Heat of the Moment (6 page)

“It is,” Beckett agrees.

We both just stand there for a moment, taking in the scene.

“So is there, like, a restaurant or something on this beach?” I ask as we start walking again. I picture Derrick sitting out on a deck somewhere, eating crab cakes and French fries, his face already starting to get red from the sun. Derrick loves eating outside. Usually I'm not a fan—the wind always blows your napkins around and bugs end up in your food—but for this view, it would be worth it.

“I'm not sure,” Beckett says.

He's walking faster now, navigating through the throng of people who have set up their towels on the sand. Which
doesn't really make sense. Why would he be heading toward the water? If Derrick is at some restaurant around here, shouldn't we be walking
down
the beach, toward where he might be?

“You're not sure if there's a restaurant, or you're not sure where it is?”

“I'm not sure if there is one. Or where it is.” He turns around and grins at me, and then keeps walking.

I frown and then pick up my pace to keep up with him. “But you said you were taking me to Derrick.”

“No, I said I was going to show you where he was.”

“Okay,” I say, not sure what the difference is. “So then where is he?”

“On the beach.” Beckett holds his arm out and swoops it around, like the beach is his own personal gift to me.

“Where?” I shade my hand from the sun and look around. But I don't see Derrick anywhere.

“I don't know.” Beckett shrugs. “He said he was going to the beach with Lincoln. So he must be here somewhere.”

“He must be here
somewhere
?” I look at him incredulously. “Are you kidding me? You said you knew where he was!”

“I do know where he is! He's on the beach.”

“The beach is, like, four miles long!” I can't believe this. I followed him around all afternoon, let him buy me a stupid ice cream, and now . . .
nothing
. He's been messing with me this whole time.

“It won't take you that long to find him,” Beckett says.

“It will take forever to find him!” I say. “Look at all these people.”

“Oh, come on,” he says, in that infuriatingly cocky way of his. “You can walk four miles. It won't take you that long. Just text him and tell him you're on the beach. I'm sure it will be fine.”

“It
won't
be fine,” I say, deciding to leave out the part about how Derrick hasn't been answering my texts.

Instead, I turn around and stomp off. But of course I can't really stomp, because it's hard to stomp on sand. So I sort of just . . . slink away. I expect Beckett to call after me, to tell me he was joking and that he does know where Derrick is after all. But he doesn't.

I walk back down the sandy path and through the tiny parking lot and back onto the main street. People walk by me, happy and tan, laughing and joking, enjoying their vacations. But I'm in no mood for any of it. I'm too angry. I mean, who
does
something like that? Who leads someone on a wild-goose chase while knowing the whole time that they're just messing around? What's the point?

Maybe he wanted to spend time with you. And you wanted to spend time with him, too
.

I shake the thought out of my head.

I'm so mad at him I could scream.

But I'm also mad at myself.

I never should have trusted him.

My phone buzzes then. I look down.

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

Wow. Universe one, Lyla zero.

“PLEASE TELL ME YOU DIDN'T USE ALL THE
hot water,” Quinn says. She comes out of the bathroom and looks at me accusingly, like using up all the hot water is akin to kidnapping a child or stealing someone's life savings. “Please tell me” is one of her favorite ways to start a sentence when she's looking for a way to blame someone for something.

I remember her, two years ago, standing in front of the school. The three of us raising our voices at one another, which was scary, because we never did that. On the rare occasions we had a disagreement, we'd sit down and work it out calmly. Aven forced us to—she was the peacemaker, the one who thought everything could always be figured out by talking. But before the yelling started that day, I remember Quinn saying, “Please tell me you're not mad about this.”

But of course I was. I was so mad I couldn't even look
at them, couldn't stop myself from yelling. Aven looked shocked when we started, and even more shocked when she finally started yelling back.

“I didn't use all the hot water,” I say to Quinn now. “I've been out of the shower for at least an hour.”

“Right.” She sniffs and then rolls her eyes, walking back into the bathroom and slamming the door behind her.

It's later that night, and I'm in my room getting ready for Juliana's party. I'm not really in the mood for a party—after I left Beckett on the beach, I texted Derrick again (okay, fine, three more times), but he never responded. In the two years that Derrick and I have been together, he has
never
acted like this. He's the perfect boyfriend. He doesn't just disappear. And yeah, I know he's mad at me for lying to him, but mad enough to blow me off all day? It doesn't make sense. Something must be going on with him. But what? I can't figure it out, and the more I try, the more anxiety I feel.

Anyway, I don't really want to go to the party, but I can't just bail. One, because Juliana's been texting me to make sure I'm going to show up, and two, because I'm sure Derrick's going to be there. Just because he's been MIA all day doesn't mean he'll blow Juliana off—he knows she'd go bat-shit crazy. I wonder what that means, that Derrick's willing to ignore me all day but that he's
not
willing to ignore Juliana. Is Beckett right? Is Juliana in love with Derrick? Is Derrick in love with Juliana?

My stomach is starting to ache.

Must. Not. Think. Negative. Thoughts.

