One Moment in Time (11 page)

“Just, um . . .” Lyla looks around, like she's trying to figure it out herself. But there's nothing around to explain her presence. In fact, the neighborhood is pretty quiet, except for the chirp of the birds and the sound of the neighbor lady, who's watering her plants with a hose and watching us intently.

“We came to check on you,” Beckett says matter-of-factly. He turns and looks to Lyla for confirmation. “Lyla, tell her we came to check on her!”

“Check on her for what?” Abram asks. His tone sounds kind of menacing, like he can't believe anyone would insinuate that he's doing something untoward with me. Even though we did something untoward last night. Can Lyla tell I've been up to no good? I know it's screwed up, but I kind of hope she can. I want her to feel shocked by me, to realize she doesn't know me anymore, that she doesn't know what I'm like or how I behave.
Maybe then she'll realize you've changed and give you another chance.

“To make sure she was okay!” Beckett says to Abram. He turns to me. “Quinn, are you okay?”

“Yes,” I say. “I'm fine!”

“You seem upset,” Lyla calls from the sidewalk. “We should probably go.”

Oh, for the love of god. Now she's worried about me being upset? She didn't stop to think about that before she showed up here? Am I even upset? I can't decide. On one hand, it's annoying that she's showing up here with Beckett Cross, who I don't even know. On the other hand, it's the first time in two and a half years Lyla's shown any indication that she gives a crap about me, which is actually kind of nice.

“She's fine,” Abram says. “Now you want to tell me who the hell you are and what the hell you're doing here?”

“Jesus,” Beckett says. “Take a chill pill. We're friends of Quinn's. We just came to make sure she was okay. Which we already told you.”

“Quinn, are these people friends of yours?” Abram asks.

I think about it. Beckett definitely isn't my friend, but Lyla . . . I look down to where she's standing at the bottom of the driveway. She's got her arms wrapped around herself and she's moving nervously back and forth, shifting her weight from foot to foot.
Is
she my friend? I want to say yes. But why does she think she has the right to just show up here like this? To just show up here and act like she's all concerned about me, when, let's face it, she's done nothing but blow me off for years. It's not fair. It's not right. My heart softens
a little when I think about how she must have been worried enough to come and try to find me. But what made her think it was okay to try to interfere with my life when she knows I want nothing to do with her? It's really incredibly arrogant when you think about it.

“No,” I say firmly.

The woman across the street drops her hose onto the ground.

“Bill!” she yells. “Bill, come quick! There's going to be a domestic disturbance.”

A domestic disturbance? What is she talking about? She's obviously been watching too many crime shows. This situation is nowhere close to becoming a domestic disturbance.

“No, there's not!” Lyla yells at the woman. “Beckett! Come on! She's fine! Let's go!”

Wow. For someone who's supposedly so concerned, she's giving up pretty quickly. What if I wasn't fine? What if Abram was holding me here against my will, and I had to say I was okay, even though I wasn't, because I was scared of him? Hasn't Lyla ever heard about victims becoming brainwashed by their captors? Elizabeth Smart, hello? And yeah, I'm pretty sure it takes longer than just a day to become brainwashed, but still.

Beckett shakes his head at us one more time, like Abram and I should be happy he and Lyla came out here
to check on me, like showing up randomly at someone's house is a good thing instead of something you shouldn't do unless you have a really good reason to think something bad is happening.

Beckett turns around and starts walking down the driveway, and I breathe a sigh of relief. The last thing I wanted was to end up getting into some kind of drama with Lyla and Beckett. One, because I don't even know Beckett, and two, because I don't want to talk to Lyla, and even if I did, the last place I would want to do it is in the driveway of the guy I just lost my virginity to.

My relief is short-lived, though, because as Beckett's walking away, he says, “That guy's an asshole.” He's saying it to Lyla, but he says it loud enough so that Abram and I can hear. Actually, I'm pretty sure he
purposely
says it loud enough so Abram and I can hear.

“Hey,” Abram calls after him. “What'd you call me?”

Beckett turns around. “I called you an asshole.”

Oh, for the love of god.

