Free Heat of the Moment by Lauren Barnholdt

you were with me. In which case, there would be no trouble for me to get you into in the first place.”
    I feel like I’m on some kind of weird merry-go-round, like no matter what I do I can’t get out of the Beckett vortex.
    Admit that it’s kind of fun .
    My phone buzzes, and I reach down and pull it out of my purse.
    Just an email.
    From me . . . to me.
    Before graduation, I will . . . learn to trust .
    A memory bubbles up in my mind. Aven, Quinn, and me, standing on the beach with our phones out, schedulingour emails to be delivered on this day. Aven said something about how by the time we were seventeen, we might think the emails were stupid. Quinn didn’t think we would, but even so, we decided to have them repeat. Every couple of hours, throughout the day. So we wouldn’t be able to ignore them.
    At the time, I thought it was so clever of us, and I had an image in my mind of seventeen-year-old me getting the emails at different points throughout the day, realizing how important it was for me to work on my trust issues and thanking fourteen-year-old me for being so clever. Now seventeen-year-old me doesn’t want to thank fourteen-year-old me—she wants to go back in time and throttle her.
    I’ve already figured out my trust issues, I try to tell the past me. I’m fine. I have a boyfriend. I don’t have issues with men . If I had issues with men, I’d be with someone like Beckett. Someone unpredictable and crazy and unreliable.
    â€œWhat’s that?” Beckett asks, trying to look over my shoulder.
    â€œJust an email.” I shove my phone back in my purse.
    â€œFrom who?”
    â€œFrom . . .” Something tells me “myself” is going to sound a little crazy. Besides, the last thing I want to do is tell Beckett about my email from the past. Or my trust issues. Well, my past trust issues. “It was nothing,” I say.
    â€œThen why do you look so disturbed?”
    â€œI’m not disturbed!” I shake my head, trying to clear my thoughts. “Look, can you just take me to Derrick?”
    â€œSure.”
    I follow him down the sidewalk, past the shops and boutiques, weaving in and out of tourists wearing Hawaiian shirts and sunblock.
    I feel a little . . . unsettled somehow.
    It’s okay, I tell myself. You’ll feel better when you’re with Derrick. You always do .
    Of course nothing with Beckett can be that easy, because he insists on stopping for an ice-cream cone.
    â€œWhat kind do you want?” he asks when it’s his turn in line. The ice-cream shop is near the end of Ocean Boulevard and is called Big Olaf. The line, of course, was out the door, but did that stop him? No. In fact, it just seemed to make him happier. “Must be a popular place,” he said cheerily when he saw the huge crowd.
    â€œI don’t want any ice cream,” I say haughtily. It’s a lie, of course. I never don’t want ice cream. Especially on a day like today, when the sun is shining and the sky is blue and you can smell the ocean breeze.
    He gives me an incredulous look, like he’s not buying it.
    â€œA double-scoop Heath bar crunch on a sugar cone.”
    Beckett raises his eyebrows. “Impressive, Pink,” he says,before turning back to the counter. “Two double-scoop Heath bar crunch on sugar cones,” he tells the girl taking our order.
    A secret little thrill runs through my body at the fact that Beckett deemed my ice-cream order good enough to copy. Suddenly, I’m ravenous. Beckett passes me my cone, then pulls a napkin out of the dispenser and hands it to me.
    â€œThanks.” I start to pull out my wallet. “How much do I owe you?” He waves me away.
    â€œIt’s on me,” he says.
    â€œOh.” I’m not sure if that’s really appropriate. I mean, how would Derrick feel if he knew some other guy was paying for my ice-cream cone? Probably he wouldn’t be too