From This Moment

  How he didn’t even try to call me to see if I was okay, to try to talk to me about what had just happened between us.

  How I thought I was being so brave and smart by telling him how I felt, but it wasn’t brave or smart at all. It was just stupid. Being brave is being afraid of something and doing it anyway. I was afraid to tell Liam, that’s true—but I was more afraid of feeling this way about him and never telling him, of having to live with this secret for the rest of my life.

  That was my biggest fear.

  My mind is completely confused, the kind of confusion that can only come from a situation that has nothing to do with rules or logic but is based solely on emotion.

  Before graduation, I will . . . tell the truth.

  My eyes fill with tears that threaten to spill down my cheeks. I want to go back in time and tell my fourteen-year-old self that if she wants to tell the stupid truth, if she’s so concerned about honesty, then maybe she should just do it herself instead of wasting four effing years banging her head against the wall before ending up in the exact same boat (ha-ha, boat!) she would have ended up in when she was fourteen.

  I’m starting to get that same light-headed feeling again, so I turn away from the railing, hoping that not watching the waves will help. As I do, I catch sight of my reflection in the windows that enclose the middle part of the boat. Shit. I knew I should have never bought cheap drugstore eyeliner. I was hardly even crying and now I have black smudges under my eyes. I do my best to wipe them away with my fingers, but I can’t be totally sure I got it all, so I decide to take a quick trip to the bathroom.

  I start making my way back toward the other end of the boat, figuring that’s the best place to start looking for the restrooms. When I finally find them, there’s—predictably—a line. I sigh and think about just ditching the whole idea, but now in addition to the eyeliner situation, I actually have to go to the bathroom.

  Why is there never a line for the men’s room? And why can’t women just use their bathroom if we need to? Like, if the men don’t mind, shouldn’t it be okay? I mean, I understand that it could be totally awkward if the bathroom is filled with people, but if it’s empty, then—

  Oh.

  Is that Quinn? I can see her a few people ahead of me in line, jiggling her leg impatiently. She turns her head slightly, and when she does, I can see that she’s been crying. Her face is red, and her eyeliner is even more smudged than mine is. Why is Quinn crying? And since when does she wear eyeliner?

  A second later, she disappears into the bathroom. Oh, well, I tell myself. Not my business. First, I’m the last person Quinn would want to see if she’s upset about something. And second, I have my own problems to deal with.

  Still, I feel like maybe I should do something.

  I scan the crowd for Quinn’s friends Celia and Paige. Maybe I can send them in after Quinn to make sure she’s okay. But Celia and Paige are nowhere to be found.

  When I finally get into the bathroom a few minutes later, I go into a stall, pee, then wash my hands and fix my makeup. I’m on my way out when I spot Quinn’s feet under one of the doors. She’s still in there.

  She doesn’t want to talk to you, I tell myself. She’s just going to be a brat, and you’ll end up feeling worse than you already do.

  But then I think about earlier today, with Lyla, how I reached out, and how she responded, and how it was the first time in a long time I’d felt any kind of connection with her. And besides, what if Quinn’s really in trouble? What if something really bad happened to her? I know the chances are small, but do I really want to walk out of here without at least checking on her?

  I sigh and walk toward the stall.

  I give a tiny little knock on the door, halfway hoping she’s not going to hear it and then I can be like, Well, I tried, she didn’t answer and then get back to my own misery, which is more than enough to bear, thank you very much.

  “Someone’s in here,” Quinn snaps.

  I roll my eyes. Yeah, no shit. “Quinn?” I try, half hoping she’ll tell me to go away. But there’s just silence. “Quinn, it’s Aven. Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” she says firmly.

  “Okay.” I think about leaving, but how can I know she’s telling the truth, that she really is okay? As much as I don’t want to get involved, how can I just leave her in there when she’s obviously upset? “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah,” she says. There’s a pause, and I can tell she’s trying to think of something she can say to make me go away. “I’m just a little seasick.”

