Heat of the Moment

by Lauren Barnholdt

  “Never mind,” she says, standing up. Her face is hard again, like she can’t believe how stupid I am, and how stupid she was for thinking I could be anything but dumb. “Just stay out of my life, okay?”

  And then she’s gone.

  ELEVEN

  “DO YOU WANT TO GO TO A CLUB?”

  This is what Derrick says later that night when he comes to my room to pick me up for our big night out.

  “Excuse me?”

  “A club.” He seems very . . . I don’t know. Energetic? Frantic? He’s wearing a crisp blue button-up and khaki shorts, and he smells like hair gel and cologne. Yum.

  “What kind of club?”

  “A dance club. A bunch of people are going.”

  “I thought we were going to dinner,” I say, making sure to keep my tone light just in case he thinks all I care about are the material things. “And then to cuddle—to the Jacuzzi room.”

  “Oh, we are,” he says. “But I was thinking we could go dancing in between.” He leans in close to me in the elevator. “Come on. Me, you, dancing . . . it will be hot and sexy.” His eyes are bright with excitement.

  “You don’t dance,” I tease.

  “I’ll dance with you.”

  “I don’t dance.”

  “You’ll start.”

  I think about it. Me, Derrick, in some sexy club with house music pumping and strobe lights flashing. We’ll order drinks and sip them in the corner, people-watching and talking with our heads close together until we’re buzzed enough to head onto the dance floor. Our bodies will become a blur, until we’re all hot and bothered and ready to go back to the hotel room, where we’ll fall into the Jacuzzi to wash off.

  Actually, that sounds disgusting. Why would we wash off in a Jacuzzi? Then we’d just be sitting around in our own filth. Not to mention how many other people have probably used that Jacuzzi to wash off. We’ll be sitting in their filth, too. They probably don’t even wash the tubs. They probably have a bunch of college kids working there who don’t care about things like antibacterial spray. They probably just wipe it with a little water and call it a day.

  “So you want to?” Derrick asks. “Go dancing?”

  “Sure.” Sounds sexy. Sounds fun. I decided to just go with it. Plus, I’m wearing the perfect dancing outfit—a black tank top and a short flippy black skirt. Strappy black sandals that I bought at a little flea market on the street earlier complete the look. I’m a little tan from the beach, and my bronzer has finally started to blend in. I curled my hair into beachy waves, then sprayed the whole thing with tons of hair spray to make sure it would stay. I look Florida sexy and ready for anything.

  Derrick takes my hand as we walk out of the hotel and onto the cobblestone walk that leads to the sidewalk. I flush with pleasure at being with him. I remember when Derrick and I first got together sophomore year. It was at a school basketball game, and I was trying to climb up the bleachers with my hands full of food. I tripped and almost landed in his lap, spilling a little bit of soda on him in the process. He didn’t care, though. He helped me get my footing, held my soda for me, and then held my hand and walked me to my seat.

  Throughout the game he kept coming up the bleachers to check on me, asking me if my legs were okay, joking around that I needed to tell him if I was going to attempt to walk again so he could help me. It was the perfect meet-cute. But my life wasn’t a movie, and so I figured I’d probably never talk to him again. We didn’t have any classes together, we had no mutual friends, and so there was really no reason for me to run into him. But when I passed him between second and third period the next day, he pulled me over to the side of the hallway.

  “Hi,” he said.

  “Hi.” He was holding a copy of The Grapes of Wrath in one hand, and the top corner of the book was fraying. I couldn’t stop looking at that fraying corner. I felt like I was in a dream—things like this (cute boys coming over to me in the middle of the hallway after I’d spent the whole night thinking about them) never happened to me. But if I were in a dream, there was no way I’d notice something as detailed as a fraying corner of a book. As long as that fraying corner was there, everything that was happening was real.

  “Listen,” Derrick said, “I’m not going to beat around the bush and be all coy. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since last night. Do you want to hang out later?”

  And that was it.

  We have been together ever since.

  Everything was perfect.

  We were perfect.

  Until now.

