One Moment in Time (20 page)

What if he doesn't?

These are the thoughts swirling through my mind until finally I find myself there, in front of his house, on a street that's foreign yet familiar, the street where Lyla and Beckett
came to find me, the street where a neighbor called the police on me. (Well, not on me, exactly. But it sounds way more exciting when you put it that way.)

His car is in the driveway.

He must be home.

I don't hesitate.

I march up to the door and ring the bell, feeling brave and courageous and all the things you need to be when you're about to do something crazy like this.

But as soon as I see him, everything changes.

I don't feel brave.

I don't feel courageous.

I feel scared and nervous and worried he's going to take one look at me and send me home.

He's wearing a soft-looking gray T-shirt and his hair is messy and there's stubble on his chin and I want to kiss him so badly it's all I can do to keep from throwing myself across the porch and wrapping my arms around him.

For a split second, I see a look of genuine happiness cross his face, like he's glad I'm here, but then his face closes up and gets hard.

“Hey,” I say, deciding to cling to that first look he gave me and not the closed-off look he's giving me now.

“What are you doing here?” he asks.

“I came to see you.” I realize now I should have had a plan. I should have figured out what
I was going to say, what I was going to do to convince him I'm being honest, that I really do want to see him, that I care about him, that it makes no sense but that I want to get to know him better, to see if there could be anything between us.

“Why?” he asks.

“Because I missed you.” The words come out of my mouth before I can stop them, and he sighs and then steps out onto the porch. He sits down on the top step and looks up at me.

“You missed me,” he repeats.

“Yeah.”

“That's why you're here?”

“Yes.” I raise my chin into the air and give him a defiant look, daring him to contradict me.

“And you came to tell me this while wearing a business suit?”

“No.” I shake my head and try to gather my thoughts, realizing that listening to your instincts has a risk—a risk that you might not know what to say in the moment, that you might not know how to tell the person in front of you that you really do miss him, that you can't stop thinking about him, that it's crazy and irresponsible and ridiculous, but the only thing you want right now is to be with him.

That old guilt resurfaces for a second, and I get angry at myself for thinking the most important thing in my life right now is a boy. A boy I just met. A boy I just met who's
obviously mad at me, a boy I might never even see again after today. But then I realize it's not about Abram being more important than any of the goals I'd set for myself—instead it's about the things I
thought
I'd wanted not being important anymore.

“I had a job interview,” I say. “Well, not a job interview. An interview for that internship.”

“Oh. How did it go?”

He's still sitting on his porch steps, but he hasn't invited me to sit down next to him. And the way he's sitting, with his knees apart, taking up as much space as possible, makes me think he doesn't want me to.

“Not that great,” I say.

“I'm sorry.”

“No, don't be. I mean, it went horribly, but that's because I ran out of the restaurant before we had a chance to do the interview.”

I expect him to ask me why, for me to tell him the story of how I saw that woman sitting there, how I saw my future flash before me, and how I didn't like it. How I knew in that moment I needed to follow my heart, that I had to do what felt right, and that's what led me here, to him.

But instead he just looks at me and says, “Why are you here, Quinn?”

“Because I wanted to see you.”

“You already said that.”

“Oh.”
Tell him. Tell him how you feel.
“I guess . . . I mean, I guess I wanted to apologize. For standing you up.”

“You didn't have to do that.”

“I know, but I wanted to.”

“Why?”

“Why?”

“Yeah, why did you want to apologize?”

“Because I'm sorry?” It's a confusing thing for him to ask. Why else would I want to apologize? People usually apologize when they're sorry for something.

“Yes, but
why
?” he presses.

“Because I shouldn't have done it. It was rude and mean and I . . . I didn't want to stand you up. I wanted to be with you, I wanted . . . I wanted to spend time with you last night.”

“Then why didn't you?”

“Because I was scared.”

“Of what?”

