Heat of the Moment (10 page)

“So what's the deal with it?”

“I just . . .” I take in a deep breath, wondering how much
I should say. I haven't talked about the thing with my dad ever since my fight with Quinn and Aven.

I stop on the beach and look out across the water. The sun dances off the waves.

“I'm not . . . it's hard for me to talk about.”

He nods but doesn't say anything.

“I told you how my dad left,” I say. “How he decided to leave my mom. And how before he left, he asked me . . . he asked me to go with him.”

“To New Hampshire.”

I nod.

“And you told him no?”

“I told him I would think about it.” The flash comes again. Me, telling Aven about how my dad wanted me to go with him. Telling her I was thinking about it, asking her not to tell anyone. Aven promising me she wouldn't, and then doing it anyway.

“But then you didn't?”

“No.” I shake my head. “I decided to stay with my mom.”

“And you and your dad . . .”

“He left the morning after I told him. And I haven't heard from him since.”

Beckett nods, like he's thinking about it. I feel the familiar lump in my throat, the lump that comes every time I talk about my dad or think about my fight with Aven and Quinn.

Beckett stares straight ahead, and a seagull dips down and
lands in front of him. It picks at the sand, its thin little beak digging around for something to eat. “You know, seagulls get a bad rap,” he says. “They're actually really pretty birds.”

I wrinkle my nose. “Yeah, but they're so annoying.”

“A lot of birds are annoying. But seagulls are always around—you see them all the time. So you forget how beautiful they are.”

“I guess that's true.” I play with the bracelet on my wrist, and the lump in my throat starts to loosen. I'm thankful he's not pushing me, not making me talk about it more. It's enough that I've said what I did.

We start walking again. There's a couple jogging in the other direction, and when they get close to us, we move a little bit toward the water, letting them pass. Beckett's arm bumps against mine at the same time my feet hit the water. I shriek as the tide hits my ankles. Beckett laughs, then stomps in the water, sending droplets flying everywhere, including onto my bare legs.

“Quit it!” I say, but I'm not mad. “It's freezing!”

“Ahh, don't be a wimp,” he says. He wades into the ocean a few steps.

“Are you crazy?” I say. “It's too cold for that!” Getting your feet used to it is one thing. Wading is another.

“No, it's not.” He splashes water on himself, but I can tell he's cold. “See? It's refreshing.”

“Really?” I take a few steps into the water. It's freezing.
“Oh, you're right,” I say, pretending to believe him. I step past him and shade my eyes from the sun. “Oh, look, there's a sandbar over there,” I say. “Wanna walk to it?”

I turn around, catching the tail end of the look of panic that's crossing his face. I raise my eyebrows in what I hope is an innocent look. But it must not work, because a second later, he appears by my side.

“Oh, good idea,” he says. “Let's go out to the sandbar.”

“You first,” I say.

“Oh, no, ladies first,” he says, and makes a little gesture with his hand, like he's being chivalrous.

I take a couple of steps forward, telling myself it's easy. La, la, la, nothing to see here. I try to pretend the ocean is a huge Jacuzzi, and the waves are swirling around me, hot and soothing, making my muscles relax as I walk and warming me to the core. Step, step, step. See? It's fine. The water has actually stopped getting deeper now, and I'm kind of getting used to the cold. Why is the water so cold anyway? The sun is warm. The air is warm. So why wouldn't the water be warm? I try to remember the stuff we learned in ninth-grade earth science about temperature vectors and patterns.

Other people are swimming around in the water like it's nothing. A little boy a few yards away is splashing around happily, dunking himself under and then popping up, his hair dripping wet. A little farther out, a man is pulling a woman along on a boogie board.

