Come What May - L.K. Farlow Page 0,40

y’all’s date?”

“And what are you doing?” Myla Rose adds.

“Screw all of that!” Azalea slams her empty cup down onto the table. “What are you wearing?”

“This weekend and I don’t know.”

“Which don’t you know?” my bossy blonde friend asks.

“Both. I… I’ve never been on a date before. Not a real one, anyway.”

My confession is met with three equally stunned faces.

“I’m sorry, what?” Myla Rose asks.

I shrug. “I mean, I went to homecoming and prom, but that doesn’t really count.”

Azalea reaches over and squeezes my wrist. “Seraphine, are you… a virgin?”

“Um.” I stare down at my lap like it holds all of the secrets of the universe.

“It’s okay,” Magnolia says in tandem with Azalea’s, “But you’re so pretty!”

“Whoa, sister-girl!” Myla Rose cries. “Giving up your V-card is a deeply personal choice and Seraphine’s decision not to has nothing to do with how pretty she is.”

“Thanks, Myles.” I turn to Azalea. “It’s not that I don’t want to have sex. I just haven’t.”

“Well, lucky you, you’ll get your cherry popped by an older, more experienced man.” She wags her brows, making my cheeks flame while Myla and Magnolia giggle like schoolgirls.

“Please stop talking,” I say, wishing the floor would open and swallow me whole.

“Okay, fine.” Azalea stands from the table. “On one condition.”

I sink lower into my chair. “What?”

“We go shopping, duh.”

Mags, Myla Rose, and Azalea all offered to come over and help me get ready for my big date tonight, but I declined.

If I can’t share this occasion with my father, then I don’t want to share it with anyone. That may seem extreme, but he pushed me for years to date—to get out and have a life.

But how could I go out and run around without a care when he was here, dying a little more each day.

I can only imagine how tonight would go if Dad were still here.

He’d tell me the sage green playsuit Azalea picked out was too revealing and to go change. I’d roll my eyes and he’d roll his before telling me I looked beautiful.

Then he’d fuss and tell me my expertly applied makeup was covering up my natural beauty and that I didn’t need all that goop to impress a man. I’d scoff and remind him that I wore makeup for me, myself, and I.

When my date showed up, he’d definitely want to try to intimidate him—and knowing Mateo, he’d play along.

The cherry on top would be him trying to embarrass me. I can see it so clearly in my mind’s eye, it’s as if it’s happening in real life.

I imagine he’d warn Mateo to treat me like a princess and to keep his hands and lips to himself before demanding he have me home before midnight.

But none of that is happening.

Instead, I’m getting ready with the television on for background noise.

I blink back the tears that threaten to escape. I worked too hard on my smoky eye to cry it away. But still, a tear or two escapes as I realize all of the other important firsts my dad will miss.

“Why?” I whisper out loud, even though deep down I know. I know he ended his life because he was in pain far too great to continue… and because he thought he was saving mine. And while my bitterness has lessened, my pain has not.

A knock sounds and I rush to check my eyeliner. Thank God for waterproof. I give myself one last once-over in the mirror, slide my feet into my wedged booties, and head for the door.

I open the door and am struck dumb by the sight of Mateo dressed in dark wash jeans and a form-hugging white button-down. He looks like something out of a magazine—suave and sexy and all mine, for tonight at least.

He seems to be speechless at the sight of me as well. I can only hope it’s because he likes what he sees.

“Mariposita.” He bites down on his lower lip and looks me up and down. “Te ves hermosa—you look beautiful.”

I duck my head as a sudden bout of nerves hits me. But Mateo’s not having it. He crosses the threshold and thumbs my chin up so I’m looking him in the eyes. “Don’t hide from me. Never hide from me.”

“I wasn’t trying to.”

“Are you ready?”

“One sec.” I grab my purse from the back of the sofa. “Ready.”

Mateo presses a hand to the small of my back, guiding me to his GTO. Unlike my dad’s classically restored one—which is under a tarp in the garage behind the