“What’s that?”
“You’ve got to start opening up to me.” He glances toward my back. “Look, I totally understand why you didn’t tell me the whole story about the gunshot wound until now, but you can’t be that way around me anymore. I already had a girlfriend who kept things from me, and I spent weeks walking around oblivious while she was screwing Davy behind my back.”
“First, ew, I have better taste than that, and second, I would never do that to you.”
He kisses my ear. “I believe you.”
“So, yeah, speaking of Chloe . . . Were you and Davy having sex with Chloe at the same time?”
“Together?” He sounds appalled.
I smile. “You know what I mean.”
“No,” he says, sounding sheepish. “Chloe and I were going through a dry spell at the time. There was no cross-contamination, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
I sort of was.
“And we always used condoms. Every time.”
“Good to know,” I mumble. Very good.
“Anyway, back to you,” he says. “What I’m trying to say is that you’re sort of bad about bottling things up. And I’m not saying you’ve got to turn into Grace. I like you just the way you are. But in order for this to work, you’ve got to tell me stuff. I need you to trust me—”
“Of course I do.” Hello. Did we not just have sex?
“—and I need to be able to trust you,” he finishes.
I start to argue, but I’m embarrassed that he’s even brought this up.
He nudges my chin with his, forcing me to face him, and speaks quietly against my mouth. “Listen to me, okay? What’s between us? This is the best thing that’s ever happened to me in my entire life, and I don’t want it to end. Sometimes you feel so tricky, like fog over the ocean—like you just showed up at the beginning of the summer, and one day the sun will come out and you’ll disappear and go back to your mom. And that scares the hell out of me. So that’s why I tell you things about me, because I figure if I weigh you down with my baggage, then you’ll be less likely to run.”
My heart twists.
I press my brow against his. “Artful Dodger.”
“Huh?”
“That’s me. Or it used to be.” That morning on the beach when Grace was mad at me ghosts through my thoughts. I need to do better. “I’m trying, Porter. I really am. I want you to trust me.”
“That’s all I ask.” He leans back to look at me, smiles softly, and opens up his fingers to reveal the shark tooth again. “So . . . do you want it? People might talk.”
I snatch it up with a grin. “Maybe they’ll say that you’re mine.”
“Bailey, I’ve been yours. I’ve just been waiting for you to make up your mind.”
Later that night, after Porter brings me back home, I’m too blissed out to be around people, especially my dad. So I put on my leopard scarf and sunglasses and take Baby out for a drive around the neighborhood. When I get to the big hill at the end of our street, I throw my hands up in the air, shouting, “I’m in love!” to the redwood trees.
“Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain.”
—Frank Morgan, The Wizard of Oz (1939)
24
My dad’s no cook, but the CPA in him can follow a recipe like no one’s business. Together, however, we managed to ruin a roasted chicken, which was still raw two hours into cooking. That’s when we figured out that something was wrong with one of our oven’s elements. We dumped the chicken, gave it last rites over the garbage can—RIP—and called for pizza. And even though we were a little upset by the failure, our guests—Wanda, Grace, and Porter—didn’t seem to mind.
It’s been a week since Nude Beach, and it’s the first time Porter’s been invited inside my house, so I’m nervous anyway. I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s because I’ve hung out at Porter’s house several times, and it’s so comfortable over there, and now I’m worried it won’t be the same here. He already cracked a joke about hanging out with a cop, so there’s that, too. Even though I don’t think about Wanda as being some kind of intimidating authority figure, I can understand why Porter might feel that way. Now I feel defensive about her and want him to like both her and my dad, and that feels . . . stressful.
But when the pizza’s delivered and Porter’s thumbing through my dad’s DVD collection, things start looking up. Turns out my dad and Porter like a lot of the same sci-fi movies. Porter has no idea what a huge mistake he’s just made, because Dad is thrilled out of his ever-loving mind and will not shut up with the nerdery talk: Have you seen this space-pirate gem from 1977? What about this long-lost 1982 flick? If they start talking Star Wars, I’m going to have to shut it all down.
The entire time they’re talking, I can’t tear my eyes away from Porter. What I’m feeling for him now is like drowning and floating at the same time. When he gives me a quick glance, I’m overwhelmed. Does he feel like this too? This epic connection between us? It’s thrilling and frightening. Like the rest of my life was just a series of bad B movies and we just walked onto the set of Citizen Kane.
“Lord, you’ve got it bad,” Grace whispers near my ear. “Must have been good, huh?”
Ugh, I should never have told her what happened on the beach. I didn’t give her any details, but maybe that’s the problem. She’s filling them in with her dirty little mind. I bat her arm away, and our discreet, playful slap-fest devolves into immature giggling. When my dad and Porter notice, something near hysteria rises up in me, and I herd Grace toward the sofa, ducking out of sight.
I’m trying so hard to be more open with him, to talk about . . . all of this. These chaotic feelings. About what happened in the back of the camper van. We haven’t been together again, not like that. Haven’t had time. We’ve had some lovely deep kisses in the front of the van after work and a lot of midnight phone calls about nothing much at all, really—we just needed to hear each other’s voices. But every time I try to tell him how I really feel, how much I really feel, my chest feels like a hundred-pound fiery fist is squeezing my heart.
Sheer panic.
Once a coward, always a coward.
What if I can’t change? If I can’t be as honest and open as he needs me to be? As reliable a friend as Grace wants me to be? What if Greg Grumbacher ruined me forever? That’s what scares me the most.
After all the male-on-male sci-fi talk, we all retire to the porch and sit around the patio table near the redwood tree that grows through the roof. Dad brings out the holy worn game box.
“Okay,” he says very seriously. “What Bailey and I are choosing to share with you tonight is a Rydell family tradition. By taking part in this game—nay, this cherished and sacred ceremony—”
I snort a little laugh while he continues his speech.
“—you are agreeing to honor our proud family heritage, which extends as far back as . . . well, I think the price sticker on the box is from around 2001, so it’s pretty ancient.”
Wanda rolls her eyes. “I’ll give it my attention for fifteen minutes, Pete.”
“No, Sergeant Mendoza,” he says dramatically, slicing his hand through the air as if he’s some stern politician at a podium, commanding attention. “You will give Settlers of Catan your attention for a full hour or two, because the colonies deserve it.”