Heat of the Moment

by Lauren Barnholdt

  Of course, neither one of them had any idea I was upset. I blew off all their texts and calls for the whole day because I didn’t trust myself to talk to them.

  Looking back, that was a mistake.

  When I got to school on Monday morning, they were waiting for me outside.

  “Yo,” Aven said. “Where you been?”

  “Yeah, we were trying to get in touch with you all day yesterday.” Quinn was texting on her phone, and when she looked up, she must have seen the look on my face. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

  My plan had been to play it cool. To greet them with a calm indifference and then go from there.

  But instead, I exploded.

  “How could you tell her?’ I yelled at Aven. “I told you not to tell anybody!”

  “What?” She frowned and looked confused.

  “You told Quinn! What I told you about my dad.”

  “Lyla, I didn’t think you meant Quinn! All three of us tell each other everything.” But I could see the look of doubt that was crossing her face, the slight tiny bit of guilt that let me know that she knew, at least on some level, that what she’d done was wrong.

  “Wait, just calm down,” Quinn said. “Lyla—”

  But it was too late. I had spent all weekend being calm, but it turned out it was just a facade. I was like a serial killer who had spent the weekend in waiting, acting detached before unleashing a torrent of hurt on people. I’d thought I was taking time to figure out how I felt—but really I was just letting things simmer until I was ready to boil.

  “You,” I said, turning to Quinn. “How could you have told your mom?”

  She got that same look on her face, the same look Aven had just gotten. “How did you know that?”

  “I know that because she told my mom! And now my mom is freaking out!” I was yelling at the both of them now, loud enough that a couple of people were starting to notice. If I pushed it much further, a teacher was probably going to come outside and break it up. I almost wanted that to happen, I almost wanted a bunch of people to stare at us and for us to make a scene. I wanted the two of them to have something happen to them for what they’d done, and getting in trouble at school seemed as good of a punishment as anything.

  “You told your mom?” Aven asked, turning to Quinn. “Why the hell would you do that? Your mom has the biggest mouth in the world.”

  “She does not,” Quinn said, putting her chin in the air. “And I had no idea she was going to tell your mom.”

  “Neither one of you can keep a secret!” I screamed. “You realize now that both my parents hate me, right?” It was an exaggeration, of course. Neither one of them hated me. My mom had been upset, yeah, but I’d told her that I’d just said that to make my dad feel better, that Quinn and Aven must have gotten the story wrong.

  I hadn’t said anything to my dad, because he hadn’t brought it up since the night we talked in the living room.

  “Look,” Aven said. “We all need to calm down.”

  The bell rang, signaling the beginning of first period, and we all looked at each other. “We can talk about this at lunch,” she said. “We’ll blow off afternoon classes. Unless . . .” She took in a deep breath. “Unless you want to go somewhere now?”

  Quinn looked at me and nodded. “I’m in.” It was a huge thing for her to want to skip class, which showed me how much she wanted to talk and work this out. Quinn hated doing things that were against the rules.

  I wavered. For a moment, I wanted to talk to them. I needed them. They’d been the only thing that had ever been constant in my life. With my parents, everything seemed so . . . fragile, like it could be torn in half at any moment. And obviously I’d been right about that, since they’d been so glib about their divorce.

  But I was too hurt. I didn’t want to sit down and talk to Aven and Quinn and have them explain the ways they’d disappointed me. So instead I shook my head. “I don’t want to go,” I said. I was about to add “maybe later” but instead I said, “Stay out of my life.”

  And then I walked into school.

  Later, when I got a group text asking if I would talk to them that afternoon, I ignored it. I just wanted to forget about both of them, to pretend like nothing had happened. They called and texted for a while after that. But I just ignored them. I knew, on some level, that I was isolating myself because of my parents’ divorce. I just didn’t want to deal with it. I thought that eventually I’d respond to one of their texts, that we’d make up, that everything would go back to the way it was. I thought I’d end up forgiving them. But by the time I was ready, they’d stopped trying. And I didn’t know how to make it better.