I look at Lyla, one of those looks like,
Are you seriously going to let this happen right now?
but she obviously doesn't get it, because she just gives me a friendly smile. I scowl and look away. Why is she even here? It's obvious she just woke up, because she's wearing her—

Wait a minute.

Is she wearing my shorts?

“Are those my shorts?” I ask incredulously.

“No,” she says. “They're mine.” She's lying. I mean, what are the chances that she and I have the exact same shorts? Yes, they're just plain black ones, but still. I thought I'd have to worry about Aven taking my stuff, and now it turns out I have to worry about Lyla, too. No wonder I'm not friends with the two of them anymore. They're a couple of thieves.

“What did you call me?” Abram asks again. He takes a step off the porch and onto the driveway.

“I. Called. You. An. Asshole.” Beckett turns around and takes a step closer to the house.

“Come on,” Lyla pleads with him, “this isn't any of our business.”

Oh, now she's all nervous about people's privacy. Maybe she should have thought about that before she stalked me down wearing my own shorts.

“Get out of here,” Abram says.

But Beckett takes another step toward him, and a shot of adrenaline pulses through my body. They're not really going to fight, are they? Over what? Beckett calling Abram an asshole? That seems like a really stupid reason to get into a fight. Is Abram a loose cannon? Is he the type of guy who goes off on someone for no reason? I realize how truly little
I know about him, and it's kind of unsettling.

“Beckett,” Lyla says. “Stop. Just stop.” There's a certain familiarity in her tone, and I wonder again what the deal is with the two of them. Are they together? They seem like an unlikely match, although like I said, I don't really know that much about Beckett. I'm interested in spite of myself.

From a few streets away comes the sound of a police siren.

“That's the police!” the woman from across the street yells. “My husband has called the police. And as soon as they get here, I'm going to fill out a report. I'm going to fill out a report and make sure that this neighborhood doesn't go the way of the ghetto.”

I almost laugh out loud, because she's really getting riled up. And over what? Teenage boys posturing? I'm relieved to realize that if Beckett and Abram really wanted to fight, they would have started by now. I've seen enough stupid fights in the halls at school to realize they start quickly. Yes, there might be a little bit of trash talking, but if people want to fight, they fight.

“Beckett,” Lyla says, “please, come on.” She sounds freaked out, like she's really worried that the police are going to come and get her in trouble. Well, that's what she gets for crashing my party and trespassing. Then Lyla decides to take it to the next level. “The police are going to come and
arrest you!” she screams at Beckett. “Do you want to spend the day in jail?”

She's acting completely ridiculous, and I kind of feel bad for just standing here and watching the whole thing play out. Obviously I would never let Lyla and Beckett go to
jail
just because they wanted to make sure I was okay. Even though it would kind of serve them right.

“Fine,” Beckett says to Lyla, “come on.” He starts walking backward down the driveway, glaring at Abram the whole time. Abram just stands there, staring him down. Boys! I mean, seriously.

Finally, Beckett and Lyla disappear around the corner.

Abram turns around.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I say. “I'm fine.” The sun is beating down on us, and I notice for the first time that Abram's not wearing a shirt. It's kind of weird, seeing him out here half-naked. Don't get me wrong, he looks amazing—defined chest, chiseled abs, a flat stomach. . . . But it's one thing to be naked with someone in their bed, it's another to be out here, in the light of day, with someone who doesn't have a shirt on. Also, I'm wearing his clothes.

“I, um, grabbed a pair of sweatpants,” I say. “I hope you don't mind.”

He grins. “I don't mind.”

“Okay.”

We just stand there for a moment, and I'm not sure what I'm supposed to do now. Go back to the hotel? Tell him thanks? Give him my number so it doesn't seem like I'm the kind of girl who sleeps with a guy and just expects not to hear from him again? Even though I totally don't expect to hear from him again. Do I? I mean, it wasn't my intention to put any expectations on this when I had sex with him, but now I don't know if—

A police car pulls up across the street. The woman with the hose goes running over to the cops, gesturing at us and pointing excitedly.

Abram sighs. “Sorry,” he says. “I'd handle this myself, but they're probably going to want to talk to you, too.”

