From This Moment

by Lauren Barnholdt

  I don’t stay there long, turning back around and walking until I hit the main part of the beach. I sit down and watch the sun rise, staying there until the joggers come out and the first college kids show up to get the best spots for their chairs.

  I have nothing to do all day, and the time stretches in front of me like a blank canvas. Not filled with possibility, but threatening and scary. I decide to head back to my room and change into my bathing suit, maybe go for a swim in the ocean. I remember how cold it was yesterday when I fell into the water. I’m craving that kind of shock. I’m craving anything that’s going to get me out of my head or make me feel anything besides this overwhelming loneliness.

  But by the time I get back to my room, a feeling of exhaustion washes over me, and I can’t fathom getting ready to go swimming.

  Lyla’s in bed, lying on her back, staring up the ceiling.

  But I don’t even care. Lyla being in the room is the least of my problems. I throw myself down on my cot and close my eyes. I’m not sure I’ll be able to fall asleep, but I’m also too tired to move. I’m sort of nodding off, halfway between falling asleep and being awake, when the door to the room opens and Quinn walks in.

  She plops down on her bed.

  “Why are you guys just lying here?” she asks a second later.

  “I’m sad,” I say.

  “I’m wrecked,” Lyla says.

  “Life’s a mess,” I say.

  “I want to go home,” Lyla says.

  “Me too,” Quinn says. “To all of the above.”

  We lapse into silence again, and I wonder if I should ask them what’s wrong. It’s the opportunity I’ve been waiting for, the moment where we’re all together and the two of them aren’t being mean or snarky. We’re all upset, and it would be so easy for all of us to commiserate the way we used to. If I caught the two of them in a weak moment, they might even reply. After all, they’ve already confided in me a little.

  But I don’t say anything. My heart can’t take one more disappointment.

  “You know what?” Quinn asks, propping herself up on her elbow and looking at me 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.”

  She’s right—we should be having adventures, but I’m really not in the mood. I mean, I tried to have a big adventure when I got here, I tried to listen to that stupid email, and it turned into a big disaster. What’s that thing they say? That the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again, expecting different results? Why would I want to try to have another adventure when the first one turned out so horribly?

  “Sounds exhausting,” Lyla says.

  “Sounds depressing,” I say.

  Quinn stands up, grabs a pillow off her bed, and throws it at Lyla. Then she picks up another one and throws it at me. “Get up,” she says. “We’re going out.”

  Lyla looks at her like she’s an insane person who’s just announced we’re all going to go off our meds. “The three of us?” she asks. “Like together?”

  There’s no way Quinn can mean the three of us, together. Quinn doesn’t want anything to do with us. And even if she did, there’s no way Lyla would ever agree to anything like that. “Do you have anyone else to hang out with?” Quinn asks.

  “No, but . . .” I can see Lyla racking her brain, looking for all the reasons it’s a bad idea for the three of us to do something together.

  So before she can, I say “I’m in!” and jump up off my cot. Any tiredness I was feeling earlier is gone. I know I said I wasn’t going to get my hopes up when it came to the three of us, that my heart couldn’t take another disappointment, but I can’t help it. I’ve been wanting the three of us to be friends again since forever. It’s an involuntary reaction.

  “Me too,” Lyla says. I’m shocked, but I try not to show it. The last thing I want is to scare her away. “But can I wash my face first?”

  “Of course,” Quinn says.

  Quinn and I wait in silence while Lyla gets ready. “Okay,” she says, when she emerges from the bathroom in fresh clothes. “I’m ready.”

  We all look at each other, waiting for one of us to tell the other two what we’re going to do, or at least what the plan is. Lyla and I are looking at Quinn, since it was her idea in the first place, but she looks uncertain.

  Eventually, we all just kind of shuffle out of the room and into the elevator.

  On our way down to the lobby, Lyla comes up with a rule for the day.

  “No talking about our fight,” she says.

  “And no talking about the emails we sent ourselves,” I add. The two of them give me a curious look. Probably because they’re not even thinking about the emails they sent themselves, and also because they probably want to know what happened with mine. But there’s no way I want to talk about the disaster that happened with Liam. As much as I long to talk to them about it, I long to talk to them about it the way it used to be, the three of us so close I could tell them anything. And it’s not like that anymore.

  “This might be awkward,” Lyla says once we’re outside.

  “Not any more awkward than sleeping in the same room,” Quinn says. Which is obviously just to make us feel better and lure us into a false sense of security. How can hanging out be less awkward than sleeping in the same room?

  We start walking, making small talk about the trip as we wander down toward the beach. Once we’re on the sand, we start bending down to collect shells from the water, blending in with a group of tourists who are doing the same. I find a sand dollar, and something about the simple beauty of it makes my heart happy.

  The three of us don’t talk much. It’s not an uncomfortable silence, it’s just that we’re all focused on finding the best shells. And it’s actually good, as it gets us used to being around each other without actually having to talk. When our pockets are full of shells, we wander back onto Ocean Boulevard and into a cute little farmers’ market that’s set up on the sidewalk and overflowing into one of the municipal parking lots.