  You cheated on him.

  I have to tell him. I know I do. I can’t have sex with him while keeping this kind of secret. It’s just not right.

  By the time we get to the restaurant, a cute little seafood place called the Anchor that’s right on the ocean, my stomach is in knots.

  “You okay?” Derrick asks once we’ve been seated.

  “I’m fine. I think my feet just hurt a little from walking in these shoes.”

  “Oh no,” he says. “I hope you’re still going to be able to dance.” He reaches for the menu that’s been placed in front of him and slides his eyes down the list. “I want you to get whatever you want. Tonight’s special, and so we should celebrate.”

  I squeeze his hand and give him a big smile. Maybe I shouldn’t tell him. I mean, why would I want to ruin such a special night? And honestly, would he really even want to know? I remember getting into this huge fight with Quinn once about how if someone cheated on her, she wouldn’t want to know about it. We were at a party, playing one of those games where everyone passes around a deck of cards with questions on them, and the whole group has to answer. One of the questions was “If your boyfriend or girlfriend cheated on you, would you want to know?” and Quinn kept insisting she wouldn’t, because if the cheating happened it was in the past, and she wouldn’t be able to change it, so why would she want to ruin her whole relationship?

  I wonder if Derrick would agree.

  The waiter appears at our table. He’s one of those fancy waiters, the kind that get all mad if you order your steak well done because they think you’re ruining the meat. How can you be ruining the meat if that’s the way you like it? I like my meat well done. I can’t help it.

  “What would you like to drink?” the waiter asks. He has two gray hairs growing out of his nose.

  “Ummm . . .” I let my eyes wander over to the wine list, but he gives me a disapproving look. Whatever. I didn’t want alcohol anyway. I need to keep my wits about me. “Just a Shirley Temple.”

  “Coke,” Derrick says.

  “Very well,” the waiter says, like he can’t believe what idiots we are.

  “So,” Derrick says once the waiter is gone. He reaches across the table and takes my hand. “I’m really glad I’m here with you.”

  “I’m really glad I’m here with you, too.”

  His fingers massage the inside of my wrist gently. Mmm. That feels good. I feel the tension in my shoulders and back instantly start to dissipate. See? This is going to be fine. This is going to be great. Derrick reaches out and fingers the beads of my tigereye bracelet and I pull back like I’m on fire.

  “What’s wrong?” Derrick asks.

  But the waiter reappears with our drinks before I can answer.

  “Are you ready to order?” he asks. He doesn’t look like he’s ready to take our order. He doesn’t have a pad out or anything. I hate when waiters don’t write down your order. They always end up messing it up, and then you have to be a jerk and send your food back when they’re the ones who should have just written it down in the first place.

  I haven’t even looked at the menu, but Derrick surprises me by saying, “Yes, we’re ready. We’re both going to have the filet mignon, one cooked well done, one cooked medium rare. And we’ll have the garlic mashed potatoes and corn for the table.”

  “Excellent, sir,” the waiter says, sounding like he thinks it’s anything but.

  “So what do you th
ink?” Derrick asks once he’s gone. “This is a nice place, right?”

  What do I think? I think I wanted to order my own damn food is what I think. What is this, the 1950s? Who orders garlic anything on a night when they’re going to be having sex for the first time? Garlic definitely doesn’t scream sexy. And they had some really good-looking truffle mac and cheese that I was dying to try. What happened to me being able to get whatever I want?

  “This place is great,” I lie.

  “I hope you don’t mind that I ordered for you. I heard the filet mignon is amazing.” He picks up my hand and kisses my fingers softly. “I thought it would be romantic.”

  “It was.” I guess.

  My body starts to feel filled with a weird energy, and my leg is jittering up and down under the table. It knocks against the bottom, and our water glasses vibrate.

  “You okay?” Derrick asks. “You seem nervous. Are you nervous?”

  “About tonight? No.” It’s true. Who has time to be nervous about losing my virginity? That’s the last thing I’m nervous about. The first thing I’m nervous about is the fact that I’m about to lose my virginity to a boy I’ve been cheating on. Well, cheated on. “Been cheating on” seems like it’s ongoing. Which it most certainly is not.