He sounds kind of weary, like he's been through this before and knows exactly what the cops are going to ask and who they're going to want to talk to. I have that same strange feeling again—that I don't really know him, that he could have a criminal record a mile long, or even a warrant out for his arrest.

Suddenly, what seemed exciting and fun last night now just seems ridiculously stupid. Yeah, I didn't get into Stanford, but did I really have to go and jeopardize
everything?
I'm sure Yale and Georgetown aren't going to be too thrilled if they find out I've had a run-in with the police. And I think they check that stuff one last time even after you've gotten accepted.

Abram runs back into the house to grab a T-shirt, and when he comes back out, he starts walking down the driveway toward the police car.

And after a second, I take a deep breath and follow him.

THE POLICE ARE ACTUALLY REALLY COOL
about the whole thing. Since Beckett and Lyla are already gone, there's no one to question except for us. It also helps that the woman across the street (whose name turns out to be Barbara) is a drama queen. Apparently she calls the police, like, a lot. So when the cop shows up, he's a little suspicious of her already.

He asks me if I'm okay, makes a note of the incident, and then drives off. Barbara's pretty disappointed, and she heads into the house, mumbling about how she's going to be writing a letter to her congressman about the police force being completely ineffective.

“That was insane,” Abram says once we're back inside.

I follow him to the kitchen, where he pulls out a couple of glasses and fills them with water from the tap.

“I've never been questioned by the police before.” I take
the glass from him and take a sip. The water is cool and refreshing.

Abram laughs. “You've never been questioned by the police before?”

I shake my head. “Why is that funny? Are you used to being with girls who have?”

“No, it's just . . . I would hardly call that being questioned by the police.”

“We totally were! There was a policeman, and he asked us questions.”

This makes him laugh even harder. “Being questioned by the police means they bring you down to the station, sit you in a room, and interrogate you for hours. Talking to a cop in your driveway because some crazy lady across the street freaked out is not being questioned by the police.”

“Oh.” I take another sip of my water and think about it. “So have you ever been?”

“What? Questioned by the police?”

“Yeah.”

He shrugs. “A few times. But nothing they could get to stick. My parents have really good lawyers.”

“Oh.” A lump comes up into my throat. He's a criminal. I have slept with a criminal.

“I'm just kidding, Quinn,” he says, grinning. “You should see your face. No, I've never been questioned by the
police.” He shakes his head. “What kind of guy do you think I am?”

“Oh, I don't . . . I mean, I don't think you're any kind of guy, really.” But I'm kind of shocked to realize I want to find out. Is it because we slept together? He's so not my type. In fact, that was the whole point of having sex with him in the first place. It was supposed to be a one-off, one of those things I could just forget about and move on from.

Am I having some kind of mental breakdown? I've heard about things like this happening—girls who are smart and competent until they go away to college and then
bam
! They start getting drunk and sleeping with frat boys until finally they flunk out. Am I going to flunk out? Am I on a downward spiral? I haven't even graduated high school yet!

“So what do you want to do now?” Abram asks me.

“Oh, um . . . I'm not . . . I don't know.” Suddenly, I'm confused. Half of me wants to run out of here, back to my hotel room, back to the safety of my old life. I'll hang out with Celia and Paige and just forget this whole thing ever happened. It'll be a story I'll tell my daughter someday, one of those “you shouldn't have sex before you're ready” stories. Actually, it won't be that kind of story. It was nice, sleeping with Abram. I never felt like I was doing something I didn't want to do, I never felt disrespected or dirty, and we made sure we were safe. He held me all night and kissed me this
morning and now he's giving me water and asking me what I want to do today. It's all very confusing. I'm supposed to be heading back to my hotel in the same clothes I wore yesterday, feeling guilty and regretful and wondering what the hell I just did.

But instead I'm here, realizing I want to spend more time with him. This isn't how it was supposed to go. It was supposed to be a night I could just get caught up in, to forget about everything else that was going on in my life. It was supposed to be an escape.

“Are you hungry?” Abram asks. He leans back against the counter and looks at me. “I know a good breakfast place.”

I think about it. I'm starving. My stomach feels empty, but not in a bad way. “Yes,” I say honestly. “I'm hungry.”

