Heat of the Moment (16 page)

I start to cry. Silently at first, and then finally, big, racking sobs that are shaking my body. At first I think I'm crying because my heart is broken. And it is broken. But then I realize it's not broken in the way I thought it was. It's broken not because Derrick and I might not be together anymore.

It's broken because I really did think that we would be together forever. All my dreams, all my hopes, everything that was built around the two of us, is gone. And I realize that if I really did love him, I wouldn't have kissed someone else. Actually, that's not true. I do love him. But just because you love someone doesn't mean it's going to work out. In fact, it doesn't mean that at all. All it means is that you might have a chance. And honestly, a chance doesn't mean that much.

I'm crying and sniffling, and I can tell everyone in the waiting room thinks I'm crazy. They all saw what went down, me telling Derrick everything, him threatening to punch Beckett and then walking out. They think I'm one of those people—the kind of people that if you try to help them, you end up getting caught up in their craziness.

But still. You'd think one of them would at least offer me a tissue or something.

Why am I even here? Yes, my leg is still bleeding, but I'm sure it's going to stop on its own. It has to. I'm not
going to bleed to death from one little tiny wound. It's, like, impossible.

I wonder if that man in the corner brought his own wheelchair, or if it belongs to the hospital. I could get them to give me one, too, and then maybe an orderly or a volunteer will push me outside and wait with me until my taxi comes. I'll probably have to sign a paper saying I'm leaving against medical advice, but who cares? Medical advice is the least of my problems right now.

I start to cry again.

And that's when Beckett walks through the door and changes everything.

IT'S SO UNEXPECTED THAT I DON'T EVEN
really believe he's there at first. It's just so . . . not right, like when you see a teacher or something at the grocery store. People belong in certain places in your life, and Beckett belongs either at school or back on the island.

He doesn't belong here, at this hospital.

He's still wearing his club outfit, the black T-shirt and jeans and shiny shoes. But this time, he's not walking with that same swagger he had when he came into the club. Now he's walking with a purpose, a take-charge purpose, like he's on a mission.

He scans the waiting room until his eyes lock on mine, and then he comes over to me.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hi.”

He sits down next to me, not in the seat Derrick was in,
but on the other side. It feels like some kind of sick metaphor.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, wiping at my eyes with the back of my hand and hoping he won't be able to tell I've been crying.

“I came to look for you.”

“How did you know I was here?”

He shrugs. “I didn't. This is the third emergency room I checked. You know there's, like, three closer hospitals than this, right?”

“This is the best-rated one in Sarasota,” I tell him. “According to
U.S. News and World Report
. Derrick looked it up on his phone.”

“I'll bet he did.” Beckett looks around. “Where is he?”

“Who?”

“Derrick.”

“Oh.” I swallow and take in a shaky breath. “He left.”

“He
left?”
Beckett looks at me then, and I force myself to meet his gaze. “Jesus,” he says when he sees my face. He reaches out and takes my chin in his hand, cupping it gently. “Have you been crying?”

“No.”

“Liar.”

“Yes.”

He's still looking at me, studying my face. I want to look away, but I can't. I'm falling into his eyes again, the same way
I do every time he looks at me like this, like I'm the only girl on the planet, like I'm the most important and wonderful thing in the world.

“You told him.” It's a statement, not a question.

I nod.

He nods.

“Was he pissed?”

“Of course he was pissed.”

“And then he just left you here?”

“He was mad,” I say, not sure why I'm sticking up for him.

“So? He shouldn't have just left you here. You don't just leave someone in an emergency room.” He looks around the waiting room at the array of wounded characters. “Even if it is the best hospital in Sarasota, according to
U.S. News and World Report
.”

I smile.

Beckett gets up and returns a second later with a tissue and a cup of water, and watches while I blow my nose and take a drink.

“This is embarrassing,” I say.

“Why?”

“Because I'm all splotchy and gross, and because this is the second time you've had to take care of me tonight.”

He shrugs. “I don't mind.”

I take a deep breath. “Why are you being so nice to me?”

“What do you mean?”

I want to know why he's here. Why he went to three different hospitals looking for me. Because you don't do that unless you really like someone, do you? You don't do that unless you care about someone. You don't do that unless you've been thinking about the person. And in that moment, I start to realize how much I want him to like me.

