“No, you’re right,” she says. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have put you in the middle like this.”
“You didn’t put me in the middle,” I say, even though she kind of did.
“I just hate this,” she says. “I love him so much.”
It’s the first time she’s said the words out loud, at least to me. Do Izzy and Liam love each other? They’ve never said it in front of me. I wonder if these last little crumbs of hope I’ve clung to over the past six months—the fact that if they were really in love they would say it to each other, and that if they were really that serious, they’d be having sex—were just lies. They have been having sex. And now, according to Izzy, she loves him.
“I know,” I say, even though I didn’t until just now. I sigh and try to push my feelings for Liam out of my head. Izzy’s my friend, and she’s having a hard time, and I owe it to her to give her good advice, to tell her what she should do based on the facts at hand, not based on my own feelings for Liam. “Listen, Izzy, if you’re worried about what’s going on between you and Liam, you should ask him about it. Tell him you’ve felt a little bit of distance between you guys.”
Izzy gives a delicate sniff, then dabs at her eyes with the corner of a piece of toilet paper. “Yeah,” she says, giving me a smile. “You’re right. I should just ask him.”
“Good,” I say. “I’m sure everything’s fine. And once you guys talk, you’ll feel a lot better.”
“Thanks, Aven,” Izzy says.
“You’re welcome.”
When Izzy and I walk out of the bathroom, I’m more confused than ever. For the past four years, I figured today would be the day I’d tell Liam how I really felt. But I never imagined that when this day came, he might be dating one of my friends. And I certainly never thought said friend would tell me she thought he was cheating on her.
Although I’m not sure the whole cheating thing makes much of a difference. If Liam is cheating on Izzy, does that mean he doesn’t like her that much, so there might actually be a chance for me and him? Or does it mean he likes some other, faceless mistress so much that he wants to be with her more than either of us?
Do I even want to be with a guy who cheats? Is Liam even cheating? Maybe I should ask him. Or at least try to figure it out. There’s no rule that says I have to tell Izzy, is there? Liam was my friend first. My allegiance should be to him. Shouldn’t it? Or should it be to Izzy, since she’s the one who approached me about it?
God, this is so confusing.
I hate the way I feel right now, and I’m starting to look at that email, which I always had positive feelings about, as my new enemy. I don’t like the way it’s playing with my emotions like some kind of puppet master—dance, emotions, dance! I don’t like how it’s, like, pressuring me.
God, I wish I could talk to someone about this.
But there are only two people who know about the email, only two people who know I love Liam. Two people who I miss more than anything, two people who I’m not speaking to, or actually, who aren’t speaking to me.
Quinn and Lyla. My ex–best friends.
I wish I could ask one of them what to do.
I’m so caught up in my own thoughts that I don’t even realize we’re back in the boarding area now, and Izzy’s looking at me expectantly, like she’s waiting for me to say something.
“Do you?” she asks. “Want anything before we board?”
“Um, no,” I say. “I’m okay.”
Izzy disappears toward the food stands that are lining the walls of the airport, and I take a deep breath. I’m actually starting to feel pretty weird. My head is spinning, and it feels way too warm in here.
And that’s when I spot Lyla, standing over by the wall near a row of chairs. I think about going over to talk to her. But then I remind myself that the last time I spoke to Lyla, she was screaming and telling me she wanted nothing to do with me. But still. This is an emergency. A mental one.
Before I can stop myself, I’m calling her name.
“Lyla! Lyla! There you are!” Even as the words are coming out of my mouth, I know they don’t make any sense. I’m acting like I’ve been looking for her all over, when the truth is I just happened to spot her across the room. She’s going to think I’m crazy for sure.
When she realizes it’s me calling her name, a look of surprise crosses her face. But she doesn’t look mad or anything, which I decide to take as a very good sign.
“Oh,” she says. “Um . . . hi.”