I think about the question, because I want to make sure that when I answer, I'm being completely honest. “I guess I was scared that I was losing myself. When my mom called and told me about this internship interview, I—I realized that I'd almost missed it because I was out on your boat. So I got scared.”

“And you freaked out.”

I nod.

“Just like you did today.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean you freaked out again today. Just a little while ago, at your interview.”

I frown. “No.”

“No, you didn't freak out today? Because you kind of just said that you did.” He sighs and shifts his weight forward on the step, and something about the gesture sends panic flying through me. It's like he's about to stand up and walk back into his house, out of my life forever.

“No, I mean, I did freak out today. But it's different from what happened yesterday.”

“How?”

“Because today I'm doing what I really want to do. I want to spend time with you, I want to be here.”

“But why does it have to be one or the other? You could have spent time with me yesterday after you talked to your mom, you could have spent time with me today after you went to your interview. But you didn't. Instead, you stood me up, and you only came here
after
you decided you didn't want that internship.”

“It's not that simple,” I say, shaking my head because he's starting to make me confused. “Yesterday I stood you up because I got scared. I got scared that being with you made me too focused on you, that being with you might make me lose out on my dream.”

“And yet here you are, less than twenty-four hours later,
telling me that isn't your dream after all, that you don't want that internship, that you're sorry you stood me up, but now you want to spend time with me.” He shakes his head. “Quinn, I'm not going to be your distraction.”

“You're not!”

“Really? Because it's a little weird that you somehow only end up being around me when the rest of your shit is falling through. When you think you don't have Stanford or your internship, that's when you want to spend time with me.”

“No,” I say, shaking my head. The feeling of panic is stronger now, because I feel like if I don't say the right thing, if I don't make him understand, I'm going to lose him forever. “That's not true.”

“Really?” he says. “Because it sure seems that way.”

“No, I don't . . .
I'm
the one who chose to leave the interview this morning. I decided I shouldn't put my energy into something I don't even want, that I'm going to stop wasting my time on things I only thought were important.”

“Well, that's awesome,” he says. “But every time you do something you really want, I become your excuse. And I'm not okay with that.” He stands up. “I think you're really confused, Quinn. You need to figure out what you want, and I just . . . I wish you luck, but I'm not going to be a part of that. I really like you, and I just . . . I can't.”

He looks at me, waiting for me to say something.

But I don't know what to say.

I miss my chance.

And after a second, he gets up and walks inside.

WHEN I GET BACK TO THE HOTEL, I JUST WANT
to be by myself.

I want to throw myself down on my bed and cry. I'm angry—angry at my mom, angry at myself, angry at Abram, angry at Celia and Paige for going on some stupid scuba-diving trip when I need them—but it's like I can't access that anger. Instead, I'm just sad. Sad and tired.

When I open the door to my room, Aven and Lyla are there. Lyla's sprawled out on her bed, and Aven's lying on her cot, her hand over her head.

For a second I think about leaving, but then I realize I have nowhere else to go. And besides, should I let them chase me out of my room? If I want to lie here and be miserable, then I can.

I throw myself down on my bed.

No one says anything for a while.

“Why are you guys just lying here?” I ask finally.

“I'm sad,” Aven says.

“I'm wrecked,” Lyla says.

“Life's a mess,” Aven says.

“I want to go home,” Lyla says.

“Me too,” I say. “To all of the above.”

I want to ask them what's wrong, why they're sad, why they're wrecked, why they want to go home, but it's really none of my business. Besides, if I ask them what's wrong, they might think they can ask
me
what's wrong, and then what will I say? That I slept with a guy and then when I confessed my feelings for him, he rejected me? It's completely humiliating.

And that's when my sadness melts away and the anger takes center stage.

“You know what?” I ask, propping myself up on my elbow and looking at Aven and Lyla. “This is ridiculous.”

“What is?” Lyla asks.

