“The kind of friends you hang out with because you have no one else to hang out with.”
“Oh, no,” I say, surprised. “Those two aren’t . . . I mean, I like Celia and Paige.”
“Yeah, you like them well enough, I’m sure,” Abram says. “But they’re not your best friends.”
“Yes, they are.”
“No, they’re not.”
“Yes, they are.”
“No, they’re not.” He shakes his head and takes a sip of his water. “You might call them your best friends, you might even think they’re your best friends, but trust me, they’re not.”
“How can you say that? You just met me today, and you only talked to them for two minutes.”
“I’m a very perceptive person.” He shrugs, like this totally explains it.
“Oh, okay,” I say, rolling my eyes at his arrogance. “But you’re wrong.”
“I’m not wrong,” he says. He looks at me across the table. “Anyway, why do you care so much if I say they’re not your best friends?”
“Because it’s a lie,” I say. “And it implies that I would be friends with people I don’t like. And that’s not a very nice thing to say.”
“Ah, you weren’t listening,” Abram says. “I didn’t say you didn’t like them. I said they weren’t your best friends.”
I think about why his saying that is making me so defensive. Especially since I’ve had that same thought myself—the thought that maybe Celia and Paige aren’t my best friends, that if they were, I would have told them I didn’t get into Stanford. That if they were my best friends, they would have listened and consoled me and told me it was going to be okay and reminded me that I’d gotten into Yale, which is a pretty freakin’ amazing school, and then we would have gone and planned what I was going to wear on my first day as a Yalie. I wouldn’t have had to worry about whether they were going to talk about me behind my back, whether they were secretly happy that I didn’t get into Stanford, because it made them feel better about themselves.
You wouldn’t have had to worry about that with Aven and Lyla.
“I didn’t get into Stanford,” I blurt.
“What?” Abram looks a little taken aback.
The waitress returns with our meals then, and so I have a second to gather my thoughts before I have to reply.
“Sorry,” I say once she’s gone. “I just . . . I’ve always wanted to go to Stanford. But I didn’t get in. I just found out today.” I’m not sure why I’m telling him. It’s a crazy thing to just blurt out like that. But suddenly I felt like I needed to say it out loud, like saying it out loud is the first step in admitting it actually happened.
“I’m really sorry,” Abram says. “That sucks.”
“No, I’m sorry,” I say, embarrassed. “I didn’t mean to be so random.”
“You don’t need to apologize,” Abram says. “Obviously it’s important to you if you wanted to talk about it.” He cuts his salmon in half and puts one half on my plate, then reaches over, cuts my hamburger in half, and puts it on his plate. He looks up at me, raising his eyebrows to ask me if the sharing of food is all right with me. “Okay?”
I nod. “Okay.” I take a deep breath and tell myself to stop talking about Stanford. He’s being nice about it right now, but if I keep babbling, I’m going to seem insane. But I can’t help myself. “It’s just that when you said that thing about how those girls weren’t really my friends—I haven’t told them I didn’t get into Stanford.”
“Because they’re not really your best friends.”
“I guess not.”
“See?” He grins. “I told you I was perceptive.”
“It feels stupid, anyway, getting all worked up about not getting into a college. Because in the grand scheme of things I know it doesn’t even really matter.”
“It matters to you.”
“Yeah, but . . .” I trail off, suddenly uncomfortable. I’m going on and on about how I didn’t get into Stanford, which probably makes me sound ridiculously stuck up and snobby, not to mention a total bore. I’m supposed to be a mysterious, sexy tourist, not a snotty high school girl who complains about shallow things like her dumb Ivy League rejections.
“Yeah, but what?”
“That’s not what we should spend our time talking about.”
“It isn’t?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s boring.”
“You think because I work at a club that I don’t care about things like college acceptances?” He sounds slightly offended.
“No!” I say quickly. “That’s not what I meant at all!” And honestly, I didn’t. I mean, I didn’t think he’d be all that sympathetic about the fact that I didn’t get into Stanford. But honestly, who would?
“Sure.”
“No, I’m serious, I didn’t—”
And that’s when I realize he’s trying to stop himself from smiling. “Oh,” I say. “You’re messing with me.”
“Of course I’m messing with you!” he says. Then he catches sight of the look on my face. “You okay? Sorry, it seems like maybe that hit close to home.”
“No, it’s fine. I just don’t want you to think I’m a snob.”
“I don’t think you’re a snob.”
“You don’t?”
He shakes his head slowly. “I think you might be a little guarded, but I don’t think you’re a snob.”
“Guarded?”
“Yeah. Like you might have a hard time letting people in.”
I swallow. He’s right, and I wonder how he can tell that about me already. Does he think I’m frigid and closed off? He’s not saying it that way, though—he’s saying it more like he thinks I’m a puzzle he wants to solve, like if he can just keep moving the pieces around until they finally fit together, he might find something amazing.
“I ordered a cheeseburger in front of you,” I say, pushing my now-empty plate toward the middle of the table. “Doesn’t that count for not being guarded?”
But before he can answer, the waitress comes back and sets our check down on the table. Abram reaches into his wallet and pulls out his credit card. I go to reach for my purse so I can pay my half, but he stops me. “No way,” he says. “I got it.”