So then why am I so cold? Do I just need to get more used to the water, or is there something wrong with me? Do I have a problem with my internal temperature? Of course, if I do, then Beckett does too, because—

“Ahhh!” Before I know what's happening, the sand gives out below my feet, and I'm suddenly up to my thighs in water. I turn back toward the shore, but I'm having a hard time getting my footing.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Beckett says, and then his arms are around my waist, steadying me. He pulls me back just a little bit, until my feet find the sand again. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” I say, my heart pounding in my chest. “There was a drop.”

“You sure you're okay?” His hands are still on my waist, holding me steady. And I'm glad, because suddenly my knees feel weak, like they could give way at any moment.

“Yes,” I say. “I'm fine.”

“That's really dangerous,” he says. “I should talk to someone about that.”

“Oh, please.” I roll my eyes. “It's fine. It didn't even go up to my waist.”

“Still. It could have wrecked your phone.” He slips his index finger into the top of my shorts pocket and runs it over the edge of my phone.

“Well, thank god it didn't.” I don't know how I'm able to talk. His hands are on my waist, and his face is so close to
mine I'm afraid (hoping?) he's going to kiss me. He leaves his finger in my pocket, his eyes on mine. His tongue snakes out and licks his bottom lip, and it's the sexiest thing I've ever seen in my whole life.

He's hardly even touching me and I feel like I'm on fire.

“We should go back to the hotel.” I say the words before I can decide if I mean them. My brain screams at me to stop saying things like that, that if I stop this moment and what might be about to happen, I'll never be able to get it back, I'll never be able to do something that I really, really want to do.

“Is that what you want? To go back to the hotel?” Beckett shuffles a little closer to me until his chest is pressed up against mine.

“Yes.” My voice sounds weak.

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

But he doesn't move.

Everything feels like it's moving in slow motion, and everything around us is suddenly magnified. The sound of the waves as they crash lazily against the shore. The brightness of the sky and the sun and the slash of white clouds against the horizon. It's like my every sense is on alert, and after a few more moments, I can't take it anymore. I close my eyes.

I'm not sure if Beckett thinks it's an invitation to kiss me. I'm not sure if I knew there was a chance he might and
that's why I did it. But his lips brush against mine, slowly, slowly, slowly, so slow I'm not sure if it's even happening.

But then I feel his hands tighten around my waist, I feel him pull me closer and the water is so warm, it's like a huge warm bathtub and my muscles are all weak but it doesn't matter because he's holding me up and he's kissing me and oh my god it feels so good. The stubble on his chin is rough against my skin, but his fingers in my hair are soft and perfect.

He pulls away first, then looks me right in the eye. “Lyla,” he breathes. No one has ever said my name like that. His voice is smoldering and sexy.

I swallow, trying to find my voice.

Derrick
.

His name pops into my head, and I take a step away from Beckett. My heart is pounding in my chest, and I feel like the ground is spinning.

And that's when I see her.

Juliana.

She's standing on the beach, wearing a flowing white sundress with spaghetti straps. She's holding a big green beach bag in one hand and shading her eyes from the sun with the other. She purses her lips and then starts walking toward us.

“It's Juliana,” I say dumbly. The sun and the ocean and the sand and the kiss are messing with my brain, making it hard to think.

Beckett sighs. But he doesn't look surprised that she's coming over here.

I start wading through the water toward the shore. Beckett follows me.

“Wait up,” he says.

But I don't slow down. I can't believe I cheated on my boyfriend. I can't believe I got caught up in some ridiculous fantasy. I can't believe Juliana saw us. I can't believe I was so
stupid
.

“Lyla,” Beckett calls. “Slow down.” I'm walking fast, because the sand near the water is packed hard. As I move away from the ocean, the sand gets softer, and it's more difficult to keep my footing.

But I don't care.

I start to run.

And I don't stop until I'm back at the hotel.

I AM
REALLY
OUT OF SHAPE
.

I mean, it can't be more than half a mile from where I was on the beach back to my room. And yet by the time I get to the hotel lobby, I'm sweating. I've probably run more today than I have in the past two years. Maybe even in my whole life. Well, besides when we have to run the mile in gym, but that doesn't really count. And actually, I never ran it last year because I made sure to be absent on that day. Go me.