  Wow. That’s not even a good lie. “Quinn,” I say, sighing, “I saw you crying.”

  “I’m not crying!”

  “You were when you came in here. I saw you.”

  “No, you didn’t, because I wasn’t crying.” Okay, now she’s just being insulting. I mean, seriously, how can she think I’m going to buy her bullshit that easily? Then she sniffs! The girl tells me she’s not crying and then she sniffs. Wow.

  “You’re still crying!” I say, mad now. I start pounding on the stall door. “Let me in!”

  “No!” she says. “I’m going to the bathroom.”

  Right. Like I’m really going to be believe anything she says now. I take a step to the side and then lean down so I can peer under the door. She’s just sitting there crying, not looking seasick at all. “You are not going to the bathroom,” I say. “And you don’t seem seasick.”

  “Oh, for the love of God,” she says, reaching out and unlocking the door.

  I straighten up and shuffle into the stall with her. Wow. It’s close quarters in here.

  “If you think we’re going to have some big bonding moment in here, then I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I’m not in the mood.”

  I don’t even have it in me to try and pretend to be offended. She just seems kind of pathetic, with her eyes all red from crying and this whole false bravado thing she’s doing, where she tries to act like she doesn’t care about me being in here when it’s so obvious she needs a friend.

  “Oh, Quinn,” I say, reaching over and grabbing some toilet paper off the roll. I hand it to her. “Blow your nose.”

  She does it grudgingly.

  I reach into my purse and pull out a tiny can of Sprite that’s left over from when I got them for me and Lyla earlier. What is up with me helping everyone through their meltdowns? I’m such a good friend. You’d think people would take the idea of us all making up a little more seriously.

  “Here,” I say, popping the top. “Drink.”

  Quinn wrinkles her nose. “I’m not drinking in a bathroom stall.”

  “Knock it off, Quinn, it’s not contaminated.” Seriously. This is not the time to be worried about germs.

  She reaches out and takes the soda from me and has a slow sip. “Thanks,” she says after a moment.

  “Feel better?” I ask.

  She thinks about it. “Actually, I kind of do.”

  I nod in satisfaction, then take the can back from her and take my own sip. “So why are you hiding in the bathroom?” I ask. I know I thought I didn’t really want to get involved, and I’m still not sure I do, but I’m also dying to know what’s going on. Quinn’s not the type to show her emotions like that, to get all riled up and start freaking out in some random bathroom. She’s always been quiet and steady, never veering from her chosen path, always doing well in school and doing the right things.

  “Why do you care?” she snaps, her moment of vulnerability obviously having passed.

  I think about lying, about telling her I don’t care, but then I think, what the hell? The worst has already happened—I’ve already told Liam how I feel and gotten rejected—what do I really have to lose by telling Quinn how much I miss her?

  “Quinn . . .” I start, thinking about where to begin, what to say, how to let her know I still care about her, that I think about her a lot, that sometimes I miss her so much it feels like a physical ache.

  “Stop,” she says, before I can fi
gure out where to start. “I can’t . . .”

  I nod, letting her know that I understand she’s upset and can’t deal with having any more emotion piled onto her right now. I’m not even hurt—I know it’s not personal. I kneel down in the stall so that I’m eye level with her. “You want to talk about it?”

  She shakes her head no, but a second later she says, “It’s a boy.”

  God, what is it with this place? I’m all upset about a boy, Lyla was all upset about a boy, and now Quinn’s crying in the bathroom because of a boy. “Oh.” I nod in understanding. “He broke your heart?”

  “I don’t know,” she says. “I just met him. And he seems . . . I mean, it seems like maybe he likes me.”

  “So then what’s the problem?” Sounds perfect to me. He likes her, she likes him. What is she complaining about?

  “The problem is that we’re all wrong for each other. And he lives here. And I hardly know him.”