“Why?”
“Because that’s what you do when you take a girl out.”
“Oh.” I swallow and twist my hands in my lap. “Well, thank you.” Is this a date? I’m not sure if meeting a guy in a club and then having him take you out to eat can be considered a date. Don’t dates have to be planned in advance, set up, dressed for, etc.? Or is that just me falling back into my old pattern of thinking every single thing has to be planned out? Why can’t a date just be meeting someone and doing something spur-of-the-moment? Why can’t I stop obsessing about every single little thing?
A warm breeze floats through the air, and an electricity passes between me and Abram. It’s like nothing I’ve ever felt before. I’m smart enough to know it isn’t real—it’s just hormones and lust and the headiness of being on vacation and being with someone I don’t know that well.
I think about asking him some questions about himself—what he does when he’s not working at the club, if he’s going to school, if he has any brothers and sisters, what his favorite color is . . . All the normal things I’d ask someone I just met. But why? All I know is that I like him. He seems nice and funny, and does it really matter where he’s going to college or what he’s going to do with his future?
To your parents it does.
Yeah, but my parents aren’t here. And I’m not talking about marrying this guy. I’m talking about hanging out with him for one night.
After Abram pays the bill, he looks at me. “So what now, Cinderella?”
“Cinderella?”
“Yeah. You know, because she had to be home at midnight?”
“Is it midnight already?”
He laughs. “No. I’m asking you if you have to go back to your hotel n
ow, or if you want to do something else.”
Before graduation, I promise to . . . do something crazy.
“I want to do something else,” I say, before realizing that maybe I should have tried to play a little hard to get, that I should have maybe pretended to at least consider wanting to hang out more instead of just automatically agreeing to it.
“Okay.” He tilts his head. “What do you want to do?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “What do you want to do?”
“We could go for a walk on the beach, or we could go back to the club.”
I stay quiet. Neither of those things sounds good to me. The beach is nice, of course, but I don’t feel much like walking. And the club is loud and noisy, and Celia and Paige might be back there, getting all up in my business again.
“I’m sick of the beach,” I say. “And the club is too noisy.”
“Okay.” His gaze meets mine across the table, and he’s looking at me expectantly, waiting for me to suggest something else. But I don’t. I want him to be the one to say it. “Do you want to go back to my house? My parents aren’t around.” He doesn’t elaborate on where his parents are, and I don’t ask. As soon as he says the words, I realize how much I want to go with him. I know it’s not the smartest thing to do—but he did send Celia a picture of his license, and he did give her his number.
“Sure,” I say, trying to sound nonchalant, like going back to his house with him isn’t a big deal, even though it’s like the biggest deal ever.
“Let’s go. My car’s back at the club.”
He takes my hand as we walk down the street, and his fingers wrapping around mine send a thrill through my body. He leads me behind the Ocean Club to the parking lot. There are a bunch of kids hanging out back there, passing a cigarette back and forth, and I recognize some of them from school.
Abram unlocks his car—it’s black and sits high off the ground. He opens the passenger-side door for me, and I see a couple of kids from school watching us. A shiver of excitement flies up my spine. Those kids probably don’t know who I am, and even if they did, it’s not like they would care what I’m doing. But still. Something about them seeing me makes it feel more real. More exciting.
I settle back into the seat. Abram’s car is surprisingly clean. I figured a guy with a job like club promoter who lives on an island probably doesn’t care too much about keeping his car clean. But it’s actually spotless. It smells like leather and strawberry air freshener.
Abram starts the engine and turns to look at me. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Let’s go.”
NINE
HIS HOUSE ISN’T THAT FAR, AND IT’S ON A nice street, with signs all over that say NEIGHBORHOOD WATCH COMMUNITY and DEED RESTRICTED NEIGHBORHOOD. The houses aren’t that big or modern—they’re all one-story ranches, like little multicolored boxes lining both sides of the street. It’s quiet at this time of night, but streetlights cast a warm glow over everything, and there are lights on in a bunch of different houses, making everything feel warm and inviting.
When we pull into the driveway, I have a moment of panic. Am I really going to do this? But if Abram senses my hesitation, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he just gets out and opens my door for me.
“Thanks,” I say.
He leads me up the driveway, through the front door, and into the living room. It’s tastefully furnished, with dark-brown leather couches, a huge flat-screen television, and a wicker chair in the corner. The floor is dark bamboo with large slats, and there are little straw rugs scattered in every corner. It’s cozy and beachy at the same time, and something about the vibe of the house instantly puts me at ease.
Abram throws his keys onto a table by the door and then kicks off his shoes. “Do you want something to drink?” he asks.
I’m not sure if he means alcohol or not, but I say yes, mostly because I want to have something to do.
I follow him to the kitchen, and he opens the fridge and peers inside. “Lemonade, bottled water, soda . . .”
“I’ll have a bottled water,” I say, figuring it’s a safe bet. If he wants to roofie me or something, he won’t be able to do it with a sealed bottle of water.
He hands me the drink, and our fingers brush against each other. His hands are warm and soft, and I shiver.
