One Moment in Time by Lauren Barnholdt

seven or eight hours by now.”
    â€œStill,” I say. “Knowing someone for seven or eight hours isn’t enough to justify leaving a club with them.”
    â€œIsn’t it?” He reaches out and grabs the pepper shakeroff the table and starts sliding it back and forth between his hands. The whole time his eyes are on mine, waiting for me to decide.
    â€œI can’t just leave with you,” I say again. “I don’t know anything about you.”
    â€œYou know my name. And where I work.”
    â€œBut that’s all.”
    â€œTrue,” he says seriously. He cocks his head and pretends to think about it. “I think you’re right. It wouldn’t really make sense for us to hang out. Since I’m a stranger and everything.”
    â€œIt wouldn’t make sense,” I say. “It wouldn’t be smart .” I resist the urge to list all the reasons it’s a bad idea, because I don’t want to insult him by implying he could be a psycho murderer. Besides, it’s really not something that needs to be explained. Is he used to girls just going home with him? He doesn’t seem surprised I don’t want to leave with him. But he doesn’t seem particularly upset about it, either. Does he figure that if I turn him down he’ll just find someone else to take home? I’m vaguely repulsed, but also slightly excited, like I’m going to miss my chance. Which is awful and against any kind of feminism, like, ever.
    And then I remember that stupid email.
    Before graduation, I promise to . . . do something crazy.
    Yes, something crazy. But not something dangerous . Or worse, something dangerous like going home with a guy Ijust met. Something dangerous like going home with a guy I just met while on vacation in a strange place. He’s cute, yes. And he seems harmless enough, albeit cocky. But still . . .
    Don’t overanalyze it. How are you feeling—what do you want to do?
    I take in a deep breath.
    And then, before I can change my mind, I turn and look at him.
    â€œOkay,” I say. “Let’s get out of here.”

EIGHT
    I CANNOT BELIEVE I’M DOING THIS. THIS IS insane. This is crazy. It’s so much not like me that it’s kind of astounding. But I’m starting to like the way it feels—it’s like trying on a dress that’s not really your style, then realizing it suits you after all.
    â€œShould we go get something to eat first?” I ask as soon as we’re out of the club. My stomach is flipping on itself, over and over again.
    â€œFirst?” Abram stops on the sidewalk outside the club, and when he looks at me, I have to catch my breath at how absolutely gorgeous he is. Dirty-blond hair, a chiseled jaw, dark-green eyes, smooth tan skin. He’s wearing an emerald-green T-shirt that reveals lean biceps and strong forearms. His cargo shorts hug his hips in a way that makes me think the rest of his body is just as perfect as the little I can see of it.
    â€œYes.” I swallow and jut my chin out, daring him to tell me he won’t take me to eat.
    â€œFirst before what?”
    â€œFirst before . . .” We hook up? You have your way with me? I’m not exactly sure how this whole thing works. I’m woefully inexperienced when it comes to the opposite sex. It’s because I overthink everything. The last and only time I ever hooked up with a guy, it took me so long to decide if I actually wanted to do it (it involved multiple pros and cons lists), that it turned out to be kind of awful, mostly because by the time it happened, the guy wasn’t even really that interested in me anymore.
    The side of Abram’s mouth slides up into a grin. “That’s awfully presumptuous of you,” he says.
    â€œWhat is?”
    â€œThinking I was asking you to leave so that we could hook up.”
    â€œWell, weren’t you?”
    â€œWasn’t I what?”
    â€œHoping we