  “Are you sure? Because we can talk about anything, Lyla. You know that, right?”

  His eyes look so sincere, like he really does mean I can tell him anything. Tell him. Do it. Do it now. Okay. I’m going to. Right now. Now. Right this second.

  “Do you want to play a game?” I blurt.

  Derrick looks confused, and then realization dawns on his face. “You mean like a sex game?” He shakes his head. “I don’t know. I mean, it sounds fun, but I’m not sure we should do anything that might get us hurt. Especially the first time.” He cocks his head, considering. “But maybe we could do it on the second try. You know, later tonight.”

  “No.” I shake my head. “I mean, like a game of questions.” I’m so brilliant. All I have to do is pretend that I’m asking a hypothetical question about whether Derrick would want to know if he was being cheated on. Like I did with Quinn at that party. And then when I find out his answer, I’ll know what to do.

  “You mean like truth or dare?”

  “Sort of.” Sigh. This is going to be harder than I thought. Too bad I don’t have that game with me—it would be a lot easier to explain. And then I have my second brilliant idea in the span of just a couple of minutes.

  “It’s this new app,” I lie. I pull my phone out of my purse and pretend I’m pulling up some imaginary app. But I accidentally start one of my playlists, and “All the Single Ladies” by Beyoncé comes blaring out of the speaker. The middle-aged couple next to us looks over and gives us a dirty look. “Sorry,” I say.

  “You seem frazzled,” Derrick says. He reaches over and takes my hand. “If you’re not ready . . .”

  “No, no, I’m ready!” I say. We need to focus here. “I just thought it would be fun to play a game. You know, to, uh, relax me.” I clear my throat. “Okay, it’s one of those games where you ask the other person questions.”

  “Like ‘Have You Ever?’” Derrick asks. “Isn’t that a drinking game?”

  “Kind of like that,” I say. “But they’re more, uh, in-depth questions. Okay, so for example . . .” I look at my phone, like I’m about to read a questions off my imaginary app. Actually, if there’s no app like that, there should be. Maybe I should create it. Then I could play the game anytime I wanted. Or better yet, maybe I’ll create a fake one. For situations just like this. It would probably make me tons of money. What should I ask Derrick, though? I can’t just lead off with the cheating question. That would be too obvious.

  “Um, if you caught one of your friends stealing at work, would you tell on them?” I try.

  “Of course,” he says. “Stealing is wrong.”

  “Yeah, but what if it was your friend?”

  “My friend stealing is still wrong.” He takes a sip of his Coke.

  “What if it was me stealing? Would you turn me in?” The thought of Derrick betraying me is almost comforting. Like his hypothetically getting me fired cancels out the actual, real-life kissing that I did.

  “I might try to talk to you first,” Derrick says, “and tell you to stop. But if you kept stealing, I would have to do the right thing. You should always do the right thing.”

  Oh god, oh god, oh god.

  “Don’t you agree?”

  “Oh, yeah, definitely. I would totally turn someone in who was stealing.” It’s a lie. Why would I turn in a friend who was stealing? Actually, why would I be friends with someone like that in the first place? I get annoyed that the game includes a question that makes no logical sense, and then I remember it’s a fake app and that I made it up.

  “Okay, next question!” I sound a little crazed. “Okay, next question,” I say quietly. “If someone was cheating on you, would you want to know about it?”

  He frowns. “If someone was cheating on me?”

  “Yeah, like if your girlfriend, uh, was . . . if hypothetically she cheated on you.”

  “Why?” Derrick grins. “Are you cheating on me?”

  “No!” Great. Now not only have I lied by omission, I’ve actually lied straight out. Although the way he phrased it made it seem like he was asking if I was cheating, present tense. Which I’m not. So maybe I can get off on a technicality. Is it hot in here? It feels very hot in here.

  “I know you would never cheat on me,” Derrick says tenderly. “That’s why I’m so sorry for acting the way I did yesterday. You know I trust you, right?”