When I get back to my room, I pause outside the door. Should I have run away like that? Maybe I should have tried to talk to Juliana, to explain to her that what she saw wasn't what she thought. Maybe I should have pretended to slap Beckett, to make it out like he kissed me and I hated it.

I shake my head. It's too late now. I can't go back to the beach. And now that I'm back here, I have to tell Derrick
what happened before Juliana does. I just hope he understands. My eyes fill with tears, but I blink them back and open the door to my room.

Derrick is still in bed. He's lying on his side with his pillow over his head. He looks so . . . sweet and innocent. He has no idea that his girlfriend just cheated on him.

The tears in my eyes multiply. This is awful. This is more than awful. How could I do such a thing? And right after I told him he had nothing to worry about, that there was nothing going on with me and Beckett. I blink even harder, trying to make sure the tears don't spill over my cheeks.

“What's wrong?” a voice chirps from the other side of the room.

I jump.

Oh. It's just Aven.

I forgot she was still in the room.

“Nothing's wrong,” I say.

“You're getting that look on your face,” she says.

“What look?”

“The look you always get when you're about to cry.”

“I do not have that look on my face!” I think about it. “And besides, I don't get a look on my face when I'm about to cry.”

“Yes, you do. Your bottom lip gets all wobbly and you get these weird little wrinkles at the side of your eyes.” She tilts her head and looks at me, considering. “If you're going
to cry, you should probably just cry, because if you keep letting your face get wrinkled like that, you're probably going to need Botox when you're older.”

I can't take it anymore. The tears start to fall over my cheeks.

“Oh, wow,” Aven says. Her face softens, and she actually sounds really concerned. “Lyla, I'm sorry. I was just kidding. You're not going to need Botox when you're older. You have really nice skin.”

“I'm not crying because of that,” I say. “I just . . .” I'm trying to keep my voice down, but it's becoming harder and harder. If Derrick wakes up and sees me here, crying, he's going to ask why. And I have no good reason. Actually, I do have a good reason. Just one I'm not sure I'm ready to tell him.

I turn and rush back out of the room, and when I get in the hallway I lean against the wall, taking deep breaths and trying to calm myself down.

A second later I feel a hand on my back. Aven.

“What's wrong?” she asks.

I take in long, deep breaths. I feel like I'm going to hyperventilate. “I did something really bad to someone,” I say. I'm not sure why I'm confiding in her. Maybe because the secret just feels too big to hold on to myself, too bad to completely sit with all on my own.

“Who?” she says.

“Derrick.” I wipe my eyes and then slide my back down the wall until I'm sitting on the floor.

Aven nods seriously, like she knows all about it. “Stay here,” she commands. She disappears down the hall and returns a second later holding two cans of Sprite and a king-size package of peanut butter cups.

She sits down on the floor next to me and hands me a soda.

“Thanks.” I sniffle and pop the top, then take a sip of the cold fizzy liquid.

“You're welcome.”

We don't say anything for a second, just sit there, both of us sipping quietly.

“So what did you do?” she asks finally.

I shake my head. “I don't want to talk about it.” It's one thing to tell her I'm upset and let her see me crying. It's another thing to tell her a secret, especially since she's proven in the past that she can't keep them to save her life.

“Okay.” She nods, seemingly accepting this. She opens the peanut butter cups and offers me one.

I take it.

“Well, do you think it can be fixed?” she asks.

I think about it. I kissed someone else. I
kissed someone else
. Can it be fixed? I guess, technically, it can. I mean, there are couples who get over someone cheating and stay together. But those couples have usually been married for,
like, years and years, and they have kids, and they don't want to mess up their families. But still. It's not like I slept with someone else. It was just a kiss. Although, if I'm being honest with myself, I've never bought into that whole “it was just a kiss” excuse. If you ask me, cheating is cheating.

