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“Okay,” I agree right as the server appears tableside.
Tate orders the chocolate éclair for us, and I ask for a vanilla latte.
“I’ll take one too,” Tate says, handing the menus to the server, who’s blatantly staring at him.
I’m sure she recognizes him. He’s become so popular again thanks to the coverage from my party; I’d bet he gets recognized just walking down the street. He must be having a surreal moment from all the attention he’s received, but I still don’t understand why he wanted to see me.
“Why exactly did you want to meet with me yet again?” I ask once the server is gone.
“Can’t a guy who kissed you Saturday night ask you out on a date?” His smile is teasing. Downright flirtatious.
“This is a date?” My eyes feel like they want to bug out of my head.
He drops his arms to his sides and leans back in his chair, sprawling his long legs out. He’s wearing black trousers and a black shirt, while I’m wearing a pink dress. Not like the monstrosity I wore at my party, but I do sense a theme here. “That’s what I thought it was. Maybe you misunderstood me?”
I think I’m in shock, and I can’t help but feel a little... excited. Tate keeps coming around, so he must be interested, right?
I remember what my mom told me about playing it cool, and I decide to go with her advice. “I figured it was just two... friends getting together to chat. You asked for another chance, right?”
“Right.” He blows out a breath and scooches closer, resting his elbows on the edge of the table. “I wanted to talk to you about the... song.”
“The song.” I nod.
“You’ve heard it?” His eyebrows shoot up, and he has this expectant look on his face.
“Yes. Only parts of it, though.” It’s currently being played on repeat all over social media. People—mostly women around my age—have created countless video montages featuring photos of the two of us together set to that song. Specifically the lyrics that go like this:
Scarlet red
Like your lips
Like your heart
Like the scars
That you left
On my skin
In sin
Head you gave
So depraved
Yeah, I bet he wishes I gave him head.
That line is mortifying, but I can’t focus on it at the moment.
“And what did you think of it?” he asks.
“It was... good,” I admit reluctantly. I can’t lie to him. The song is good. He sounds great. “I thought I saw it mentioned somewhere that you recorded it in your bathroom?”
“Yeah.” He chuckles, ducking his head for a moment. Like he’s almost embarrassed. “I was... all fired up after seeing you, and I decided to write out all of my frustrations. I have a notebook full of bits and pieces. Lyrics. Lines.”
“I like to journal sometimes too,” I tell him, deciding to share a small piece of myself. No one really knows that I sometimes put down my thoughts in my journal. “It’s a good way to get things out. Memories for later.”
“I know what you mean.” Tate nods, his expression thoughtful. “Anyway, I realized I was actually putting together a song, and next thing I know, I’m in my bathroom, because it has pretty decent acoustics, and I’m recording the song on my phone.”