“That we're in Florida, and we're just sitting in this room. We should be out having adventures.” It's ludicrous, when you think about it. Our last day here, and we're just . . . sitting around! I mean, talk about an embarrassment.

“Sounds exhausting,” Lyla says.

“Sounds depressing,” Aven says.

I stand up and throw a pillow at Lyla. Then I throw another one at Aven. “Get up,” I say. “We're going out.”

Lyla looks at me like I'm totally crazy. “The three of us?”
she asks incredulously.
“Like, together?”

I wait for her to tell me no, that she's not going anywhere with me and Aven. But for the first time since we had our fight, she doesn't sound totally opposed to the idea. And if I can play it right, she might just say yes. “Do you have anyone else to hang out with?” I challenge.

“No, but . . .” She trails off, like she's racking her brain for the million and one reasons it's a bad idea for the three of us to hang out.

“I'm in!” Aven says, jumping up off her cot.

“Me too,” Lyla says, surprising everyone. She glances at herself in the mirror over the desk. “But can I wash my face first?”

“Of course,” I tell her.

Aven and I wait in stilted silence while Lyla changes and washes her face. When she comes out of the bathroom, she grabs her purse. “Okay,” she says. “I'm ready.”

We all look at each other.

Suddenly, I'm regretting suggesting that the three of us hang out. Talk about a disaster waiting to happen. And after what just went down with Abram, can my heart withstand another disappointment? I'm really not sure.

But what can I do? It's too late now. I can't just call the whole thing off after I was the one who brought it up in the first place. How crazy would that be? They'd know. They'd know I still cared so much, that I still missed them so much,
that the only reason I haven't reached out to them, that the only reason I pretend I don't care is because I care so, so, so much.

But I can't say that.

Even if it's true.

In the elevator on the way downstairs, we come up with rules for the day. No talking about our fight. No talking about the emails we sent to ourselves. Aven comes up with that last one, and it's confusing to me at first. Why can't we talk about the emails we sent? It makes me wonder if her email maybe has something to do with why she's so upset, if she did something her email told her to and then ended up regretting it.

“This might be awkward,” Lyla says when we get to the sidewalk outside the hotel.

“Not any more awkward than sleeping in the same room,” I say, which isn't really true. Sleeping in the same room is way less awkward than this. First of all, sleeping is just sleeping. And second of all, now we're going to be forced to interact. To talk. To hang out. Can we really go all day, or even a few hours, without bringing up the past?

We head down to the beach and wander around for a while, collecting shells until our pockets are overflowing. It's a good way to start things—we don't have to talk much,
and we can even wander away from each other as we walk on the shore.

We stop at the farmers' market and buy cute little blue bottles to pour our shells into, then top the shells with sand from the beach. It's the perfect souvenir, and it doesn't escape me that every time I look at it, it's going to remind me of Aven and Lyla.

As we leave the farmers' market, Aven and Lyla are talking about how the three of us used to buy the exact same things all the time, but I'm too distracted to focus on what they're saying. I can't stop thinking about Abram. He's never far from my mind, and every time I see anyone who's the same height as him or even remotely fits his description, I start to panic, thinking it's him.

“You wanna get lunch?” I ask Aven and Lyla once we're back on Ocean Boulevard. The last thing I want is to end up with nothing to do. I'm barely hanging on to my sanity as it is.

“Sure,” Lyla says, and I breathe a sigh of relief.

We stop at the first restaurant we see and choose a table outside. I try to just enjoy the gorgeous weather and not think about Abram. But it's impossible. It's like he's imprinted on my brain.

When the waitress comes over to take our order, we decide to just get a bunch of appetizers to share.

“No sour cream on the fish tacos,” I say automatically,
because Lyla hates sour cream. I glance at her. “Right?”

She nods.

“Can you believe this?” Aven asks. “Did you ever think we'd end up sitting here together at the end of this trip?”

