Heat of the Moment (5 page)

“Jesus,” Beckett hisses. “What the hell are you doing? She's definitely going to see you now.”

“Yes, but at least she won't catch me with
you
.” I move away from the rack of dresses, forcing myself to walk slow and casual, even though my heart feels like it's going to beat right out of my chest. I head toward a display of little figurines made of sand and pick one up, studying it intently, like I'm really interested in buying it. Wow. Fourteen ninety-nine. For this little thing? That's ridiculous. It's probably not even made out of real sand. It's probably made out of some synthetic substitute, the kind that can kill your child or your dog if they accidentally put it in their mouth. I turn it over, and sure enough,
MADE IN CHINA
is stamped in capital letters on the bottom.

They should be ashamed of themselves.

I keep it in my hand, though, because suddenly, I can feel Juliana's eyes on me. She's watching as I turn the sand castle over and over in my hand. It's a little disconcerting, actually, the way I can feel her eyes boring into me. She has a very penetrating stare.

I wonder if Beckett's right, if she's really in love with Derrick. Has she been in love with him this whole time? Is she about to go crazy with passion and have some kind of psychotic break? I have a vision of her stomping over here and ripping the sand castle out of my hand and then using it to bash my head in. They'll have to call the police. And my mom. And my mom will have to come down here, and it will probably take her forever because she'll have to talk it over with her therapist and find out if it's a good idea. At least, I think she would. That's the problem with her self-realizations. She always has to—

“Yo,” a voice breathes into my ear.

I jump. I was so distracted that I didn't realize Juliana is right next to me. Way to stay aware, Lyla. Everyone knows the first rule of avoiding getting caught doing something bad is to be alert. “Oh,” I say dumbly. I instinctively take a step back, and my hand squeezes around the sand castle I'm holding.

“Hey,” she says, giving me a huge grin. “What's up, girl?”

“Oh, not much,” I say, “just looking for souvenirs. To, like, bring back to my mom.”

“Oh, good idea.” She reaches out and takes the sand castle out of my hand. “This is cute. But there's a used bookstore down the street. Maybe they'll have some obscure psychology book or something.”

Annoyance sparks inside me as I realize Derrick must
have told her about my mom's path to self-discovery. “Thanks,” I say.

Juliana pushes her long curls away from her face. “So I thought I saw you come in here with Beckett Cross.”

“Umm . . .” I think about it, wondering if I should just tell her the truth. I mean, there's nothing wrong with what I'm doing. In fact, Beckett is taking me to Derrick. It's the only way I have to find him, actually. But I can't take the chance that Juliana is going to get to Derrick first and spin the story. “No,” I say. I pretend to be peering around the store. “I mean, I think I saw him come in here. But he wasn't with me.”

She bites her lip. Her teeth are blindingly white and perfectly shaped. “Okay,” she says slowly. She leans in close to me, like she's going to tell me a secret. My first instinct is to back away, but something tells me that if I do that, it's going to infuriate her. So I force myself to stay where I am.

“You know,” she says, “Beckett is not a nice guy.”

“Well, I don't even know Beckett,” I say wildly. “I mean, of course I
know
him. He's in some of my AP classes. But I don't, like,
know him
know him. I've only maybe spoken, like, five words to him.” Shut up, Lyla! Shut up!

“That's good,” Juliana says. “Because Derrick is such a nice guy, and you guys are awesome together.” She puts her hand on my arm, like she's worried about me. “I just hope you guys can work this out. I know he really cares about you.”

No, I want to yell. He doesn't just care about me. He loves me! We're about to have sex! And besides, it's none of her business. Why does Derrick have to tell her everything? And when did they have time to talk? Is that who she was talking to on the phone? And if so, why hasn't Derrick called
me
?

“Thanks,” I say tightly.

“So are you going to come to my party tonight?” she says. “You totally have to. It's going to be so fun. We'll drink in my room, then maybe move it down to the beach?”

“Sure,” I say. “Sounds great.”