Because I don't care if I haven't known him that long, I don't care if it's just my hormones talking. I want him to like me. I like him. For whatever reason, I like him. And I want him to like me back.

“Lyla—” he starts.

“Lyla McAfee?”

I turn to see the nurse holding a clipboard and calling my name.

I go to stand up, and Beckett stands up with me. He puts his arm around my waist so that I can hold on to him while I walk.

“I'm going with you,” he says.

Two stitches. I need two stitches.

Which is really kind of awful when you think about it. Two stitches is nothing. Two stitches means you have to get all injected with a painkiller and then sit there while it feels
like they're tugging your skin off and then you have to tell people you got two stitches and everyone will be like, “Oh.” And not even care.

At least if I had to get, like, eight stitches it would have been more of a story. Of course, if I needed eight stitches, I don't think I would have been able to walk. I probably would have been gushing blood the whole time, and the sight of it would have made me faint.

When I'm done, I pay my fifty-dollar emergency room co-pay, and then Beckett and I stand outside and wait for the cab he called to take us back to our hotel.

We don't say much.

We actually haven't said much since I asked him why he was being so nice to me. He held my hand while they stitched my ankle, keeping up a patter of jokes with the doctor, which helped distract me from what she was doing. Not that it really hurt that much—but the idea of someone sliding a needle through my skin made me queasy.

When we were back there, in the room with the doctor, it felt normal for Beckett to be there. It was like he had a role—he was helping me the way you'd help anyone who was going through something scary. But now that we're out in front of the hospital, I'm wondering again about why he came looking for me.

The cab ride back to the hotel is quiet. It's not exactly tense—more just contemplative. I think about trying to say
something at least four or five times, but I'm not sure what to say, or even what I
want
to say.

When we get to our hotel, I go to pay the cabbie, but Beckett stops me.

“I got it,” he says, pulling out a money clip and peeling off some bills.

“No, no,” I say. “You don't have to—”

“Lyla, I got it.”

After the cab pulls away, everything is silent. The moon shines down on us and the palm trees wave in the breeze, but other than that, it's quiet. It's so late now that even the partyers have gone to sleep. There are lights glowing softly in some of the hotel windows, and my body is aching for my bed. I feel like I've been wrung out and squeezed, both physically and emotionally.

“Well,” I say. “Um. Thanks. For helping me.”

“Do you want to go walk on the beach?” he asks.

“Now?”

“Yeah, now.”

“Isn't the beach closed?”

He rolls his eyes. “How can a beach be closed?”

“I don't know.”

“So?” He looks at me, and I can see the hope in his eyes. I know he wants me to go with him.

I hesitate. I'm not sure I should really be going for a walk on the beach with the guy who caused me to cheat on my
boyfriend. How can I be sure that anything that I'm feeling is real? How can I be sure that I'm not just lonely, that I don't just want to be with Beckett because I'm missing Derrick?

But the thing is, I'm not missing Derrick. At least, not in the sense of how I should be missing him. In fact, the only thing I'm feeling about the Derrick situation right now is . . . relief.

Which is confusing. How can I be feeling relieved that Derrick and I broke up when up until a few hours ago I was about to lose my virginity to him? When I left to go on this trip, all I could think about was spending time with him. And now here I am, just a few days later, feeling relieved that we broke up. It makes me feel crazy, like my brain and heart have no idea what they want.

“Come on,” Beckett says, and steps closer to me. He reaches out and takes my hand. “We don't have to stay long. I'll bring you back to your room soon.”

Shivers run up my fingers and through my arm, even though it's not cold out. I nod and he leads me to the beach.

“We have to stop meeting like this,” Beckett says once we're walking.

“What?”

He grins. “Sorry, it was a stupid joke. You know, because we were walking on the beach this morning, too?”

“Oh. Right.”

I take in a deep breath of salty air, and it instantly starts to make me feel better. I take off my shoes and hold them in my hand as we walk, letting the cold water of the ocean tickle my toes. I make sure not to let any water get near my wound, but after a few minutes, my feet are hurting. We're coming upon a section of the beach that's outside one of the other hotels, and there are a bunch of comfy-looking lounge chairs lined up next to each other, facing the water.

“You wanna sit?” Beckett asks me.

I nod. We sit down on the end of one of the chairs, side by side, our knees touching. From inside my purse, my phone starts vibrating.

“I should get that,” I say. “It's probably my mom.”

