One Moment in Time (13 page)

“What if I love pineapple?” I ask. “What if pineapple is my very favorite fruit in the whole entire world and you've just deprived me of it?”

“Oh, I'm sorry,” he says, pretending to be apologetic. “I didn't mean to deprive you.” He spears another piece of pineapple and holds it out to me, and I lean down and eat it off his fork.

“Yum,” I say. “Pineapple. Best fruit ever.”

He laughs and shakes his head, then brushes his thumb against my lower lip. His eyes are on mine, and a breeze blows through the palm trees, ruffling the leaves. “Pineapple juice,” he explains.

“Thanks,” I say softly.

But he doesn't move his thumb away. It stays there, brushing against my lip for a moment, before his whole hand moves to my chin and pulls me toward him. His mouth is on mine, soft and sweet, different than it was last night. Last night our kisses were hungry, like we were both trying to prove something, like we were both trying to lose ourselves in each other or at least in what we were doing.

But today his kiss feels softer, more searching. Kissing
him last night left me breathless and frenzied—kissing him today is more of a slow, steady burn.

After a few minutes, he pulls back and looks at me.

“Hi,” he says, smiling.

“Hi.”

He leans back on the rock and looks at me. “So what do you want to do today?”

“Today?”

“Yeah. What should we do?”

“I don't know.” I wasn't planning on hanging out with him today. I wasn't planning on any of this.

“Are you up for something fun?” he asks.

“Um, duh. Always,” I say. It's meant to be sarcastic, but then I realize he doesn't know me that well. All he knows about me is that I had sex with him last night, that I met him on the beach and then went home with him, that I ditched my friends to hang out with him, and that I didn't get into Stanford, which probably means he has no idea that I
should
have gotten into Stanford, that I'm the kind of girl who works hard and plays by the rules and doesn't ever do anything that's even remotely fun.

“Cool,” he says. He starts to pack up the remnants of our breakfast, picking up the empty containers and used silverware and putting them in one of the plastic bags. I marvel again at the ease with which he moves, with the easy way he just asked me to spend the day with him. There was
no stressing over it, no wondering what I was going to say, no worrying I was going to turn him down or think he was crazy for suggesting it. Is this how normal people live? Or just him?

We walk back through the cove and out onto the beach, and this time, when we go over the tricky part of the wall, he holds my hand tight.

We make a plan to meet back up on the beach in an hour. As nice as it was being able to wear Abram's sister's yoga pants, it's time for me to change into my own stuff. Abram wouldn't tell me where we were going—all he said was to wear a bathing suit and clothes that I wouldn't mind getting wet. So obviously it has something to do with the water. But on a barrier island like Siesta Key, that could mean a million different things.

When I get back to the hotel, no one's in my room. I breathe a sigh of relief. Not that it would have really mattered—I'm only going to be here for a few minutes, just long enough to change. But still. I want to limit my interactions with Lyla and Aven as much as possible.

I brush my hair until it shines, then quickly go over it with the straightening iron, flipping it up at the ends so it falls in beachy waves. It will probably get completely wrecked
once I'm in the water, but hopefully it'll last at least until I'm on the beach. I add a quick slick of pink gloss to my lips and a swipe of bronzer to my cheeks. It's a lot different from the smoky eye I was wearing last night, but I'm hoping Abram can appreciate my more casual look.

I'm just about to head back out when my phone buzzes with a text.

Paige.

COME DOWN HERE IMMEDIATELY

Wow. Demanding, much?

I text back,
What?

Come down to our room.

I hesitate. I don't really
want
to go down to their room. They're going to be asking me tons of questions about last night. Do they know I never came home? Did they come to my room and look for me? Were they really going to call the police? How angry are they that I never texted them?

I wonder if I can get away with pretending I'm not here, that I'm still out at Abram's.

But a second later, my phone buzzes again.

I saw you coming in the lobby, so I know you're here.

Great. Well, there goes that plan, I guess.