“Good.” Her phone rings again, and she looks down at the screen. “I have to take this. Text me later.” She turns and walks away, her hair bouncing behind her.

“You can come out now,” I yell to Beckett once I see Juliana disappear down the sidewalk, heading back toward the hotel. “She's gone.”

“Why didn't you tell her I was here?” he says. “Now if she finds out, she's going to know you lied.”

“Because,” I say. “She would have told Derrick. And she's not going to find out.”

“But if Julia does find out—”

“Her name is Juliana,” I say, rolling my eyes. “You really need to get better with names.”

“I'm very good with names,” he says as we step back out onto the sidewalk. The sun warms my skin, and I turn my face up toward the sky, enjoying the way the heat feels
against my cheeks. “In case you haven't noticed, I have an amazing memory. I'm in all AP classes.”

“It's impossible to be in all AP classes,” I say. “The school only offers three of them. And you're not good with names, you don't even know mine.”

“Of course I know your name,” he says. “It's Pink.”

“My
real
name,” I say, even though I know he knows what I'm talking about.

He turns around in the middle of the sidewalk and stands in front of me, blocking me from moving forward. That same flush goes through me, the one that went through me this morning when he was standing so close to me near the car.

“I know your name,” he says softly. “It's Lyla.”

“You just know because you checked the tag of my suitcase,” I say. I'm staring at his chest, because for some reason I don't want to look into his eyes. It's this weird unexplainable thing, like if I look into his eyes something . . . unstoppable is going to happen. Not that looking at his chest is much better. It's hard and muscular and I can't help but imagine what it would be like to reach out and slide my hands up under his shirt.

“No,” he says. His voice is still soft, and it's lost its usual cockiness. “I knew before that.”

“Oh.” I swallow. My heart is hammering in my chest. “Then why did you ask me what my name was?”

“Because I felt like messing with you.” His voice is back to his normal, cocky tone, and just like that, the spell is broken. I shake my head, then move around him and keep walking.

“Oh, what, you're mad now?” he asks, following me.

“No,” I say. “In order to be mad at someone, you have to actually care about what they think of you, or what they've done to you. And I don't. Besides, if I was going to be mad at you, it wouldn't be because you gave me some dumb nickname and pretended you didn't know who I was. It would be because you sent me that note on the plane and then almost got me in trouble with Juliana.”

“You got yourself in trouble with Juliana. And besides, I thought you said she wasn't going to find out you were with me. In which case, there would be no trouble for me to get you into in the first place.”

I feel like I'm on some kind of weird merry-go-round, like no matter what I do I can't get out of the Beckett vortex.

Admit that it's kind of fun
.

My phone buzzes, and I reach down and pull it out of my purse.

Just an email.

From me . . . to me.

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

A memory bubbles up in my mind. Aven, Quinn, and me, standing on the beach with our phones out, scheduling
our emails to be delivered on this day. Aven said something about how by the time we were seventeen, we might think the emails were stupid. Quinn didn't think we would, but even so, we decided to have them repeat. Every couple of hours, throughout the day. So we wouldn't be able to ignore them.

At the time, I thought it was so clever of us, and I had an image in my mind of seventeen-year-old me getting the emails at different points throughout the day, realizing how important it was for me to work on my trust issues and thanking fourteen-year-old me for being so clever. Now seventeen-year-old me doesn't want to thank fourteen-year-old me—she wants to go back in time and throttle her.

I've already figured out my trust issues,
I try to tell the past me.
I'm fine. I have a boyfriend. I don't have issues with men
. If I had issues with men, I'd be with someone like Beckett. Someone unpredictable and crazy and unreliable.

“What's that?” Beckett asks, trying to look over my shoulder.

“Just an email.” I shove my phone back in my purse.

“From who?”

“From . . .” Something tells me “myself” is going to sound a little crazy. Besides, the last thing I want to do is tell Beckett about my email from the past. Or my trust issues. Well, my
past
trust issues. “It was nothing,” I say.

“Then why do you look so disturbed?”