“Well, let's go then.”

“I need to go back to my hotel first,” I say. I look down at what I'm wearing. “I need to shower and change.”

“You can shower and change here.” He reaches out and pulls me toward him.

I shake my head. “I don't have any clothes here.”

“I can find you some clothes.”

“What? Your T-shirts and shorts?”

He shrugs. “Yeah. Or you can borrow some of my sister's stuff. She's away at school, she won't mind.”

“I don't know . . . ,” I say. He's stroking my back now,
his fingers slipping up under the bottom of the T-shirt I'm wearing. His touch feels good on my bare skin, and I shiver. I want to stay here with him, I want to shower here and wear his clothes and just . . . be with him. But I'm scared. How can I not go back to the hotel? I need to talk to Celia and Paige, I need to wear my own clothes, I need to shower and . . . I need to think about everything that happened yesterday. I need to regroup.

“Come on,” Abram says, then kisses me softly. “Don't you want to hang out with me?” He puffs out his bottom lip, like he's actually really upset at the thought of me not wanting to spend time with him. I know it's an act. How upset could he be about me leaving when he just met me yesterday? I think about yesterday, seeing him on the beach, talking to those girls in bikinis, the way they were looking at him. If I left, he could probably just head back out to the strip and find another girl to go to breakfast with. Does he do this all the time? Am I just one in a string of dozens of tourists he's brought back to his house and dressed in his clothes and taken out to breakfast?

“Come onnnn,” Abram says. “You have to eat.” He takes my hand and starts pulling me down the hall toward his bedroom. He stops at a linen closet and pulls out a towel and a fresh bottle of shampoo. “Here you go,” he says. “Herbal Essences, girls love that.”

I want to ask him how he knows what girls like, but something tells me I won't like the answer.

He brings me to his room. “Sit,” he commands.

I sit on the bed while he disappears back down the hall. I pick up my phone. Texts from Celia and Paige, demanding to know where I am, threatening to call the police if I don't answer. Which is pretty dramatic. Also they couldn't have been that worried, because even though they threatened to do something, obviously they did nothing. They didn't try to find me, they didn't call the police, they didn't try to figure out where I was or what I was doing. (Although I guess it was pretty obvious.) In fact, the only one who seemed to really give a crap about me was Lyla. I text Celia and Paige back and tell them I'm fine, even though they don't deserve it.

Abram reappears in the doorway, holding a pair of gray yoga pants, a purple tank top, and a pair of flip-flops.

“My sister's,” he says, proud of himself. “They still have the tags on and everything.”

“Thanks.” I take the stuff, but I don't move from the bed. Is this really how I want to spend my senior trip? Hanging out with a random guy I just met? Shouldn't I be on the beach, hanging with Celia and Paige, experiencing my last moments with them and my classmates before we all graduate and go our separate ways?

My phone vibrates.

My mom.

Calling me.

To talk about Stanford, to talk about how I didn't get in, to talk about how disappointing the whole thing is. She loves that word.
Disappointing.
She won't come out and say
I'm
a disappointment, but she has no problem letting me know
situations
are disappointing, or that I've let her down in some way.

I don't feel like dealing with that right now. I don't feel like dealing with Celia and Paige, either. Just because they're in my class and just because this is our senior trip doesn't mean I have to spend it with them, doing things I don't want to do. I should be doing what I
want
, what sounds fun to me, what makes me happy.

And right now, what I want is to spend time with Abram.

So I send my mom's call to voice mail.

“Okay,” I say, smiling. “Let's go to breakfast.”

“Are you carbs or protein?” Abram asks as we walk down Ocean Boulevard an hour later.

“Carbs or protein?”

“Yeah, you know . . . like are you a waffles and pancakes kind of girl, or do you stick with your standard eggs and bacon?”

“Oh.” I think about it. I don't go out to breakfast that often—weekend mornings are for studying or working on
school projects and applications—but when I do, I always get the same thing. Western omelet, wheat toast, and home fries. But now that order seems completely boring. Of all the things I could get, I pick
wheat toast
? What about Belgian waffles or crepes or even eggs Benedict? Why do I have to be a wheat toast and omelet kind of girl? Do I even like wheat toast and omelets? Suddenly I'm not so sure. Suddenly I'm the kind of girl who hooks up with random boys. And the kind of girl who hooks up with random boys doesn't eat something as boring as plain old wheat toast.

