Chapter THIRTY-SEVEN
A d a l i n e
“Anotherdate? I’m starting to think you’ve replaced us with Juliette,” Aryan says, shaking his head in mock disappointment. It’s funny, considering for every single date he’s been the one to beg me for details after.
“And the roses in her locker?” Victoria mock gasps. “Who would have thought you were so sappy?”
“They’re red gardenias,” I correct and instantly feel embarrassed because they look at me as if I’m crazy. I just busy myself with taking my headphones out of my locker and stuffing them in my bag.
I still can’t believe she went through all that effort to get me those headphones. The scary part is that I think I’m starting to prefer them over my old ones.
“Who are you and what have you done with Adaline Emery?” Victoria shakes her head stifling a laugh.
“Don’t pretend like you guys aren’t secretly ecstatic that I’m finally dating someone.” They don’t refute my statement but I blush nonetheless.
Before they can respond, my phone buzzes, I take it out and it’s Juliette. I look up from my phone and she’s standing by her locker, her eyes already on me as she plays with the petals of her gardenia bouquet.
Satan’s spawn:
Do you know what red gardenias symbolize?
No.
Secret love.
I blush even redder—if that's even possible—and have to look away from my phone. I knew there was a reason I decided to go for red gardenias today instead of regular ones—I just had a gut feeling.
Secret love.That perfectly encapsulates us, especially since our first date a few weeks ago. It’s been nonstop since then.
Although we don’t speak in school, we still sneak around; kissing in the bathroom, in her house and mine, even Miss Kim’s restaurant has become a safe haven for us, although she doesn’t know I’m dating Juliette yet, because she isn’t out yet and I don’t want to put her in the same predicament like I did when I told my friends. Sneaking around is fairly easy anyway and exciting too. I never knew dating could feel so…comforting.
Even my friends have already warned Juliette—as it’s their birth right at this point. I wasn’t there for the conversation, but Juliette told me a lot of threatening was involved.
I message Juliette the exact address of our date and once the bell rings, I bid goodbye to my friends and make my way outside of school. Once I get onto my bike, I practically speed all the way to the local art museum and parking in the most random spot. Of course, Juliette is already here, leaning against her car and staring at me.
“Hey,” I say, once I’ve walked up to her, making sure that no one else is around.
“Hey,” she responds, seemingly doing the same thing.
I quickly fish my hands into my pockets and pull out two masks, handing her one. “Wear these before we go in, so we don’t get recognized.”
She takes the mask from my hand and slips it onto her face. I told her to get changed before she came too and wear the poorest clothes she owned, which I guess consists of a Ralph Lauren's white, polo sweatshirt and blue jeans. Sometimes, I forget she’s a spoiled little bitch.Myspoiled bitch though. I also got changed in the car before coming out, wearing a simple pair of jeans and white tank top—obviously with my black leather jacket.
She looks sad once the mask is on. “I’m so—”
“If you say you’re sorry I will kill you,” I mumble under my own mask.
She keeps doing that. These past few weeks most of our dates have been at Miss Kim’s or somewhere recluse and she’s always apologising for it. I keep assuring her I don’t care where we date, it’s enough for me to be with her.God, I sound ridiculous.
She nods and her eyes crinkle. I clasp my hand with hers and we walk into the museum. I hand the man at the entrance two tickets. I had to force Juliette not to pay for this date, she almost lost her cool because apparently, she herself is a vending machine and doesn’t like to be treated. Well, too bad.
As we walk into the double doors, instantly my hands begin sweating—I hope she doesn’t feel it. I planned this date thoroughly, so I hope she enjoys it.
Her eyes widen in shock as she looks around. “Wait, this is an exhibit for—”
“Artemisia Gentileschi.” I finish off for her, probably butchering the pronunciation, but who cares. She’s ecstatic. So I continue. “I’m sure you’ve been before, but—”
“I haven’t,” she says and then turns to me, like I’ve hung the moon for her. “You’re amazing,” she says, leaping into my arms and I’m startled by how comfortable she’s being in public, but to be fair this gallery is mostly empty. I hug her back, picking her up slightly and she giggled in the crook of my neck.