Whatever. It's not the end of the world to go down and check in with Celia and Paige. Actually, it will probably be good for them to see that I haven't been chopped up into a
million pieces, that I'm totally okay and happy. That way when I tell them I'm going to be spending the day with Abram, they won't give me crap for it.

But when I knock on the door to Celia and Paige's room, they're not in good moods.

“Where the hell have you been?” Paige accuses as soon as she opens the door. Her hair is pulled back in a ponytail, and she obviously just woke up, because she's wearing her glasses.

“Good afternoon to you, too, Paige,” I say brightly.

“Do you know how worried we've been about you?” she asks. “We thought you were dead!”

“Why would you think I was dead?” I ask, as she moves aside and lets me walk by her into the room. “You knew I was with Abram.”

This seems to throw her a little bit, and she shakes her head. “Yeah, but you never came back last night.”

“Why are you giving me such a hard time?” I ask. “You guys ditch me all the time.”

Paige's eyes bug out of her head. “We do not!”

“Yes, you do.”

“No, we don't.”

“Yes, you do.” The thing at Bronx's birthday party where Celia left me was just the latest incident. They both abandon me constantly—at parties, at school, on random Saturday nights when one of them decides they want to go home with
some guy or hang out with some guy instead of all of us hanging out as a group.

It's annoying that Paige is giving me crap for something the two of them do on a regular basis. But whatever. I'm in too good of a mood for her to bring me down. Plus, I want to get out of here before it starts getting late.

Paige throws her hands up in the air and then shakes her head, like I'm the one who's being ridiculous. “Look, just forget it, okay? You're going to be around today, right? Because I need help.”

She turns away, and that's when I see Celia, lying in bed. She's got one of those eye masks over her eyes to block out the sunlight that's streaming through the window, and there's a washcloth on her head. “Stop talking so loud,” she grumbles. “Seriously, you guys are, like, screaming. It's too early for that.”

“It's not too early,” I say, sighing. “You're just too hungover.”

“It's not my fault,” she moans. “Those guys last night, they kept buying us drinks.” She says it like she was a completely innocent party in the whole thing, like she hadn't specifically gone over to them with the intent of getting them to buy her as many drinks as possible. I saw those guys—they were harmless. They didn't seem like the type to ply innocent girls with alcohol in an effort to get them wasted. They seemed nice, and they probably kept buying
drinks because Celia and Paige had somehow convinced them that Celia could hold her liquor.

“You didn't have to drink them,” I say. I walk over to the bed and sit down next to her.

She lifts up her eye mask and blinks in the sun. Her eyes are a little watery, but they're not bloodshot or anything, and her pupils and focus seem fine. However bad she feels right now, there's no reason to think there's anything really wrong with her. She probably just needs to sleep it off and get rehydrated, like she did yesterday.

I reach for the bottle of water that's sitting on the nightstand and open it.

“Drink,” I command.

Celia takes a tiny sip. “I'm never going to drink again,” she says. “I promise.” She does the sign of the cross, which makes no sense, since she's not even Catholic. Maybe she means she crosses her heart, but still.

I sigh. “I've heard that one before.”

“No, this time I mean it,” she says. She looks at me hopefully. “Quinn, will you order me a pizza?”

I glance doubtfully at the trash can that's sitting next to her bed. Obviously it's been put there for a reason.

“I haven't thrown up in two hours,” Celia says, catching me looking.

“She hasn't,” Paige confirms. She flops onto her bed
and turns on the TV. “So you can definitely order her pizza. Then after she eats it, maybe she'll feel okay enough to go to the beach.”

I look at her incredulously as she flips to a
Golden Girls
rerun. On the screen, Sophia is making fat jokes about Blanche's daughter. The jokes are tasteless and mean, but Paige laughs and throws her head back. “I just love this show,” she says. She glances at me and Celia. “Promise me we'll be like that when we get old and our husbands are dead?”

“Of course,” Celia says. She squints at the screen. “But we'll have a way better house than that. And we'll be better dressed. No old-lady clothes.” She leans back on the pillows.