It's going to be fine
, I tell myself.

Once Derrick realizes I've done nothing wrong, once we've worked it out, we'll be fine. In fact, we'll be more than fine. We'll be, like, all worked up and ready to have makeup sex. Which is the hottest kind of sex you can have. Not that I've ever had makeup sex. Obviously. But still. How awesome would it be to have the hottest kind of sex you can have the very first time you have sex? There will probably be all kinds of passion and romance. Derrick will throw me down on the bed and kiss me all over before having his way with me. A thrill runs up my spine.

I think about the sexy underwear I packed just in case. A black thong and demi-cup bra.

“Why the hell didn't I pack that bustier?” I mutter just as Quinn comes out of the bathroom.

“Wow,” she says. “Sounds like a personal problem.”

I open my mouth to reply with some snappy retort, but then I stop. Quinn is standing in front of me wearing . . . an outfit that is definitely not Quinn. She has on a red-and-white-striped skirt that stops way above the knee, and a white tank top that plunges so far down in front I'm afraid her boobs are going to pop out. Her hair falls in long waves around her shoulders, her eyes are brushed with metallic shadow, and a kiss of blush highlights the tan she must have gotten today.

“What the hell are you wearing?” I blurt before I can stop myself.

“Seriously?” she says. “You're wishing for a bustier and you're questioning
my
fashion choices?” She leans over the dresser in the corner and studies herself in the mirror. I watch, fascinated, as she wipes away a tiny smudge of mascara from the corner of her eye, then reaches into her purse and pulls out a lipstick. She paints her lips in a dark red, then drops the lipstick back into her bag. Then she steps back and fluffs her hair.

“Um,” I say. “Is everything okay?”

She turns around to check her butt out in the mirror, and my mouth drops. The gesture is just so . . . not Quinn. She's not into makeup and dressing up and looking . . . well,
hot
. It's not that Quinn isn't pretty. It's just the opposite, actually. She has this rich chestnut hair and blue eyes and fair skin and a few freckles sprinkled across her nose. She looks a lot like Kate Beckinsale. But Quinn has never been wrapped up in her looks. Sure, she'd do her hair and slap on some lip gloss, but when it came to getting all dolled up? No way.

“Everything's fine,” she says. “Why do you ask?”

She pulls out some perfume and spritzes it all over her body. I'm surprised she knows the appropriate pulse points.

“Since when did you start wearing perfume?” I ask.

“Since, like, forever,” she says. But it sounds like it's a
lie. She gives herself one last long look, then squares her shoulders and tilts her chin up, like she's trying to convince herself of something.

“Are you sure you're okay?” I ask again.

For a moment, a look of doubt passes over her face, like maybe she's not sure she is. She opens her mouth, about to say something. But then she shakes her head just a tiny bit, almost like she's telling herself not to do what she was just about to do.

“Don't wait up,” she says. Then she turns and walks out of the room.

Well.

Whatever.

Quinn's not really my problem.

In fact, she's not my problem at all. But still. There's an uneasy feeling in my stomach. I get up and tiptoe over to the door and peek out. I watch as Quinn gets farther and farther down the hall before disappearing into the elevator. I have this weird urge . . . like I should follow her.

No
, I tell myself.
You and Quinn aren't friends anymore. You and Quinn are . . . well, not enemies exactly, but definitely not the kind of non-enemy ex-friends who can just go around following each other and demanding answers
. Quinn is a grown woman. Well, a grown teenager. A grown teenager who can make her own choices. And yeah, it's a little weird that she's dressed so . . . provocatively. But honestly, I don't even know Quinn
anymore. She could go gallivanting around like that every single day for all I know.

Still. Maybe I should follow her
. I imagine myself confronting her in the lobby and demanding to know where she's going dressed like that. Maybe I'll even call her “young lady” and drag her upstairs. She'll resist at first but then she'll give in, and then she'll—

My phone buzzes.

Derrick! It's Derrick! Derrick is texting me!

But it's not Derrick.

Just my mom.

Hope you're having fun, honey!

Yup,
I type back.
Best time ever!

Predictably, she doesn't ask for details.

Whatever. I have bigger problems than my mom's absenteeism. I need to get to Juliana's party so I can show Derrick what he's been missing all day.

Now I just need to find something sexy to wear.

By the time I get down to Juliana's room, I'm feeling a lot more confident. I'm wearing a really cute red spaghetti-strap sundress with a flared skirt, and I touched up my pedicure and added beachy waves to my hair with my curling iron. I look very Florida. And very sexy.

I pull the top of my dress down in front just a little bit,
then arrange my hair the same way Quinn did back in our room. Then I paste a smile on my face (my smile is one of my best features) and knock on the door to Juliana's room.

It flies open.

“Girl!” Juliana squeals, then reaches out and gives me a huge hug. She smells like a mix of alcohol and cologne. Not that she's wearing cologne, but the inside of her room reeks of it, probably from all the guys who are packed in here. “Ohmigod, I'm so glad you came.” She gives me a huge kiss on my cheek. Her lips are all wet and lipsticky. Gross.