“Pancakes,” I say. “Definitely. Chocolate chip ones. With a side of bacon.”

Abram grins, like he approves of this choice. “I should have known,” he says. “Any girl cool enough to order a barbecue bacon cheeseburger isn't going to settle for an omelet.”

I flush. I like the fact that he called me cool, that he thinks I'm the kind of girl who does cool things.

We continue walking down the main street of Siesta Key, along with the tourists in their beachwear. Everyone else is heading toward the water, while we're going in the opposite direction, toward the restaurants. Of course, this means we have to dodge people as we weave in and out of the crowds, but it's kind of okay because otherwise I'd have to talk to Abram, and I'm not sure exactly what to say.

It feels weird making conversation with someone you've
already slept with. What am I supposed to ask him? All the stupid small-talk stuff that you ask when you're on a first date with someone? That seems so weird, since he's actually . . . seen me naked.

Oh my god, he's seen me naked. I have a flash of him last night, on top of me, the moonlight shining through the window, his arms wrapped around me, his lips on mine. I flush hot. Oh my god.

I. Had. Sex. With. Him.

What the hell was I thinking? What seemed daring and crazy last night now just seems ridiculously reckless. I'm completely different than I was yesterday. I'm not a virgin anymore. Abram will forever be in my memories, will forever have the place of being the first person I had sex with. I suddenly feel very world-weary and grown-up. Does everyone walking down the street know we slept together? I know that's ridiculous. People can't tell just by looking at you if you've had sex or not.

But still. If they knew, they wouldn't be surprised. A guy and a girl, out in comfy-looking clothes late in the morning, their hair disheveled. Not that my hair is that disheveled. I made sure I brushed it this morning after my shower, using the brush I always keep in my purse. It's not good to brush your hair when it's wet, but I didn't want to make it too obvious that I'd been up to something nefarious.

This whole sleeping-with-someone thing is very confusing. It is a BIG DEAL. And here I am, just going out to breakfast like it's nothing, like everything's the same. How can I think of food at a time like this?

I should be . . . I don't know, doing whatever it is people do after they have sex for the first time. I should be telling Celia and Paige about it, I should be dissecting it moment by moment, I should be calling my mom to share the news. My mom! Ha! The whole Stanford thing aside, my mom and I don't have the kind of relationship where we share things like that.

Even if everything was fine and I'd gotten my acceptance letter the way I wanted, I wouldn't have called her to tell her I'd lost my virginity. The only things we bond over are things like grades and academics and working hard. The only time I ever tried to bond with my mom over something else, the only time I went to her for advice, it was a disaster. So much of a disaster it ended up costing me my friendship with Lyla and Aven.

“So here's the thing,” Abram's saying now, and I realize I was so caught up in my thoughts I didn't even realize we're standing outside a cute little breakfast place. Tables spill out onto a huge outdoor patio, and umbrellas are set up all over, blocking patrons from the sun. Every table is full, and there are a couple dozen people hanging out on the stone benches outside, waiting for tables. “This place
has the best breakfast on the key. Which is obvious, because there's a wait.” He leans in close to me and whispers in my ear. “Although most of these people are tourists, and they're just here because they saw the place and so they stopped because it's convenient. They're lucky, because the breakfast is amazing, but they're also annoying because they're taking up our spot.”

He's so close that his breath tickles my ear, and I can see the tiny bit of stubble that's starting on his jaw. My breath catches in my chest. How is it possible to be this attracted to someone I don't even know?

“Oh,” I say dumbly.

“So,” Abram says. “We can wait for a table, or we can get our breakfast to go.”

“Get it to go?” My voice sounds weak. Does he mean get it to go and then take it back to his house with us? If we go back to his house, I'm definitely going to sleep with him again. I can already feel how badly I want to.

“Yeah. I know a great place we can eat. Near the beach.”

Oh. He doesn't mean go back to his house. I don't know if I'm disappointed or relieved.