  We come up with two rules for the day.

  No talking about our fight. We all agree that the last thing we want to do is start rehashing everything that happened between us. No personal questions.

  No talking about the emails we sent.

  “This might be awkward,” I warn them as we step out onto the sidewalk in front of the hotel.

  “Not any more awkward than sleeping in the same room,” Quinn says.

  “True.”

  We spend the first part of the morning walking on the beach, collecting shells until our pockets are overflowing. Then we stroll along Ocean Boulevard in Siesta Key, stopping at the farmers’ market and buying gorgeous light-blue widemouthed glass bottles, which we pour our shells into.

  “This reminds me of how we always used to buy the same things,” Aven says as she corks her bottle. She holds it up to the light, letting the sun glint off the glass.

  “We’re not supposed to be talking about the past,” I say, but there’s a lump in my throat. I do remember when we all used to buy the same things. We weren’t the kind of friends who didn’t want anyone else to have what we had. We liked being the same.

  “You wanna get lunch?” Quinn asks, ignoring Aven’s remark.

  “Sure.”

  We head to an outdoor restaurant. Everything on the menu looks amazing, so we order a bunch of appetizers to share.

  “No sour cream on the fish tacos,” Quinn says when we order, glancing at me. “Right?”

  I nod. I don’t like sour cream. And I’m glad she remembered.

  “Can you believe this?” Aven asks, as we sip our frozen virgin strawberry daiquiris. “Did you ever think we’d end up sitting here together at the end of this trip?”

  “No,” Quinn and I say honestly.

  Aven takes a deep breath. “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 do?”

  I open my mouth to protest, to tell her we’re not supposed to be talking about that stuff, that we shouldn’t be talking about it. First of all, we made a rule, and second of all, it’s a slippery slope. If we start talking about one thing, we’re going to start talking about everything.

  But then I figure, why the hell not? Let Aven ask me all the questions she wants. Do I really have anything to hide? “Yes,” I say, looking directly at Quinn, daring her to stop me from answering. “Did you guys?”

  “Yes,” Quinn says, raising her chin in defiance.

  “Yes,” Aven says.

  I wait for them to elaborate, to tell me what happened, but they don’t. Even Aven keeps quiet.

  When we finally start talking again, we make stilted small talk. But slowly, things start to loosen up, and by the end of the meal we’re laughing and joking, gossiping about our classmates, talking about celebrity fashion, and debating whether Quinn should cut her hair.

  It’s not until we’re working our way through a melting cookie-dough sundae that Quinn says, “We should do it again.”

  “Do what again?”

  “We should make more promises. Why not? We’re at the beach.”

  It’s such a weird request, coming from Quinn, that I almost laugh. She has to be joking. But her tone doesn’t sound joking. In fact, it sounds kind of shy. And tentative, like she’s a
fraid we’re going to say no.

  “Sure,” I say, shrugging like it’s no big deal. “I’m in.”

  “Me too,” Aven says.

  We decide to skip the emails this time and go old-school, writing down our promises and making sure we get to work on them right away, instead of waiting four years. We buy paper, purple markers, and a lighter from a souvenir shop, then stand on the beach, each writing down one sentence.

  I promise to . . .

  I think about it.

  I’m 0-for-1 when it comes to promises to myself. But maybe that’s because I set myself up to fail. Learning to trust is a big thing to promise yourself, especially when you didn’t even realize how deep your trust issues went. And even then, I’d given myself four years to do it.

  So I take the piece of paper and write . . .

  I promise to . . . learn to be happy.

  When we’re all done writing, we fold the pieces of paper in half.

  “Ready?” Quinn asks, holding out the lighter.

  I glance at Aven, wondering if she’s going to ask us to all read them out loud. But even she knows that would be pushing it too far. We’re not friends anymore. And even though we might have spent a few nice hours together, it doesn’t mean we have the right to know what the others are thinking.

