Then I yell, “I never asked you to homecoming, Tennessee Dylan! You asked me.”
In the distance, I see him smile.
Heart derailing, I stride over to him.
“My dad says humor and flowers help fix mistakes,” he says.
I stop a foot away from him. “I thought you were never going to talk to me again.”
He extends a bouquet of roses as thick as my torso. I take it from him and inhale the sweet fragrance of his remorse.
“I’m sorry I jumped to conclusions.”
The edges of his face are all blurry. “I don’t blame you for it,” I say.
He swallows, which makes his Adam’s apple jostle in his throat. “You should blame me… I left without asking any questions.”
I shake my head. “When it comes to your mom, Ten, I’ll never blame you for reacting weirdly.”
He reaches for the bouquet and coaxes it out of my fingers, then tosses it on the bleachers. “I don’t deserve you.” He tugs on my wrist, and I collapse against him. His hands wrap around my back and pin me to his chest. He cocoons my body with his and holds me in silence for a long time, his chest puffing with sighs. “She’s just everywhere, Angie. Every time I think I can break free from her—for good—she shows up. On the radio, on billboards, on TV. This morning, I saw her in a shampoo commercial. However long or fast I run, I can’t outrun her.”
“This isn’t a race. You’re bound to see her, whether in person or on TV. And not just because she’s your mother but because she’s Mona Stone.” I lay my palm on his neck, feel the play of tendons. “But remember, the only way someone can get under your skin is if you let them.”
His jaw is set so tight it feels like metal. “Yougot under my skin.”
“Because you let me.” I move my face closer to his until our noses touch. “Do you regret it?”
His eyes darken as fast as the Tennessee sky before a thunderstorm. “Don’t ever ask me that again.”
Even though my pulse now fills my mouth, I manage to say, “That’s not an answer.”
“Do you regret waking up in the morning?”
I frown.
“Do you regret being able to laugh?” He puts some space between our bodies, but doesn’t let go of me. “Even though you drive me insane sometimes, you also make me insanely happy. So asking me if I regret letting you in is like asking if I regret breathing. The answer is no.” He rests his forehead against mine. “I love you.”
I swallow his words, let them fill the void he left when he ran fromme. Slowly he slants his face and fits his lips to mine. The kiss is deliberate and gentle.
Oh so very gentle.
After a minute, or two, or ten, I rip my lips off his. “Oh my God! Mrs. Larue wanted to speak to me! Your petals completely derailed me.”
Ten grins. “Mrs. Larue didn’t need to see you, Angie. I did.”
My cheeks grow hot. “She was in on—”
“Had to get you out of class early.”
“So she knows about the rose petals?”
“Yeah, but she made me promise to shovel them up once I was donemaking things right with all my heart.” He air-quotes that last part. Probably one of her inspirational sayings.
Even though more heat rises to my face, I smile. “I can’t decide whether I’m mortified or relieved.”
Ten chuckles. “You’re cute when you blush. Almost as cute as when you’re mad.”
I swat his arm but laugh, and my heart, which has felt as bloated as Rae’s outsized inflatable flamingo since I saw my name on my social media feed, finally shrinks back to its normal size.