“Oh, of course,” I say, reaching up and wiping at my cheek. “You know I wouldn't miss it.”

“This vacation is the best,” she says, spreading her arms wide as if to show just how much she loves it. She twirls around and then falls down on her bed. The crop top she's wearing slides up a little, exposing the bottom of her stomach.

A guy I've never seen before leans down and kisses her belly button. Juliana giggles. She's definitely wasted.

I make my way to the cooler on the other side of the room. What I really want to do is look around for Derrick, but I don't want to be too obvious. I need to be calm, cool, and relaxed, not wild like some kind of crazy stalker girlfriend.

I survey the contents of the cooler. Ice, wine coolers, cans of Bud Light, a two-liter bottle of Sprite, and some cheap vodka.

I grab a wine cooler and take a sip.

I stand in the corner by the window, which is open just a little bit, probably to air out the smell of pot that's permeating the room.

“Do you want some, Lyla?” Rory Corbett asks me, holding out a joint.

“No, thanks,” I say.

“You sure?” she presses.

“Yeah, I'm sure.” I take a step away from her, because Rory's a talker. She sits next to me in math, and she's always going on and on about the stupidest things—the color she's painting her room, her new jeans, the drama at her part-time job at Abercrombie. I cannot get sucked into the Rory vortex. I need to keep my wits about me.

I run my eyes over the room, nice and slow, looking for Derrick.

“Ohmigod, Lyla,” Juliana slurs, appearing beside me and pulling on my arm. “You have to be in our dance contest.”

“Your dance contest?”

“Yes, it's like, a marathon,” she says. “We just dance and dance and dance and then whoever is the best wins!”

“Oh, that sounds fun,” I lie. My eyes are flicking over the crowd, trying to find Derrick. But I don't see him.

“Are we looking for Derrick?” Juliana asks. “Because he's not here.” She looks at me solemnly. “I think you miss him.”

“No, I don't . . . I mean, yes, I do miss him.” I'm confused by what to tell her. That I do miss him? Or that I don't? I
don't want her to feel sorry for me. I'm not sure why, but the idea bugs me. On the other hand, I know that whatever I say to her is going to get back to Derrick. I take another sip of my drink. It's berry flavored, and very disgusting.

“Don't worry,” Juliana says solemnly. “I'm going to help you. I'm very good at physiotherapy.”

“What?”

“Psycho, I mean.” She hiccups. “I'm good at psychotherapy.” Then she reaches over and pats me on the head, like I'm a dog. “I'm going to help you both get through this trying time.”

Her phone buzzes then, and she squints at the screen, trying to decipher a text. I let my eyes wander around the room, and tap my feet to the music that's blaring from someone's iPod. The lights in here aren't on, and it's kind of hard to see in just the fading daylight that's filtering through the windows.

In the other corner, a group of people are trying to play beer pong, which isn't working since there's only one small, circular table. I spot Aven standing by the entrance to the tiny kitchen, her arms crossed over her chest. She's talking to Liam, the guy she's secretly been in love with for, like, ever. They look like they're having a deep conversation, and I remember the way she cornered me at the airport, asking me if I was going to pay attention to the emails we sent ourselves.

Is she telling Liam she's in love with him? Is he going to reciprocate? I find it hard to believe that could really happen. I mean, they've been friends forever. If Liam had feelings for her,
wouldn't he have told her? He doesn't seem like the kind of guy who would keep something like that a secret. Not that I know him that well—Aven always kept him sort of separate from us.

“It's Derrick!” Juliana crows. She throws her phone in my face. “He's going to stop back at his room and then be at my party in twenty minutes!” She waves the phone around, like I'm supposed to be reading the text, but obviously I can't. It's hard to read when she's so drunk and I'm so annoyed. Why is he texting Juliana before he's texting me?

“Don't worry,” she says. “When he gets here, we'll have a session. You two need to work out your probbbbbleeemmmsss.” Her voice is getting louder as she talks.

“Sounds great!” I lie. “Be right back. I'm just going to run to the bathroom.”

She doesn't hear me. Instead, she heads over to the iPod and starts fiddling with it, talking about her dance contest. Everyone is ignoring her.

I'm not going to the bathroom.

I'm going to Derrick's room.

I need to talk to him before he gets to the party. I need to work things out with him. And the last place I want to do it is in front of Juliana.

When I knock on the door of Derrick's room, a thumping noise comes from inside, like someone fell out of bed. It's
probably Derrick. He has big feet. Maybe he's running to the door because he thinks there's a chance it might be me and he's so excited. Thank god he's on the first floor, otherwise whoever is below him probably would have called the front desk. Which is probably going to happen to Juliana's party at any minute. Maybe that's why she was in such a rush to get drunk. She knew she was on borrowed time. The school was very clear that we had to keep the peace and that if the hotel got any sort of—

The door flies open.

“Hiiii!” I trill. It starts off as flirty, just like I'd practiced in my head, and then sort of trails off into horror.