She seems confused. Good. This is good. If she’s confused, I can just slip my question in before she realizes we’re not speaking to each other, that she actually hates me. Although she really has no reason to hate me, because I didn’t even do anything to her. In fact, our whole fight is just one big misunderstanding, if you ask me.
“Listen,” I say, “I need to talk to you.” I hold my phone up. I’m not sure why. Talking to her is making me nervous, and I’m afraid I’m not going to be able to get the words out without a visual aid. “Did you get your email?” I ask.
And then, for the first time, I realize she’s with someone. Her boyfriend, Derrick. “Sorry,” he says, shaking his head. He looks annoyed, like I’m some kind of bug that needs to be swatted away. “Aven, right? Sorry, Aven, but we’re talking here. And it’s kind of private.”
Wow. What an asshole. Why is Lyla dating such a jerk?
My face flushes with embarrassment. “Oh,” I say. “I’m sorry. I didn’t . . . I mean, I didn’t realize you were talking.” This is the part where I should just walk away and leave them alone. Obviously I’m bothering them. Obviously Lyla doesn’t want to talk to me. But it’s my one chance to talk to someone about this, and I don’t want to let it go. So I force myself to try again. “It’s just . . . did you get your email?”
“My email?” Lyla repeats blankly.
“Yeah, the ones we sent? Did you get it?”
“What email?” Derrick asks, sounding all suspicious. Oh, good. Not only is he a jerk, he’s one of those controlling guys who needs to know all about Lyla’s internet activities. I want to give him a dirty look and tell him this is a private conversation, but obviously that’s not going to work. No way Lyla’s going to pick me over her jerk boyfriend.
“Yes,” Lyla says to me. “I got it.” I wait a beat, but she doesn’t offer any more information. I force myself to wait, to see if she’s going to say anything else. I know if I push her, she’s going to shut down. That’s how she is.
“Flight 935 to Sarasota is now boarding, Flight 935 to Sarasota is now boarding at Gate 24,” a voice says over the loudspeaker.
“Well!” Lyla says, all fake-happy-like. “Here we go! I guess we better board.”
“Where’s your stuff?” Derrick asks her, frowning. “Didn’t you bring a carry-on?”
“Nope,” Lyla says. “Just this.” She holds up her Coach wristlet, like she’s daring one of us to question her. But her voice sounds a little bit strangled. Why wouldn’t she bring a carry-on? We all got to check one suitcase, but pretty much everyone brought a carry-on anyway.
“That’s all you brought for a carry-on?” I ask her skeptically. Lyla is usually an overpacker. When she’d come to my house for sleepovers she’d bring enough clothes to last a week.
“I’m trying to simplify my life,” Lyla replies haughtily. “Everyone is so obsessed with materialism and things. I’m, you know, streamlining.” She strokes her Coach wristlet like it’s the only thing she needs to be happy in life.
Wow. She is acting really weird. I wonder if maybe she had some kind of mental breakdown or something after she stopped being friends with me and Quinn. Maybe that’s why she hadn’t wanted to talk to us. Because she was embarrassed by her mental illness.
“You’re trying to streamline your life?” I ask carefully.
“A person can change,” she says defiantly.
I shake my head. This conversation is getting really strange.
“When did you decide
to simplify your life?” Derrick asks. “Because you never told me that.” Great. Now he apparently needs to know every thought that goes through Lyla’s head. Good luck with that, buddy. “Is this why you want to have sex?”
“You want to have sex?” I blurt before I can stop myself. Then I think about it. Of course they’re going to have sex. They’ve been together for, like . . . at least a year or more. Why is it that Liam and Izzy are having sex after six months, but these two aren’t? Do Liam and Izzy have some kind of crazy chemistry that can’t be denied? Is Liam so attracted to her that he can’t keep his hands off her no matter what? Hmmm. “Wait. You two haven’t slept together yet? Haven’t you been going out for forever?”
“Oh my God,” Lyla says, sounding even more annoyed than Derrick. “Both of you need to stop.”
For once, she’s actually right. “Whatever,” I say. “Your sex life is none of my business.”