“No,” I say. There were a lot of crazy things that happened on this trip—not getting into Stanford, losing my virginity . . . honestly, the fact that I'm sitting here with Lyla and Aven is probably the least crazy thing that's happened to me so far.

Aven takes a deep breath and fiddles with the straw in her drink. “I know we're not supposed to be talking about the past, and you don't have to give me any details, but . . . did you guys do what your emails said to?”

I look away, waiting for one of them to answer before I do. I don't want to be the first to admit I was crazy enough to actually put stock in an email I sent myself when I was fourteen.

For a second, no one says anything.

I'm not above lying—if they say they haven't done what their emails told them to, then I'll say I didn't, either.

“Yes,” Lyla says, looking right at me and raising her eyebrows, like she's expecting me to be the only one who didn't follow through.

“Yes,” I say, looking at her in defiance, daring her to be shocked.

“Yes,” Aven says.

Silence settles over the table, and there's a moment, an opportunity for one of us to speak up and tell the others what happened, what we did in order to fulfill the promises we made to ourselves four years ago. I study Lyla's and Aven's faces as they both shift on their chairs uncomfortably, and I wonder again if somehow the emails are the reason we're all sitting here together. I mean, it's our senior trip. Something must have gone horribly wrong for the two of them to not have any plans or anyone to hang out with today. I know it has for me.

But none of us are ready to go there—we made a rule not to talk about those emails, and even if we hadn't, opening up about them seems too vulnerable. It's one thing to be out here, eating lunch together, it's another to start talking about the intimate details of our lives. Especially when my life is kind of—okay, totally—a mess right now.

So instead we make small talk about the trip and gossip about our classmates as we work our way through the appetizers. When the waitress asks us about dessert, we order a cookie-dough sundae to share.

I marvel at the fact that we're sitting here, talking to each other, getting along after all this time. I don't want it to end.

“We should do it again,” I blurt before I can stop myself or think about the consequences of what I'm saying.

“Do what again?” Lyla asks.

“We should make more promises. Why not? We're at the beach.” The last time we wrote those emails to ourselves, we were at the beach. And the fact that we're here again seems almost like a sign. And yes, doing what my email told me to do was a complete disaster, but isn't that the point? That I should give myself another chance, a do-over?

For a second, Lyla and Aven look like they're about to laugh, like maybe they think I'm joking or something. But when they see I'm serious, they get quiet, thinking about it.

“Sure,” Lyla says after a second. “I'm in.”

Aven nods. “Me too.”

Later we walk down to the beach, and once we're there I hesitate, my purple marker poised over the sheet of light-green paper Aven picked out at the souvenir shop.

We decided to write our promises down on real paper this time instead of sending emails. I wonder if it's because some part of us doesn't want to have the emails showing up four years from now, blasting us in the face, reminding us of what we want to accomplish, forcing us to do things that might end up making things worse.

Or maybe it's just because we're starting to realize that when you make a promise to yourself, there's no deadline. That you have to work on it every day, that our lives are a work in progress, that it really is all about the journey.

One sentence.

That's what we promised each other.

And this time, we're not going to put a time limit on it.

I promise to . . .

I want it to be something important.

Something I should be working on for the rest of my life.

I promise to
. . .
learn to be happy.

When we're all done writing, I fold my piece of paper in half.

“Ready?” I ask, holding out the Siesta Key, Number One Beach lighter we picked up at the gift shop.

We all nod. I hesitate for a moment, wondering if we should read our promises out loud, the way we did last time. But then I realize that's not what this is about—last time, our promises were promises to each other as much as ourselves. And this time, whatever we've written on those papers is ours and ours alone.

I watch as the papers go up in flames, flying into the air and disappearing before the ashes drop into the ocean.

The three of us stay there for a while, sitting on the sand and watching the sun dip below the horizon. We don't say much. We don't have to.

I know we're all thinking the same thing—there won't be an email this time to remind us of the promises we made. We're going to have to remind ourselves.