But when I pull out my phone, it's not my mom. It's that stupid email.

Before graduation, I will . . .
learn to trust
.

I shake my head in frustration and try to exit out of the screen, but suddenly my phone makes a weird noise and then it just . . . freezes. I throw my head back and laugh. Of course. Of course that email would get stuck on my screen like that. I've done everything I could to try and get away from it, and now it's just stuck there. Probably forever.

“What's so funny?” Beckett asks. He looks down at my smashed screen. “You really shouldn't be using your phone like that. You're going to get hurt again.”

I can't answer him because I'm still laughing.

“Okay,” he says, and reaches over and takes the phone from me. “Why are you laughing?” I don't stop him. Maybe I should. The email's totally embarrassing, like having someone look at your freshman yearbook picture or something. (I never look good in yearbook pictures. I think it's because of my eyes. I'm always worried I'm going to blink, so I try to make sure I keep them open, and then I end up with this crazy deer-in-the-headlights kind of look in every picture.)

“‘Before graduation, I will . . . learn to trust,'” Beckett recites. He shakes his head and hands my phone back to me. “I don't get it.”

“It's this stupid email I wrote to myself,” I say. “When I was a freshman.” The water laps up against my feet, and Beckett reaches down and pulls my legs up onto the chair. “Careful,” he says. “You don't want to get water in your wound.”

“My wound is all bandaged up,” I say, then lie back. The sky is perfectly clear, the kind of clear that doesn't happen in the Northeast. Stars sparkle down at us, and suddenly everything seems small and insignificant. Breaking up with Derrick. Hurting my ankle. Even this trip, which I was so looking forward to. I spread my arms out and take in a deep breath.

“Yeah, but you have to keep it clean,” Beckett says.

“What?”

“Your wound.” Beckett shakes his head. “Weren't you listening to what the doctor said?”

I giggle.

Beckett gives me a weird look. “Are you sure they didn't give you any painkillers?”

“I'm sure. It's just funny, you being the responsible one.”

“Oh, yeah? Why is that funny?” He reaches behind him and grabs a lime-green pillow that's sitting on the chaise and puts it behind his head. He leans back so he's reclining in the chair, and I turn onto my side so that I'm facing him.

“I don't know. You just don't seem like the responsible type.”

“How would you know what type I am?”

“Well, let's see. You ride a motorcycle, you kissed me when you knew I had a boyfriend, and now you're making me hang out with you on the beach when it's definitely closed.” I tick off his infractions on my fingers.

“Fair enough.” He leans his body back even more and stretches his arm out behind him. The top of his T-shirt sneaks up just a little bit, revealing a smooth strip of tanned skin that makes me feel woozy. I quickly avert my eyes. “But I'm responsible in the way it counts.”

“Yeah, like what?”

“Like I'm doing a pretty good job taking care of you, aren't I?”

“Let's get through the night first,” I say. “And then I'll tell you.”

“Why, you think I'm going to screw it up?”

I don't say anything, just give him a smile. He shakes his head. “Ah, ye of little faith.”

We sit there listening to the waves crash up against the shore. A weird feeling of peace washes over me. Which makes no sense—by all accounts, this should be the worst night of my life. I cut my leg open after smashing my phone in a fit of rage. My boyfriend dumped me in an emergency room after finding out that I cheated on him. And now I'm sitting here by the ocean with the only person who seems to care about me, and he's dangerous and bad for me and I can't stop thinking about his abs.

But there's a certain calmness that comes from hitting rock bottom. A certain kind of security in the fact that things can't get any worse. A lot of times the anticipation of bad things happening is worse than the bad things actually happening. And right now everything bad's already happened. So when you think about it, things have to get better. Right?

“So what's the deal with that email?” Beckett asks.

“I told you, it was something I sent to myself when I was fourteen.”

“And you told yourself you wanted to learn to trust?”

I nod. “Yeah.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why did you say you needed to learn to trust?”

I shrug. “Probably because my parents weren't really speaking to each other. And so I felt like everything was spinning out of control. I was fourteen, I had to write something. Quinn and Aven were doing it, so I went along with it, too.”

“Ah.” I don't like the way he's saying “Ah.” He's saying it like there's more to the story, like the thought of me writing that down just because my friends were doing it doesn't make any sense. Like I have to have some deeper thought inside me, some deeper reason for writing that.