“I don't know,” I say.

Aven nods, then nibbles around the outside of her peanut butter cup.

Suddenly, I feel like I want to change the subject.

“Did you tell Liam you're in love with him?” I blurt.

Her face darkens for a moment, but then a little smile plays on her lips. “You remembered. About my email. What I wanted to do.”

“Of course I remembered.” Her face brightens even more, and I roll my eyes. “Don't get so excited, it's not like it's something I could forget. You've been in love with Liam since forever.”

She shakes her head. “No. I haven't told him yet.” She takes in a deep breath. “But I'm going to. And honestly, Lyla, you should tell Derrick the truth. You're not going to be able to work out whatever it is unless you tell him.” She waits for me to say something, but when I don't, she stands up and gathers the empty peanut butter cup wrappers. “I'm going to go grab breakfast.” She squeezes my shoulder. “Good luck,” she calls before disappearing down the hall.

“Thanks.”

I know she's right.

I have to tell Derrick.

It's just going to be horrible.

I take a few seconds to wipe my eyes and make sure I have my crying under control before heading back into the room. After I close the door behind me, Derrick rolls over and stretches his arms over his head. Blink, blink, blink. I will not cry, I will not cry, I will not cry. I throw myself down on the bed next to him and bury my face in the covers so he can't see my face. La, la, la, not about to cry.

“I missed you,” Derrick says, and pulls me close.

I'm an awful person. I'm a horrible person. I should be punished. I have to tell him. Right? Yes. I definitely have to tell him. And I have to do it before Juliana does.

Except . . . maybe I
don't
have to tell him. I mean, it's going to be my word against hers. She has no
proof
that I kissed Beckett. And what would really be the point of telling Derrick and getting him all worked up? I don't even like Beckett. He's cocky and smarmy and every girl he looks at wants him. No one goes through life getting any girl they want and becomes a nice person. It's, like, impossible. You know, formatively.

He even said himself that he doesn't want girls to put any expectations on him. So I just won't ever talk to him
again. It's kind of perfect. When you think about it, not telling Derrick is probably the best idea. I'll just . . . deny it. Like, for Derrick's own good. Not mine. It's actually very unselfish of me.

What if he believes Juliana over you?

He wouldn't. Would he?

I feel my face starting to do that thing again—where my lips gets all wobbly and my eyes crinkle up on the sides. Now that Aven's brought it to my attention, I can tell she's right. It's true—I do have a face I make right before I'm about to cry.

Derrick kisses me softly on the head. “I'm gonna go back to my room to take a shower,” he says. “And then maybe we can head out and get some breakfast.”

The doughnuts and orange juice I had this morning are lying heavily in my stomach. After all that sugar and kissing and lying, I'm definitely not hungry. But it would be weird to refuse breakfast. It's usually my favorite meal of the day.

“Sounds great,” I say. “I'm starving!” My voice sounds squeaky, like a mouse. I sound like a liar. A huge liar.

But if Derrick notices anything, he doesn't show it. He just sits up in bed, then stretches his arms over his head again and yawns. His muscles flex under his shirt. God, he is so good-looking.
Not as good-looking as Beckett
. The thought enters my brain before I can get rid of it, like a fly at a picnic. I squash it, then stand up and give Derrick a kiss on the mouth.

“Have fun!” I say brightly.

He frowns but then smiles. Probably he thinks I'm kissing him because I want to warm him up for our sexcapades later. “I'll text you when I'm done with my shower.”

I won't hold my breath
.

God, what is going on with my thoughts? I really need to learn how to control them. Maybe I should take one of those meditation classes they're always advertising on the bulletin board at school. Of course, those classes are for people who have anger management problems. We had a bunch of fistfights break out last year, and the administration went crazy and started implementing all these new programs. But if you can learn to control your anger, shouldn't you be able to learn to control your sexual desires? I have a vision of me sitting in the gym at our school on a disgustingly dirty yoga mat (the school provides them and no way are they washed properly), surrounded by guys who want to punch each other.