“Thanks.” I uncap the water and take a sip.
“You’re welcome,” he says.
He takes a step closer to me, then takes the bottle out of my hands and drinks. It’s a very intimate thing to do—to just drink from my water bottle without asking me first. His eyes lock on mine as he hands it back to me.
The light in the kitchen is one of those dim ones that only lights the countertops, and so it’s kind of dark in a sexy, mood-lighting kind of way. I wonder if he hasn’t turned on any other lights on purpose, if he’s trying to set a tone.
“So,” Abram says.
“So.”
He takes another step toward me. He’s so close now I can see the strong line of his jaw, the tiny little bit of stubble on his chin, the way the collar of his shirt rests perfectly against the curve of his neck. “What should we do now?” he asks softly.
“I don’t know.” Butterflies are swarming around in my stomach, so hard and so fast I’m afraid they’re going to come bursting through my skin. Goose bumps break out on my arms.
“You wanna watch a movie?” he asks. His arms encircle my waist, and he pulls me toward him. His chest is broad and hard, and he smells like a mixture of ocean air, sand, and suntan lotion.
I think about it. Do I want to watch a movie? It’s probably the right thing to do. Even if we’re going to hook up, shouldn’t we at least do something else first? It’s just how it’s supposed to work—you don’t end up back at some guy’s house and then immediately jump into bed with him. You have to make him work for it a little bit.
But if I’m being honest with myself, I don’t want to watch a movie. Sitting on the couch with Abram right next to me, having to pretend to be interested in whatever lame thing is on TV sounds like torture. An exquisite kind of torture, but still torture.
You can’t just hook up with him! That would be so unlike you, so wrong, so . . . not the kind of thing girls like you do. But what kind of girl am I? The kind of girl who works hard and goes after her goals? And if I am, why can’t that kind of girl also be the kind of girl who hooks up with a guy on vacation?
Before graduation, I promise to . . . do something crazy.
“I don’t want to watch a movie,” I say. My voice sounds unsure, and I don’t like that. Something about this situation makes me feel like I should not only be in touch with my feelings but also extremely vocal about what it is I want. So I repeat myself. “I don’t want to watch a movie.”
His eyes burn a little brighter, and I can tell he doesn’t want to watch a movie, either. He pushes my hair off my face, and his fingertips burn my skin. “Are you sure?” he whispers.
“I’m sure.” This time, my voice sounds decisive on the first try.
Abram moves his lips toward mine, and I close my eyes, waiting for his kiss. As soon as I feel it, I push my body into his, open my mouth, and let his tongue move against mine. He tastes exactly how I expected—like mint and salt water and vacation.
We kiss for what seems like forever, until finally, he pulls back.
“I’m not . . . I mean, we don’t have to . . .” He trails off and looks at me. My heart is beating so fast in my chest I’m afraid he can hear it.
“No, it’s . . .” I want to tell him it’s okay, that I want to, but even though I’ve already made the decision, saying it out loud seems like it’s going too far. Once I say it, I’m not going to be able to take it back. And before I say it, I need to make sure I really, really, really mean it.
He swallows, and his Adam’s apple bobs up and down. The stubble on his chin is so amazingly sexy I have to stop myself from kissing him again.
“Do you want to go to my room?” he whisper
s. His breath tickles my skin, sending a million different feelings—excitement, anticipation, fear, want—shooting up my spine.
“Yes,” I say back.
He takes my hand and leads me there.
Abram’s bedroom is nothing like I pictured it. I thought it would be a complete mess, with pictures of hot girls on the walls, or maybe posters of indie bands. But his room is neat and plain. You can tell the carpet has been recently vacuumed, and the bookshelves lining the walls are filled with books. A couple of crumpled-up T-shirts and a pair of jeans litter the floor, and there are a few half-empty water bottles on the nightstand, but other than that, the room is clean.
He leads me to the bed, sits down next to me, and starts kissing me again. We kiss until I’m breathless and then, finally, we fall back onto the covers. His fingers move against my skin, up under the back of my shirt, and my body is on fire.
“You okay?” he whispers.
I nod, not trusting myself to speak.
“Do you want to stop?”
I shake my head.
He kisses me again, then reaches down and pulls my shirt over my head. I’m just in my bra now, and I realize I’m more naked with him than I’ve ever been with anyone in my life. A guy I just met today. He pulls back and looks at me, and I get lost in his eyes. I don’t care if I just met him, I don’t care that he might never call me again, I don’t care that he lives in Florida and is all wrong for me.
All I care about is that he’s here, right now, and being with him feels so good. I know I’m looking for an escape from what’s going on in my life, from having to deal with my mom, from having to think about the fact that I’m not going to Stanford. But I don’t care. All I know is this feels good and perfect and right, and I don’t want it to end. “No,” I say, “I don’t want to stop.”
And so we don’t.
When it’s over, he holds me close, and for a few seconds my heart is beating fast, but then it slows down and a complete and total feeling of relaxation flows through me. I can’t remember ever feeling this relaxed, like my limbs are wet noodles and my stomach is loose, no knot, nothing. This is what it feels like to live in the moment.