“I'm not disturbed!” I shake my head, trying to clear my thoughts. “Look, can you just take me to Derrick?”

“Sure.”

I follow him down the sidewalk, past the shops and boutiques, weaving in and out of tourists wearing Hawaiian shirts and sunblock.

I feel a little . . . unsettled somehow.

It's okay,
I tell myself.
You'll feel better when you're with Derrick. You always do
.

Of course nothing with Beckett can be that easy, because he insists on stopping for an ice-cream cone.

“What kind do you want?” he asks when it's his turn in line. The ice-cream shop is near the end of Ocean Boulevard and is called Big Olaf. The line, of course, was out the door, but did that stop him? No. In fact, it just seemed to make him happier. “Must be a popular place,” he said cheerily when he saw the huge crowd.

“I don't want any ice cream,” I say haughtily. It's a lie, of course. I never don't want ice cream. Especially on a day like today, when the sun is shining and the sky is blue and you can smell the ocean breeze.

He gives me an incredulous look, like he's not buying it.

“A double-scoop Heath bar crunch on a sugar cone.”

Beckett raises his eyebrows. “Impressive, Pink,” he says,
before turning back to the counter. “Two double-scoop Heath bar crunch on sugar cones,” he tells the girl taking our order.

A secret little thrill runs through my body at the fact that Beckett deemed my ice-cream order good enough to copy. Suddenly, I'm ravenous. Beckett passes me my cone, then pulls a napkin out of the dispenser and hands it to me.

“Thanks.” I start to pull out my wallet. “How much do I owe you?” He waves me away.

“It's on me,” he says.

“Oh.” I'm not sure if that's really appropriate. I mean, how would Derrick feel if he knew some other guy was paying for my ice-cream cone? Probably he wouldn't be too thrilled. I think about how I would feel if the roles were reversed and I found out a girl paid for Derrick's ice cream. Or, even worse, that Derrick paid for a girl's ice cream.

“Oh, relax,” Beckett says as he pushes his way through the throng of people and back out onto the street. “It doesn't mean anything. It was three dollars.”

“Thanks. I haven't eaten anything all day. Well, besides the package of cookies on the plane.” I take a lick of ice cream, closing my eyes in pleasure as the sweet creaminess hits my taste buds.

“That doesn't count.”

“Of course it doesn't,” I say, satisfied. Derrick and I always fight about that—whether you can say you haven't
eaten all day if you've technically eaten something. I say you can, as long as you haven't had a whole meal. Derrick says you can't, because snacks are still food. Which technically I guess is right, but—

Wait a minute. Why am I thinking about disagreements Derrick and I have had? And why am I comparing him to Beckett? That unsettled feeling comes back into my stomach.

“Are we almost there?” I ask, suddenly anxious to bring this whole excursion to an end. This is really not how I should be spending my first day of vacation.

“Yes.”

We fall into silence as we walk down the street, licking our ice-cream cones and dodging people on the sidewalk. The streets are busy, filled with families leaving the beach, people heading out for an early dinner, and older couples poking into the souvenir shops. When we've passed all the restaurants and bars and gotten to the end of the road, Beckett leads me across one of the main streets and into a tiny parking lot. There's a small sandy path at the end of it, and I follow Beckett as he starts toward it.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

And then I look up from my ice cream. The beach comes into full view in front of me and almost takes my breath away. That's how beautiful it is. This is not like the kind of beaches they have in the Northeast, like the rocky ones on
Cape Cod or in Maine. Here, the sand is pure and smooth and white, and it slides over my flip-flops and in between my toes, cool and perfect. The birds that swoop and slide in front of the bright-blue sky are exotic-looking, different from the gulls that populate the beaches back home. The ocean sparkles in the distance, the water a deep aqua, the sun shining as it bounces off the waves.

“Wow,” I say. “It's gorgeous.” I've never been much of a beach person, but now, suddenly, I want to stay here. I want to lay out my towel and take a nap with the sun shining down on me. I want to spread out trashy magazines and lather myself with sunscreen and walk along the water so I can taste the salt in the air.