  We poke around for a little while until we find these gorgeous turquoise bottles to pour our shells into. It’s the perfect souvenir, and it makes me happy thinking the three of us are going to have something from this trip that’s going to remind us of each other, of this moment.

  “This reminds me of how we always used to buy the same things,” I say. I cork my bottle and hold it up to the sun, watching the way the rays glint and reflect off the glass.

  “We’re not supposed to be talking about the past,” Lyla says, but her voice is soft, and I can tell she’s thinking about it anyway.

  “You wanna get lunch?” Quinn asks, probably in an effort to change the subject. But I don’t even care, because at least she’s trying to prolong our time together.

  She leads us to one of the open-air restaurants on the main strip, and we choose a table outside so that we can enjoy our last hours in the gorgeous Florida weather.

  We can’t decide what to order—everything on the menu looks amazing—so we order a bunch of appetizers and decide to share them.

  It’s a surreal moment—me, sitting here with Lyla and Quinn at the end of our senior trip. It’s not the exact moment I had planned, but still. Hope blooms in my chest. No matter how much I try to squash it, how much I try to tell myself not to get excited, that the three of us hanging out doesn’t mean anything, I still can’t help but hope just a little bit.

  Liam made me read a book once about the science of your brain. It said that everyone has a baseline personality and way of looking at the world that can’t really be changed no matter what happens to you.

  So, for example, if you’re a positive person and something negative happens to you, you’ll still look on the bright side. And if you tend to look at things negatively, and something good happens, you’ll do your best to find something wrong with it.

  So maybe this
hope, this belief I have inside me that things can change and get better, is just part of who I am. Maybe trying to change it is pointless.

  “Can you believe this?” I ask. “Did you ever think we’d end up sitting here together at the end of this trip?”

  “No,” Quinn says, her tone conveying just how unlikely she’d actually thought it was.

  “No,” Lyla agrees.

  I take a deep breath. We’re not supposed to be talking about the past. We’re not supposed to be talking about the emails. It was my own rule, the one I’d come up with in the elevator on our way down here. But I just can’t help myself. “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?”

  For a second, the two of them don’t reply, and Quinn even looks away. I’m afraid they might think I’m crazy for bringing it up, that they’re both embarrassed for me that I would even ask about those emails, since obviously only an idiot would think it was a good idea to listen to an email you sent yourself four years ago.

  But then Lyla looks right at me. “Yes,” she says.

  “Yes,” Quinn says.

  I swallow. “Yes,” I say, adding my voice to the chorus.

  There’s a small moment, a tiny opening for one of them to jump in and elaborate on what they actually did. I remember their emails just as clearly as I remember my own.

  Quinn’s said, Before graduation, I promise to . . . do something crazy.

  And Lyla’s said, Before graduation, I will . . . learn to trust.

  I wonder what they did, how they grew, if listening to their emails turned out just as horribly for them as it did for me. I wait for one of them to say something, to let the other two in, but when they stay quiet, I don’t push it. I’m dying to know, but things are going relatively well, and the last thing everyone needs is for me to add pressure to the situation. So instead we make small talk and gossip about classmates as we eat our appetizers and share a cookie-dough sundae for dessert.

  “We should do it again,” Quinn says once the last bite of sundae is gone.

  “Do what again?” Lyla asks.

  “We should make more promises. Why not? We’re at the beach.” When we wrote those emails four years ago, we did it at the beach. We thought it was so symbolic. Silence settles over the table as we all think about it.

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

  I nod. “Me too.”

  We decide to write our promises down on real paper this time. I think now that we’ve all done it once, we sense just how serious it is. Promises to yourself are the most important ones you can make, and yet our fourteen-year-old selves thought an email was an okay place to put something so sacred. Now we know better.

  So after we pay the bill, I duck into one of the dozens of souvenir shops and buy purple markers, green paper, and a lighter.

  We walk back to the beach.

  I stand there and look out at the water, taking in a deep breath of ocean air.

  I press my pen into my piece of paper.

  One sentence.

  That’s what we promised each other.

  I promise to . . .

  I think about what it could be, what I want for myself, for my life. Something that has nothing to do with Liam, nothing to do with Lyla and Quinn. Something I can do for myself, and not have to be dependent on anyone else.

  And then, in a flash, I know exactly what to write.

  I promise to . . . learn to be happy.

  I fold my paper in half.

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

  We all nod.

  Quinn lights the papers and they fly up into the sky, burning out quicker than you would think, the flames dancing against the sky until the ashes fall, fanning out across the sand, a few of them picked up by the wind, taking off across the ocean.

  The three of us stay here for a long time, just sitting on the sand, watching the sun move lower in the sky.

  I know we’re all thinking about the promises we made to ourselves.

  There won’t be an email to remind us this time.

  We’re going to have to remind ourselves.

