“What a quaint little tradition,” Windsor says, pausing next to the seller’s booth to sniff the bouquet that’s on display. That’s his personality right there: he’s very much a stop and sniff the roses type. “But I have too many girlfriends to send out roses. If I tried, I’d probably forget a good half dozen, and that wouldn’t be pleasant, now would it?”
I give him a disgusted look, and he smiles at me, bending down to sign the form as I frown.
“You just said you’re not sending flowers? What are you doing?”
Windsor reaches into his pocket and pulls out a five dollar bill, tossing it on the table and stepping back.
“You don’t want a flower? Really, it’s the least I could do for my new friend. You’re truly the only person who talks to me who doesn’t want money, sex, or gossip.” Wind shrugs his shoulders and then pauses as Tristan approaches the table, pausing next to me, his peppermint and cinnamon scent overwhelming as I suck in a sharp breath.
I’d sort of forgotten how awe-inspiring it was to stand so close to him. That moment on the boat when he grabbed my arms and kissed me hard and fast. “Just remember that Creed isn’t the only one that’s interested.” My heart melted when he said that. Even knowing it’s all a lie now doesn’t make that feeling go away.
“Fuck these stupid roses,” he says, his voice like the fine edge of a knife. I’m okay where I’m standing now, but one wrong move and I’m going to get cut. I’m going to bleed. “I’ve put myself on the Do Not Send List.”
Tristan … is talking to me? I blink stupidly at him.
“There’s a Do Not Send List?” I ask, and he nods.
Windsor makes a noise behind us.
“That’s a fabulous idea … sign me up. Or rather unsign me up.”
Tristan and I both ignore him.
“Did you hear about the spring break trip for the honor students?” His voice is so hard to read; it’s impossible for me to figure out what he’s thinking.
“To Paris?” I ask, and he nods briefly. Of course I’ve heard of the trip. It’s been featured like a prize in every school newsletter since that first week in September, a special treat to dangle in front of the student body to get everyone to work harder. The thing is, I’ve heard the Plebs talking: it’s just Paris, who cares? Pretty sure the only person here who hasn’t been to France is me. “I haven’t let myself think about it. I’ve been so busy that my grades have slipped …”
“You’re still number one in the class,” he says, gray eyes so dark they’re more of a charcoal than a silver right now. I wonder if he’s thinking about that test and essay, how he’d probably be the highest ranked student in the school if I hadn’t sabotaged him. Or rather, if I hadn’t turned his sabotage back on him. “It’ll be me and you on that trip. Nobody else comes close.”
“I …” Have no idea. Tristan looks up, meets Windsor’s eyes, and sneers before he heads off down the hallway without so much as a goodbye. Interesting.
“Sunny, cheerful bloke, isn’t he?” Windsor asks, coming to stand beside me with his hands in his pockets. “And, by the way, I asked them to make an exception: you’re the only person allowed to send me a rose.” He bends down and gives me another of those quick, European cheek kisses. My silly American heart takes it far too personally, and I have to hold back a small sigh. My fingers touch my cheek, and I turn away to head down the hall, being careful to avoid the boys for the rest of the day.With Tristan and Windsor both on the Do Not Send List, most of the attention on Valentine’s Day goes to the girls. All the Idol women are showered with roses, same goes for Valentina and Abigail. I guess the Plebs used to call them the fucked-up foursome. Must be the fucked-up fivesome now with that horrid bitch Ileana in their ranks.
Me, I get roses from Miranda, Andrew, Windsor, and Zack.
They’ve all written super sweet little cards, and I even get a tiny present from Zack, wrapped in shimmery opalescent paper. He grins sheepishly when he delivers it to my dorm later.
“It goes with the one I gave you for your birthday,” he tells me, and I realize with a start that I’ve never opened it. I excuse myself on the pretense of needing to pee, and grab the unwrapped package from my wardrobe drawer, popping into the restroom for some privacy.
There’s so much tape on the package, that I have to use my nail clippers to cut into it.
Inside, there’s a pair of season tickets to the San Francisco Symphony clipped to a small rectangle of cardboard. My mouth drops open, and I feel terrible for leaving the gift for so long. To be quite honest, I forgot all about it. My loss, I suppose, since I could’ve used these during winter break to go with my dad.