  I shrug. “The heart wants what it wants.” I mean, seriously, what is wrong with her? A guy she likes likes her back, and she’s upset because he’s all wrong for her and lives far away? Has she never heard of planes, trains, automobiles, and FaceTime? And what does that even mean, that they’re all wrong for each other? How can they be all wrong for each other if they really like each other? Hasn’t she watched any romantic comedy, like, ever? The people who are the most wrong for each other are actually the ones who might be the most right.

  “Yeah, well, what if the heart is really messed up and confused?”

  “All hearts are messed up and confused.”

  “So then how can I trust what’s real and what isn’t?”

  I shake my head. “You can’t.”

  “You’re making no sense,” she says, sounding frustrated.

  There’s a knock on the stall door. “Come on!” a voice yells. “There are people waiting out here! Find somewhere else to do that lesbian shit.”

  I sigh and then stand up. I want to help her, but I just . . . I don’t know if I can. I’m jealous of her. She’s found someone she likes, who might like her back, and she’s getting caught up in all the wrong things, like how to know if it’s right or if she can trust her heart. No one’s heart can be trusted, that’s why it’s your heart and not your brain. But even though I know it might be a lost cause, I find myself turning around.

  “Quinn, if you’ve found someone you really like, and he likes you back . . . well, that’s amazing. He must be pretty special if he’s making you react like this. And I know we’re not friends anymore, and you don’t know what’s going on in my life. But you need to trust me when I tell you this—if you think you have a chance with someone you really like, well, then you need to follow your heart. That, I know.”

  I reach out and squeeze her shoulder, and then I turn and walk out of the stall.

  Follow your heart.

  It seems so easy.

  Just three little words.

  Three little words with the power to make you ridiculously happy, or make you feel like everything’s a total mess.

  When I get back to the place to where I left Colin, he’s standing there holding two plastic cups filled with soda.

  “Hey,” he says when he sees me. “There you are. I was starting to think maybe you’d left me.”

  “Never,” I say. “I was just, um, talking to a friend.” I take the drink he’s holding out, and I’m surprised to find that my hand is shaking a little bit.

  “Is everything okay?” he asks. “You seem a little upset.”

  “Oh, I’m fine,” I say. “It’s just that my friend was having a hard time. She was crying in the bathroom.”

  “Is she okay?” His eyes fill with concern. “Does she want to hang out with us?”

  “Oh, no, she’s fine. I mean, she will be. She was just worried about some guy.”

  “Ahh.” He nods, like he knows all about girls getting upset about some guy. “Let me guess, she likes someone who doesn’t like her back?”

  “No, the opposite actually. She likes someone who does like her back.”

  He shakes his head. “So then what’s the problem?”

  “The problem is that she thinks he’s all wrong for her.”

  He takes a sip of his drink and leans over the side of the boat. “Girls make everything so complicated.”

  I’m about to call him out for being sexist, but he quickly adds, “I mean, guys can, too, don’t get me wrong. But to me, it’s simple. If you like someone and they like you back, it should work. It shouldn’t be hard or awful or cause you to run into the bathroom crying. You know what I mean?”

  “Yeah.” I take a sip of my drink and lean against the railing next to him, making sure not to look down. At that moment, the boat starts inching away from the dock, slowly and smoothly making its way into the water. A cheer goes up from the crowd.

  Colin turns and puts his arm around me, pulling me close. I lean into him, enjoying how strong and sturdy his body feels after I’ve felt like I was spinning all day.

  But he’s not Liam.

  No one’s Liam.

  And I can’t change the way my heart feels.

  And right now, my heart isn’t here.

  It’s back on that beach, with Liam, still thinking about the way he looked when I told him how I felt—the surprise, the confusion, the sympathy. My mind feels sharp, like I’m seeing every single detail too clearly, too bright, too defined. I don’t like it. Suddenly, I want something to dull the memory.

  “Hey,” I say, turning my face toward Colin. “Do you know where there’s alcohol?”