As soon as Derrick's gone, I decide that I need to get ahold of myself.

Nothing bad has happened yet.

Yes, I kissed another guy. Yes, Juliana saw me. But she hasn't told Derrick. And I need to keep it that way. It's like getting ahead of a story.

I reach over and grab my phone, immediately dialing Juliana.

“
Hola, chica
,” she says when she answers. Her voice has a
tiny little lilt to it, like she knows why I'm calling and she's going to enjoy holding this over my head.

I immediately go on the offensive. “Holy shit!” I say really enthusiastically, because Juliana responds to drama and over-the-top proclamations. “Can you believe Beckett did that?”

“Did what?” she teases, like she doesn't know. I resist the urge to march down to her room and throttle her.

“Kissed me! I mean, holy crap! Like, why did he think that was okay?”

“I have no idea,” Juliana says. “Derrick will kill him.”

“I know,” I agree, glad that she's maybe buying into my version of events, the one starring me as the hapless victim and Beckett as the arrogant womanizer who needs to get his ass kicked. “I haven't told Derrick yet. Do you think I should?”

“Hmmm.” She draws out the word nice and slow, like she's really thinking about it. “I don't know.”

“Me neither.” I pretend I'm thinking about it. “I mean, I want to. But he would just get all upset and probably go after Beckett.”

“Mmm,” she murmurs. “What were you guys doing on the beach together anyway?”

“We weren't together!” I yell. “I mean, um, I was just out getting some coffee and doughnuts. And then I ran into Beckett.”

“Wow. He's, like, stalking you. Maybe you
should
tell Derrick.”

“Maybe,” I say, my heart sinking.

There's a long silence.

“Actually, maybe you shouldn't,” she says. “Like you said, it will just upset him.”

“Yeah.” I let out my breath in relief.

“Anywaysies, a bunch of us are going to brunch, then we're going to lie on the beach and get tan. You wanna?”

“Um, no thanks,” I say. I'd rather poke my eyes out with toothpicks. “I'm supposed to meet Derrick in a few.”

“Maybe I'll see you later then,” she says. I'm sure it's just my imagination, but her voice sounds ominous.

“Oh, yeah, definitely.” Not.

I hang up the phone. I should feel relieved. I mean, it doesn't seem like Juliana's going to tell Derrick what she saw. And yes, that doesn't really solve the problem of whether I should tell him, but at least it gives me options.

But why was she so okay with not telling him? And why didn't she . . . I don't know, threaten me or something? Like tell me that if I don't end up telling him, she will? She's supposed to be Derrick's good friend. In fact, she's much better friends with him than she is with me. So then why isn't she demanding I tell him? Is it possible she's going to tell him anyway?

This whole vacation is getting way too complicated. This
trip is supposed to be fun, not some kind of drama-filled exercise in ex-friends and revenge and cheating. I shake my head. I need to refocus. I came here to connect with my boyfriend, and maybe even possibly lose my virginity. Yes, there have been a few setbacks and detours, but the simple facts remain the same. There are two days left on this trip, and I should be able to finagle all I want to accomplish into the next forty-eight hours.
You can't sleep with Derrick unless you tell him you kissed Beckett. And you need to really think about why Juliana is okay with you not telling him
.

I push those thoughts right out of my mind and head into the bathroom, where I turn the shower as hot as it can go and step under the spray. There's an array of posh-looking shampoos and conditioners sitting on a little shelf that's slung over the shower faucet, and I paw through them. Wow. Kiehl's and everything. You'd think the school would have chosen a hotel that was a little bit cheaper, but I guess they had to make it expensive so people's parents wouldn't freak out thinking about them stuck in some crappy motel room. Not that I'm going to complain. I mean, Kiehl's!