  We watch as the papers flame and separate before burning out in the sand. The ashes mix with the ocean, then wash away into the sea.

  The three of us sit down in the sand, not saying much, just watching the sun go down.

  I promise to . . . learn to be happy.

  There won’t be an email this time to remind me. I’m going to have to remind myself.

  We stay on the beach until the stars start to peek through the dark cloth of the night sky. And then we stand up and head back to the hotel.

  SEVENTEEN

  THE NEXT MORNING, WHATEVER KIND OF peace was made between Quinn, Aven, and me is gone. It’s like waking up from a drunken night where you’ve slept with someone and then you look over and realize what you’ve done and decide you must have been crazy.

  (Not that I’ve ever had any drunken nights with anyone. But I’ve seen enough movies to know how it works.)

  When I wake up, Quinn is standing by the dresser, fully ready for the day.

  “Did either one of you take my hair straightener?” she asks, looking at us accusingly.

  Aven’s sitting on the side of her bed, in a T-shirt and a pair of cotton shorts, blinking sleepily while she checks her phone. “I didn’t,” she says.

  “Because it’s missing,” Quinn says. “And since I haven’t used it, it had to have been one of you.”

  I rack my brain, trying to remember what happened to the straightener I used the other night. “I think it might be in the cabinet under the sink,” I say.

  Quinn sighs, like it’s the biggest offense ever, then marches into the bathroom and retrieves her straightener.

  She places it in her suitcase, then turns to us. “You guys better hurry up. You’re going to be late.” She wheels her suitcase through the door and out into the hallway.

  I sigh and glance at the clock. Our class is meeting down in the lobby so that we can take the bus back to the airport. We’re supposed to be down there in twenty minutes.

  “Do you mind if I shower first?” Aven asks. “I won’t take long.”

  “No, I don’t mind,” I say, deciding to just skip my shower. Why get all clean when I’m just going to end up on a disgusting airplane anyway? “Just let me wash up real quick.” I head to the bathroom, pee, wash my face, brush my teeth, and pull my hair back into a ponytail. Then I throw on a pair of yoga pants, a tank top, and a hoodie.

  When I’m done, Aven’s waiting outside the bathroom door, holding a container of body wash and a bottle of shampoo.

  “See you down there,” I say awkwardly as she passes me by.

  When I finally get down to the lobby, it’s a madhouse. Kids are all over the place, running around, talking, joking, and carrying on. I head to the corner and pour myself a cup of coffee from the carafe on the table. Usually I hate the taste of coffee, but I feel like I need something to do, something to concentrate on.

  I spot Derrick in the corner, talking to Juliana. I watch them for a moment, at the way she’s laughing at something he’s saying. I think about how he was with her the other day when he just disappeared. I think about how he was talking on the phone when I came to his room, how he told me he was talking to his mom.

  Was he really talking to Juliana? I’m surprised to find that I don’t really care. Derrick isn’t mine anymore. He’s not my boyfriend. And if he was talking to other girls while we were together this weekend, well, then, I really have no right to be mad. I was kissing another guy.

  I take my coffee and head outside, waiting on the bench in front of the hotel until it’s time to get on the buses. I concentrate on my coffee as we board, making sure to keep my eyes down. I don’t want to see Derrick with Juliana, but most of all, I don’t want to see Beckett. I don’t want to know if he’s on the same bus as me, I don’t want to know if he’s with Katie, I don’t want to know anything about him.

  I repeat the whole process at the airport, and on the flight, making sure to always have a drink or a snack to concentrate on, always making sure to keep my eyes on the ground. All I want to do is get home. Traveling under any circumstances is extremely tiring, but this feels like a marathon. Bus to the airport. Flight back to the Northeast. Bus to school. And then waiting for my mom to come and pick me up.