“You’re damn right it’s not,” Lyla says, which is pretty harsh. I mean, I just admitted that her sex life wasn’t any of my business, so why did she feel the need to point it out again?
This is not the way the conversation is supposed to be going. Lyla’s not supposed to be getting irritated with me, she’s supposed to be telling me what to do about my stupid email.
But before I can attempt to get the conversation back on track, Lyla turns around and starts walking away from me!
“Lyla,” I say, trying to keep the desperation out of my voice. “Please, wait. Can we . . . I mean, can I talk to you for a second?”
She tilts her head and turns back around. “What is it?”
I glance at Derrick. I don’t really want to get into this in front of him. He’s too . . . like, nosy or something, and it’s making me uncomfortable. “Um, I want . . . can we talk in private?”
She considers this, then sighs. “I’ll be right back,” she says to Derrick.
She walks a few feet away, and I follow her obediently. She crosses her arms over her chest, which is definitely not a very friendly posture. Yikes. “What is it?” she asks. “Make it quick, we’re about to board.”
I nod, then fiddle with the bottom of the fishtail braid I put my hair in this morning. “I just wanted to know if you’re going to do what the email says.”
“Excuse me?” Lyla asks, like she has no idea what I’m talking about, even though she just said a minute ago that she’d gotten her email. I remember exactly what she wrote, too. Before graduation, I will . . . learn to trust.
“Are you taking it seriously? You know, about learning to trust? Because I’m thinking . . . I’m thinking that I’m going to be really, um, trying to do what mine says.” I try to sound more confident. “In fact, I’ve kind of been waiting for a chance to do it.”
A look crosses her face, concern mixed with sadness. I know she’s probably remembering what I wrote in my email. I also know she knows exactly what that means, that I’m going to tell Liam how I feel. She’s probably wondering why I haven’t done it by now, why I’ve kept the secret this whole time, how it is that Liam and I could have remained so close all these years, when friendships can fall apart so easily, the way ours did.
I feel my heart soar for a second, wondering if she’s going to tell me what to do, or at least give me some direction. Maybe at the very least she’ll tell me what she’s planning to do, and then I can do it, too.
But a second later, the soft look in her eyes is gone, replaced only by hardness.
“Yeah, Aven,” she says sarcastically. “I’m really going to work on learning to trust. Because remember what happened when I trusted you? It didn’t work out so well, remember?”
My face burns. “Lyla,” I say. “I never wanted—”
“Save it,” she says. “I didn’t want to hear it then, and I don’t want to hear it now.”
She turns around and walks back to Derrick, leaving me standing there alone.
THREE
I SLEEP ON THE PLANE. THERE’S NOTHING else to do, and like I’ve said, I’ve always found plane rides soothing. I have a window seat in the row behind Izzy and Liam, scrunched in next to two girls from my science class who spend the whole ride trading magazines back and forth and gossiping. I find their chatter soothing somehow, and it lulls me to sleep.
I don’t open my eyes until the plane is bouncing down the runway in Sarasota. As soon as everyone’s deplaned, they rush us through the airport and onto a bus to take us to our hotel, the Sand Dollar Siesta Hotel.
The sun is shining high in the sky as we walk into the lobby, and it instantly brightens my mood. At least for a minute, until my phone buzzes again and that stupid email appears. After my nap, I’m thinking much more clearly about this whole email nonsense, and so I delete it. I mean, you don’t just tell someone you’re in love with them because of an email you sent yourself four years ago. If I want to tell Liam how I feel, it’s not going to be because of some ambiguous deadline. There will be a right time to tell him, and when it happens, I’ll just know.
But you thought the right time to tell him was going to be when you got that email.
Yeah, but I was mistaken.
You kept putting it off because you were waiting until you got that email, remember? It was like your deadline.
Deadlines are stupid.
Deadlines keep you from being a coward.