  That night I sleep like a baby. I think it’s because of my lack of rest the night before, and the long day I spent with Lyla and Quinn. My body is exhausted, emotionally and physically.

  I get woken up the next morning by the sound of Quinn stomping around our room. I sit up in bed and blink sleepily.

  Quinn’s standing over by the dresser, fully dressed, her suitcase next to her. “Did either one of you take my hair straightener?” she demands.

  “I didn’t,” I say, checking my cell phone alarm. I set it last night so I wouldn’t be late for the bus, but either I didn’t do it right or I slept right through it.

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

  “I think it might be in the cabinet under the sink,” Lyla says.

  Quinn gives a big sigh, like having to go look for a hair appliance is the worst thing that’s ever happened to her. She returns a moment later with the straightener and places it in her suitcase. “You guys better hurry up. You’re going to be late.” She turns and walks out of the room.

  Well. I guess whatever peace the three of us had found yesterday is gone.

  “Do you mind if I shower first?” I ask Lyla. I’m anxious to get down to the lobby, because I just realized Liam’s going to be there. I’m nervous not because I want to see him, but because I’m going to have to figure out a way to avoid him. We’re sitting right near each other on the plane—Liam, Izzy, and me. And that’s definitely not good for my mental state. I’m going to have to find someone to switch seats with, which is definitely easier said than done, since everyone’s already sitting with their friends.

  I wonder if anyone else is in the same situation as me. I mean, there has to be someone else who’s had a bunch of drama on this trip and therefore wants to change their current seating arrangements. But how do I find that person? It’s not like I can just go down to the lobby carrying a sign that says, Hey, did anyone get into a fight with their friends and want to change seats?

  “No, I don’t mind,” Lyla says. “Just let me wash up real quick.”

  She heads into the bathroom, and I grab a fresh bottle of shampoo and a pomegranate grapefruit body wash out of my suitcase. Lyla emerges a few minutes later, her hair pulled back in a ponytail, her face clean.

  “See you down there,” she says awkwardly as I pass by.

  So much for a truce.

  By the time I get down to the lobby, I have a plan. It’s going to be easier to find someone who doesn’t care about where they’re sitting on the plane, rather than looking for someone who actively wants to change their current seat. In other words, I need a loner.

  I search the crowd, but I can’t find anyone who might fit the bill. Even the kids who aren’t that social have friends who are also not that social. So all the nonsocial people will be sitting together.

  By the time we board the bus for the airport, I still haven’t been able to change my seat. I start having flashes of Liam, Izzy, and me getting upset with each other on the plane, getting into some kind of fight and then getting kicked off for security reasons. They do that now—kick people off flights for security reasons, like if they’re getting going and yelling about something.

  But then, when we get to the airport, I spot Bruno James over by the wall. He’s got his phone plugged into the socket, charging it. And I know why—it’s not because his phone is dead or anything, it’s because he likes to get things for free. Including the airport’s electricity. He’s like one of those extreme couponers, only for teenagers.

  He’ll do anything for a buck. Maybe even give up his seat on the plane.

  I walk over to him.

  “Oh, hey, Bruno,” I say, even though we’re not friends. We’re not even acquaintan
ces. In fact, my only interaction with Bruno has been one time sophomore year when we were assigned to debate each other in world history. It was kind of awful, because Bruno is so crazy that he just kept coming up with all these arguments that had no bearing on what we were even talking about. It was like playing a game with someone who didn’t know the rules—he just kept saying crazy things, and I had no idea how to respond. I still got an A, though—I think our teacher was impressed by how I handled everything Bruno was throwing at me.

  “Hey, Amanda,” he says, not looking up from his phone.

  “I’m just wondering where you’re sitting on the plane,” I say, deciding not to correct him about my name. The last thing I want to do is start this off on a bad note. If I’m going to ask him to do me a favor, I don’t want to be contentious with the guy.

  “If you’re worried about my ringworm, you don’t have to be,” he says, with the world-weary tone of someone who’s been through a lot and doesn’t feel the need to pander to people who know nothing about his life. “It’s not contagious unless you come into direct contact with it.”

  “Oh, no,” I say. “I’m not . . . I mean, I’m not worried about getting ringworm from you.”

  “Well you should be,” he says, glancing up at me and then back down to his phone. “It’s highly contagious.”

  Ooookay. “I just wanted to see if maybe you’d switch seats with me.”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I like my seat.”

  “But I have a window seat,” I say.

  “I hate window seats.”

  “I’ll pay you twenty bucks.”

  This is enough to get him interested, and he looks up from his phone. “Why?”

  “Why?”

  “Yeah, why do you want to switch seats with me so bad?”

  “I just need a different seat,” I say firmly. I’m desperate, but not desperate enough to tell Bruno all my personal business. Although if I’m being completely honest, maybe I am. When faced with a choice between having to tell Bruno that I’m having issues with Liam and Izzy and actually having to sit with Liam and Izzy, I think maybe I’d rather just tell Bruno.