  “Of course.” Pause. He’s not answering the question, though. He needs to answer the question. “So what’s the answer?”

  “What answer?”

  “The answer to the question. About cheating.”

  “But I just said you would never cheat on me.”

  Why does he have to be so literal? “Yeah, but it’s not . . . you’re not supposed to think of it that way. It’s supposed to be a hypothetical girlfriend.”

  “But I don’t have a hypothetical girlfriend. I have you.”

  “Well, the girlfriend you’re going to have after me.”

  He blanches. “Why would I have a girlfriend after you?” His eyes meet mine across the table, the light from the flickering cream-colored votive candles illuminating the sincerity on his face. Does he mean he might marry me? He wants to marry me! He would be such a good husband. And a dad, too. I’ll bet he’d be super involved in our kids’ lives.

  And I would look so good in a mermaid-style wedding dress. I’ve always wanted one of those. With a separate dress for the reception, of course. No one can dance in a mermaid-style wedding dress. Not that I know how to dance. Good thing we’re going to a club. Maybe I can pick up some moves.

  The waiter comes over with our food.

  Wow.

  That was really fast.

  I take a bite of mashed potatoes. Delicious.

  “Good?” Derrick asks, smiling.

  “Perfect.”

  I don’t think I should tell him. I mean, it’s one thing to cheat on your high school boyfriend. It’s quite another to cheat on your future husband.

  We stay at dinner for another hour, ordering dessert and laughing and reminiscing. Things have completely and totally relaxed between us. There’s no tension in my body, and there’s no tension between us from yesterday.

  We’re just . . . happy.

  As we walk to the club, I inhale the warm night air and the scent of the ocean. I don’t know what I was thinking, letting Beckett kiss me like that. Did I even let him? It’s starting to feel very foggy now. The bouncer in front of the club doesn’t ID us, which I think is cool until I realize it’s not a twenty-one-and-over club. Everyone who’s twenty-one gets a green wristband on their wrist so the bartender knows they can drink. But the bouncer doesn’t even ask if we want one. I must look young.

  No matter.

>   I don’t need booze tonight.

  I’m drunk on love.

  The inside of the club is exactly how I pictured it. Red leather couches line the perimeter, and there are floating tables hooked to the walls in between in each one. Matching leather ottomans are scattered around the room at random intervals, giving the club a casual but sophisticated feel. It’s actually not that crowded, but that’s probably because it’s still early. Nothing really gets going around here until eleven, and it’s only ten.

  “Let’s sit over there,” Derrick says, pointing to a booth in the corner. As soon as we sit down, he leans into me. “I missed you yesterday,” he breathes. “I can’t wait to be with you later.”

  “I can’t wait either,” I say.

  When the cocktail waitress comes around, Derrick orders me another Shirley Temple and himself another Coke.

  “You wanna dance?” he asks.

  “Maybe in a few minutes,” I say, not quite ready to get out there yet. I watch as a girl wearing a lime-green belly shirt grinds against a girl in black leather shorts. The Kesha remix that’s pounding through the club seems like it was made for them. Hopefully the really good dancers get here early, and then by the time everyone else shows up, everyone will be on equal footing. Plus, as people start getting drunker I’m sure their dance skills are going to start deteriorating. That will be my excuse if I’m a really bad dancer. I’ll just pretend I’ve been drinking.

  After a while, the club starts to get busier and a little hotter, so I pull off the black shrug I’m wearing.

  “Yum,” Derrick says, kissing my bare shoulder.

  “Mmm,” I breathe, trying to ignore the fact that he said the word “yum.” Yum is not sexy. Yum is what you say when you eat an ice cream. I am not an ice cream.

  Derrick’s hand is on my bare leg, and it’s inching up ever so slowly, moving higher and higher until finally it’s pushing up the bottom of my skirt. I sigh and force myself to relax until my body starts to respond to his touch. I’m falling into that kind of woozy state where I can feel the music pulsing through me and I’m hot and sleepy and semi–turned on and sort of zoning out.