Hmm. I don’t like that last thought. Am I a coward? Just because I won’t tell Liam how I feel? I always told myself that email was like a built-in deadline, just in case I hadn’t had a chance to tell him the truth. But is it realistic that in the four years we’ve been friends there was no good time to tell him how I really felt?
But there wasn’t. He’s with Izzy, for one. And yeah, only for like six months, but really, those six months would have been—
“Hey!” Liam says, popping up behind me.
“Hi!” I say, startled.
“Oh,” he says, looking startled himself. “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.”
“You didn’t scare me,” I say as we join the throng of our classmates filtering into the conference room on the first floor of the hotel. Before we’re allowed to be let loose on Siesta Key, we have to sit through a presentation on all the rules of the trip.
“So, listen,” Liam says, “I was thinking we should have a book club meeting while we’re here.”
“On our trip?”
“Sure,” Liam says, grinning. “Why not? It might be fun to have book club on the beach.”
“Did you finish the book?” I ask suspiciously. Liam and I started a book club a couple of years ago. We both love to read, but Liam is what I consider a book snob—he only looks for books that have won awards, or are about something of historical significance. You know, like about a Civil War soldier or something.
Not that there’s anything wrong with that—I just always felt like maybe he was limiting himself with the kinds of books he gravitated toward. Of course he didn’t agree, and he’d always tease me about the books I read, whether it was a mystery or a chick lit with a pink cover. So we decided to start a book club, where we switched off on picking the books—he always picks something literary and historical, and I always pick something fun and romantic.
“Yes,” he says. “I finished it.”
“You finished it?” I look at him incredulously. This month it was my pick, and I made him read this totally girly book called Someday, Someday, Maybe. It’s about a girl trying to make it as an actress in New York City, so there’s a lot of cool stuff about auditions and television shows, but there’s also a love triangle with a really sexy actor and the girl’s good-guy roommate. In other words, it’s not really meant for a guy to read, much less a teenage guy.
“I did,” Liam says, like he’s shocked I would think otherwise. “And I can’t wait to talk about it.”
“Okay,” I say. “Well, we can—”
But Izzy appears then, linking her arm through Liam’s and resting her head on his shoulder. “That book club is so lame,�
�� she says. Liam threads his fingers through her hair and plays with the strands mindlessly. “Why do you guys want to torture yourselves by making each other read books you have no interest in?”
“We’re trying to broaden our horizons,” Liam explains.
“By reading chick lit and boring biographies?” Izzy sighs. “You guys should be broadening your horizons by seeing the world and having experiences.”
I fight down a wave of annoyance that she’s shitting all over books. Books are experiences. They do allow you to see the world, especially when you don’t have the money or the opportunity to travel.
“We like book club,” I say, and then, just because I feel like being annoying, I throw a little dig in. “Plus, it gives us a chance to bond.”
Izzy sighs. “Well, whatever.” She closes her eyes, and Liam smiles at her fondly and then kisses her on the head.
Ugh.
Our class adviser, Mr. Beals, tells us all to take a seat and settle down then. It takes him a while to get us all quiet, and then he starts going over all the rules for the trip. No drinking, no sneaking out, blah blah blah.
The rules are stupid and self-explanatory, and I already know them all because as part of the Student Action Committee, I got the chance to look over the list before it was made official. The administration wanted to make sure we thought the rules were fair. Which was ridiculous, because it wouldn’t have mattered if we didn’t—the school wasn’t going to change anything.
Like I said, the Student Action Committee is a joke.
Of course, being on it does have some perks.
One of them being that I was in charge of creating the room assignments for this trip. Everyone had to fill out a questionnaire and list who they wanted to room with. All the rooms are triples, so you had to list your top three roommate choices. It was actually pretty easy to match people up, since mostly everyone had decided who they wanted to room with before they even filled out their form. So all I had to do was go through the forms and assign the room numbers. I had to do it by hand, which was ridiculous, since a simple computer program could have done it way faster. Everyone could have filled out their forms online and it would have taken just a few seconds for the computer to spit out the matches.
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