along to the lyrics blaring through my phone. I dance like a total dork. I completely forget I’m at work.

I’m still lost in the moment when a shiver rises up along the base of my neck—someone’s watching me.

I glance up from the mess on the table in front of me and catch my breath.

A boy is standing on the other side of the counter, hands in his pockets, looking at me. I didn’t even hear the door chime when he came in. I flinch, straightening up from where I’ve been leaning over the bouquets, and realize that the wide neck of my tank top has sagged low over my chest, exposing the curve of my pink bra.

“Can I help you?” I ask, quickly silencing the music coming from my phone and sliding it into the back pocket of my jeans, swallowing down the embarrassment buzzing across my skin.

He studies me, his dark eyes lifting from my collarbone up to my face, as if he can’t quite find the answer to my question. “I need flowers.”

He’s gorgeous, I realize: hard cheekbones and lips that meet in a firm line . . . lips that hold my gaze for a moment too long.

“Do you know what you’re looking for?” I force my brain to cycle through its usual string of questions while my eyes continue to drift over him: torn jeans, close-cropped hair, and a thin T-shirt half tucked into his belt. The muscles of his arms are just visible beneath the cotton sleeves, and his chest is broad. He has the kind of body Carlos loves to point out on the streets of LA—guys leaving gyms and nightclubs or going for a jog down Sunset—tall, muscular, and lean.

Not that I should be noticing how he’s built.

I blink and slide my gaze back to his face. There’s something guarded there, as if he caught me assessing him and is waiting for the verdict. I can only hope my cheeks don’t look as flushed as they suddenly feel.

“Not yet,” he answers after a moment, his voice low.

“Follow me,” I say automatically, stepping out from behind the counter. He keeps his distance behind me as we walk to the back of the shop, where a wall of roses and lilies and finished bouquets wait to be picked up by customers or loaded onto one of Holly’s delivery trucks. I gesture toward the cooler, trying not to let my eyes settle too long on his face. There is a discipline to ignoring guys this attractive, and I pride myself on my mastery. But something about this boy is making me uncomfortable—too aware of my posture, my clumsy hands, my still-warm cheeks. “You can’t go wrong with roses.”

He looks from me to the flowers, his jaw clenching and unclenching. I know this routine, I see it all the time: Guy needs flowers for girlfriend’s anniversary or to say sorry for something, but has no idea what color or how many or if they should be wrapped or in a vase, and then agonizes at the counter trying to decide what to write on the tiny square card that I will attach to the bouquet.

His eyes are on me now, and I can’t help but steal another glance. Somewhere in the framework of his face, the structure of his perfect jawline, and the dark brilliance of his eyes, he looks vaguely familiar. Maybe he goes to my school—one of the tortured, brooding guys who smoke cigarettes between classes out by the parking lot.

“Do I know you?” I ask, instantly wishing I hadn’t. If he does go to my school, I’d rather pretend I don’t know him when I see him in the halls, avoid that awkward half smile and nod.

He shifts his weight, shoulders lifting with his hands still in his pockets, like he’s waiting for me to answer my own question. Silence slips between us and the corner of his mouth twitches.

My phone whistles from my back pocket. I ignore it, but it chimes again.

“Popular,” he says, one eyebrow raised.

“Hardly. I just have a persistent best friend.” I slide the phone out quickly, turning the ringer to vibrate.

“You can answer it.”

“No. He just wants me to go to some party.”

“And you’re not going?”

I shake my head. “I have to close up.”

“And after that?” He tilts his head slightly, and I swear I know him—but there’s something about him, something that tells me I should leave it alone.

“Homework,” I answer simply.

“You can’t take one night off to go out?”

I eye him, wondering why he even cares. “If I don’t want to work at this flower shop for the rest of my life, then no.”

A flicker registers in his eyes, the hint of a smirk, a shallow dimple on his left cheek.

“What’s your favorite?” he asks, breaking the silence.

“My favorite what?”

He angles his chin, nodding toward the displays all around us. “Your favorite flower.”

“I don’t really—”

“You must have one.” The dimple flashes again, here and then gone. “You work in a flower shop. You’re literally surrounded by them.”

“I do . . .” I hedge. “But I don’t think you’ll want them.”

His eyes narrow, as if he’s intrigued. “That’s not very good salesmanship.”

I examine the buckets exploding with blooms—colorful orchids and fragrant lilies. Hydrangeas and peonies that are never in season but always popular. And the more unusual varieties—Astras, ranunculuses, dahlias, and camellias. “I like the purple roses,” I tell him, and I think he’s shifted a half step closer, close enough that I could reach out and touch him if I wanted.

“Why?” he asks.

“They signify fleeting love.”

“You mean love that doesn’t last?” he asks. “That’s a little pessimistic, don’t you think?”

“Not pessimistic, just realistic. Fleeting love is more common than the kind of love that lasts forever.”

There is a beat of silence between us, and for a moment, I wonder what we’re really talking about.

“So why would anyone buy the purple roses?” he asks.

“It’s the only rose that isn’t trying to be something it’s not.

It’s authentic and beautiful but people never choose it.” I can feel his gaze on me and my skin warms—I’ve just told him far more than I intended. I turn back to the cooler, touching the handles as if checking to make sure it’s closed.

“I guess I’ll have to go for purple, then,” he says.

It takes a second for my brain to wheel into action, to snap back into salesgirl mode. “Oh. Great . . . How many?”

“How many do you suggest?”

“A dozen?”

The smirk is back. “Now that’s good salesmanship.”

He follows me back to the counter, his scent lingering in the air: a cool, clean smell that I can’t quite place.

I punch his order into the computer, feeling his eyes on me. “What’s the name?” I ask, looking up from the screen.

“Excuse me?”

“Your name,” I repeat. “I need your name for the order.”

I’m still not sure he’s heard me because his lips pull into a crooked half grin, like he has a secret he’s not sharing.

“Tate,” he answers at last.

I finish the order, then count out the bills he hands me and slide back his change. But instead of taking it from the counter, his hand reaches toward me, closing the space between us. His fingers graze my cheek just below my left eye. I suck in a breath. I start to ask him what he’s doing, but then he pulls his hand away and holds it up in front of me. “Glitter,” he says.

“What?” I squint at his fingers. The tip of his thumb and index finger are shimmering. Glitter. From the birthday party decorations. “Thanks,” I say, heat surging into my cheeks again like they’ve been pricked by a thousand tiny needles.

“It looked good on you.” He’s smiling fully now.

I shake my head, the embarrassment making my skin itch. What is wrong with me tonight? “If you don’t mind waiting,” I say, “I can make the bouquet for you now. Or you can either pick them up tomorrow or we can deliver them to you?”

“Tomorrow,” he says, taking the change from the counter and shoving it into his pocket. “I’ll pick them up.”

“They’ll be ready after ten a.m.” I bite my lower lip, still feeling awkward, half wishing he would just leave. “I hope your girlfriend likes them,” I add before I can stop myself.

His eyes soften. When he finally speaks, he rolls over the words slowly. “I don’t have a girlfriend . . . Charlotte.”

My breath slides down into my throat as he turns away from the counter, walking toward the front of the store. He knows my name. How does he know my name? Then my fingers touch the plastic name tag pinned to my tank top, where charlotte is stamped in white letters.

He pauses with a hand on the glass door and I stare, hoping he won’t turn around. Hoping he will. But he pushes out into the evening light and I grip the edge of the counter, the sound of my name on his lips repeating inside my head.