  I texted her earlier to confirm the time, but when our bus is finally pulling into the school, she texts me back to tell me she got held up at meditative yoga, and she’s going to be a little late.

  Everyone else is happy and chatty and sunburned. They’re all hugging their parents and telling them all about the trip, and I’m just standing there feeling sorry for myself. I head to the back of the bus, where our suitcases have been unloaded onto the sidewalk.

  But when I get there, Beckett’s standing by my suitcase.

  “Oh,” he says, like he’s surprised to see me. “I was going to . . . I mean, I was going to bring this to you.”

  “Thanks,” I say, “but I can handle it.” I grab the handle and start to roll it away, down the pavement and back toward the craziness of the traffic circle.

  “Lyla,” Beckett calls.

  I have another one of those moments—the kind where things are about to go one way or the other, and I feel if I don’t make the right choice, I could mess everything up. I could keep walking, leaving Beckett behind. Or I could turn around and listen to what he has to say. But why would I do that? Beckett’s a jerk. He told me himself that he doesn’t like to have expectations put on him. When someone tells you who they are, you need to believe them. I heard it from Oprah, who heard it from Maya Angelou. Why would I want to set myself up for more of that torture? I feel horrible enough already.

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

  But isn’t knowing who to trust part of trusting? Beckett has proven to me that he can’t be trusted. He showed up with Katie right after kissing me. Oh, come on. He hasn’t done anything worse than you did, and you know it. You had a boyfriend and you kissed Beckett anyway and then you blew him off and blamed everything on him. Just like he said. In fact, you’re kind of being a spoiled brat, using any excuse to get mad at him because you’re afraid.

  I turn around.

  “Fine. Say what you want to say.”

  EIGHTEEN

  WHEN I WROTE IT—THE EMAIL TO MYSELF—IT had nothing to do with my dad. It was one of the first days of high school, more than a year before my parents were even going to tell me they were getting divorced. (Not that I thought their marriage was that great—I knew my parents didn’t sleep in the same bed, and I knew my dad worked way too many hours for it to be possible for him to have a healthy marriage.)

  Anyway, my dad was the last thing on my mind when I wrote that email. It was right at the
beginning of freshman year, right after Evan Winters kissed me at a back-to-school party and told me I was the prettiest girl in the whole school, which was obviously a lie but I didn’t care. The next day, he completely blew me off, cruising by me in the halls and acting like nothing had ever happened. Fourteen-year-old me, who didn’t know any better, was devastated. I didn’t understand how Evan could do that, and honestly, the whole high school thing was starting to feel like a big rip-off. Aven, Quinn, and I were extremely disappointed by how it was going. We’d thought high school was where we’d make our mark, where we’d finally have a chance to do something.

  But it was the opposite—the school felt big and overwhelming, and all the kids seemed more cliquey than ever, and the guys were obviously jerks.

  We decided it was going to be up to us to make sure we made our mark. So we went to the beach the next weekend and decided to come up with goals we wanted to accomplish before graduation, write them in an email, and send them to be delivered four years in the future.

  I wrote that I wanted to learn to trust. At the time, I remember it being all about Evan. I had no idea what was about to happen with my dad. I didn’t know that my dad was going to leave, that he was never going to mention the fact that he’d asked me to come with him, that he’d pretty much ignore me after he left.

  The only thing I had left that connected me to him was my tigereye bracelet. He’d given it to me a couple of months before he left—he told me that whenever I was feeling upset or down, to remember I had the eye of the tiger. At first, I was confused. I wasn’t going through a particularly hard time at that point. But then my dad reminded me that when I was little I used to love that song, that we used to blast it in his truck whenever we drove anywhere together.

  I had vague memories of that, but it wasn’t, like, our thing. At the time I remember thinking he was just being a normal parent, idealizing the things we’d done together when I was younger, like when my mom bought me a DVD copy of Follow That Bird for Christmas one year, and then told me I used to love watching it when I was three.