I have a moment of panic thinking about the three of us living together as old women. Is that how my life is going to turn out? Am I going to be living with Paige and Celia, in some little house in Miami, taking care of Celia when she gets drunk and tries to flirt with the pool boy? Am I going to be fixing her meals and trying to hide in my room so she doesn't ask me to order her a pizza? The thought is so horrible I almost want to throw up into the trash can myself.

“Quinn,” Celia moans. She pulls her eye mask back down over her eyes. “Can you please order my pizza now? Not from the place we got it yesterday, it was too greasy.”

“Yeah, and can we get half with just veggies?” Paige pipes up. “I want to limit my meat consumption. I'm feeling a little bloated.”

“Thank you, Quinn, so much,” Celia murmurs, patting my arm. “You're saving my life.”

I look at them, stunned. Do they really expect me to order them pizza and then sit here, wasting my senior trip in this room watching
Golden Girls
reruns until Celia feels better?

I stand up. “I have plans today,” I announce.

Paige turns and looks at me incredulously, and Celia props herself back onto her elbow before sliding her eye mask up again. “What kind of plans?” Celia asks.

“With Abram,” I say, liking the way it sounds.
With Abram.
Like having plans with him is natural, like we're a set. Quinn and Abram. Hanging out together. Making plans.

“The guy from last night?” Paige asks. She and Celia exchange a glance.

“Yes, the guy from last night,” I say.

“Quinn, honey, are you sure that's a good idea?” Celia asks. “I mean, I know he's cute and all, but where could it really go?”

“It doesn't have to go anywhere,” I say. “I'm just having fun.”

Paige and Celia exchange another look, like I couldn't
possibly hook up with a guy just for fun.

Is that what they think of me? That I'm so lame that even when I say I'm having fun, there's no way I could possibly
really
be having fun?

“I am perfectly capable of having fun,” I tell them.

“Oh, Quinn, honey, of course you are,” Celia says. “And I'm glad you had fun last night.” She takes a deep breath. “I just really need my friends right now. Both of you. Paige, you'll order the pizza, right? For all of us?”

“Sure,” Paige says, suddenly sounding nervous. “What kind do you want, Quinn?” Now that I'm sticking up for myself, she's afraid I really am going to leave. And if that happens, she's going to have to take care of Celia by herself.

“I'm going to meet Abram,” I say.

“But I'm sick!” Celia cries. She sounds just as panicked as Paige, and I realize it's for the same reason—with me gone, she's going to be stuck having to rely on Paige to take care of her. And Paige isn't as good at that as I am.

“You're not sick,” I tell her. “You're just hungover. You'll feel better as soon as you drink some more water and get some carbs in you.” I push the water bottle closer to her so she can drink.

She just stares at me.

Paige just stares at me, too.

“Okay, then,” I say. “So I guess I'll see you guys a little later?”

“You're not seriously leaving?” Celia says. She sounds very strong for someone who's supposedly so sick.

“Yes, I am,” I say. “I told you, I have plans.”

“You're ditching us,” she says, “for some local guy with a bad surfer haircut?”

“He doesn't have a bad surfer haircut,” I say, wondering why she would even say such a thing. Abram doesn't have a bad haircut. Everything about him is sexy and cool and just . . . I shiver.

“You can't go,” Celia says. “You need to stay here and help us. We're friends. Friends don't leave each other for some random guy.”

“He's not random,” I say.

“He
is
random!” Celia says, pulling off her eye mask and tossing it onto the bed. “You just met him last night, and now suddenly you're taking off with him!”

“Oh, like how you took off with Bronx at his birthday party a few weeks ago?” I shoot back. “And just left me there like an idiot and I had to call my brother to come and pick me up?”

“That was different!” Celia says. “You knew I'd been wanting to hook up with Bronx for months!”

“Oh, okay,” I say. “So if we've been wanting to hook up with a guy for a while, then it's okay to just ditch each other?
But if we haven't, then it's not okay? I'm just trying to figure out the rules of our friendship, because you seem to keep changing them.”