  It’s a dumb question, of course, because Colin’s a college student. Of course he knows where there’s alcohol. Or at least, he knows who on the boat has it.

  He takes off and returns a few minutes later with a plastic cup that looks identical to the Diet Coke I just finished, but Colin promises me that this one has rum in it.

  “Wow,” he says as I take a long gulp. “Be careful. We can get you more.”

  The vibe on the boat has changed, or at least, it has in my mind. Everyone seems happier now that we’re out on the water. The music starts, and it’s loud with a strong rhythm, the kind of music you can feel as it beats in your chest.

  “I want to dance,” I say to Colin.

  He grins. “Really? I didn’t peg you for a dancer.”

  “You shouldn’t try to peg me,” I say as I take his hand and lead him toward the dance floor. “That’s a mistake. I’m unpeggable.”

  I know I’m making no sense, but I don’t care. The alcohol has already started to dull the pain in my brain, and it’s making everything else a little fuzzy, too—the way Colin’s hand feels in mine, the bodies around us as I throw myself into the mix.

  We dance.

  And dance.

  And dance.

  I drink.

  And drink.

  And drink.

  Not enough to get crazy drunk—I keep myself on the stronger side of buzzed, just enough so that everything feels warm and good and safe. We spend all night on the dance floor, all night in a mix of sweaty bodies and pulsing music and blurred feelings.

  When the boat begins to pull into the harbor and the music stops and the lights go on, panic sears through my body. The dancing and partying was my escape. And now that’s over.

  “Come back to my room,” I whisper in Colin’s ear.

  He shakes his head. “You’re drunk.”

  “I’m not drunk,” I say. “I’m a little buzzed, but I’m not drunk.”

  I can tell he wants to, but he’s afraid he’s going to be taking advantage of me. Which he’s not. The ship has completely stopped now, and people are starting to move toward the exit, creating a bottleneck that keeps us locked in place for a few minutes. But even so, I can tell that my buzz is already fading, that my mood was as much because of the music and the dancing and the boat as it was about the alcohol.

  Sure enough, once we’re on the sidewalk and the cool night air hits my f
ace, I’m back to feeling almost completely normal. I immediately wish I were back on the boat, another rum and Coke in my hand, that feeling of reckless abandon coursing through my veins. It’s a little disconcerting, actually, the fact that I’m using alcohol to dull my pain. Am I becoming an alcoholic? Is telling Liam how I felt going to be my undoing? Am I spiraling down into the seedy world of addiction?

  “I’m fine,” I say out loud, more to myself than to Colin, who hasn’t even asked me if I’m okay.

  He looks at me, confused. “Okay,” he says.

  “I’m serious,” I say. “I’m not drunk.”

  “Still,” he says. “I’ll walk you home.”

  “Okay.” This seems like a good idea, even though my desire to take him back to my room has cooled off a little. It’s almost like a dream or something, where you wake up and kind of go, Wow, what was I thinking? But maybe I’m just having cold feet about hooking up with him.

  I glance at him out of the corner of my eye as we turn the corner onto Ocean Boulevard. He has a nice profile. Straight nose, full lips, manly but not too manly. Broad shoulders. Good walk, smooth and confident.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks.

  “Yes,” I say. “The air feels good.”

  “Okay.”

  We lapse into silence then. I know I’m probably supposed to ask him about school, or if he has any brothers and sisters or something. But honestly, I could care less about making small talk. I don’t want to get to know someone new.

  I want to be with Liam. Liam, who I already know. Liam, who knows everything about me, like how I don’t like elevators because I’m afraid I’m going to get stuck, how I hate spicy food and the word “moist.” Liam, who can talk to me about everything from gender roles to wars to the importance of books with pink covers.

  I don’t want small talk.

  I want real connection.

  And I don’t want to make a new connection with someone. I want the connection I already have.

  “So you’re going back home tomorrow?” Colin asks. “To Connecticut?”

  “The day after,” I say.

  He nods. “Are you excited to be graduating?”