For a brief moment, I’m worried that I’ve freaked her out.
But she says very seriously, “It’s a shame that I’m going to be forced to commit severe testicular trauma upon that boy.”
After this, our shared appetite for vengeance quickly spirals out of control. She calls Porter a C word, which is apparently okay to do if you’re English. She then asks if I want her to talk to him (I don’t) or spread horrible rumors about him at work (I sort of do). When she starts getting creative about the rumor spreading, it just makes me sad, and I start crying again. My dad comes home from work in the middle of my sob session, and Grace gives him the lowdown. She should be a TV commentator. By the time she’s finished explaining, I’m done with the tears.
My dad looks shell-shocked.
“Bet you’re sorry you signed up for your teenage daughter to move in with you now, huh?” I say miserably. “Maybe this is why mom hasn’t called all summer. She’s probably thinking, Good riddance.”
He looks momentarily confused, but quickly disregards that last remark, comes up behind me, wraps his arms around my shoulders, and squeezes. “Are you kidding? I wouldn’t miss any of this for one single second. And if there’s one thing I know about, it’s how to get over breakups. Or potential ones. Whatever this is. Get your stuff, girls. We’re going out for lobster and laser tag.”
Porter starts texting me the next day. Nothing substantial, just several short texts.
Text 1: Hey.
Text 2: I’m so sorry about work. I feel awful.
Text 3: We need to talk.
Text 4: Please, Bailey.
Dad advises me to ignore all of those texts and let him simmer. After all, Porter did the same thing to me. Time apart is healthy. Dad also quizzes me, asking me if I’ve realized why Porter walked out on game night. “You’re a good detective, Mink. You can figure this out on your own.”
Maybe I don’t want to anymore. I’ve pretty much given up trying.
Besides, I have other things to think about, like looking for another job, one that doesn’t mind that I’ve been sacked from my last place of employment. Dad offers to ask around at the CPA office. I politely decline.
When I’m looking through the classifieds in the local free paper we picked up during our million-dollar lobster feast the night before, Dad says, “What did you mean when you said your mother hasn’t called all summer?”
“Just that. She hasn’t called. All summer. Or texted. Or e-mailed.”
A long moment drags by. “Why haven’t you said anything?”
“I thought you knew. Has she called you?”
He rubs his hand over head. “Not since June. She said she’d be in touch with me later to see how we were doing, but she told me she’d mainly be communicating through you. I’m such an idiot. I should have checked in with you. I guess I was too busy being selfish about having you here with me that I let it slip. This is my fault, Bailey.”
After a moment I say, “What if something’s wrong?”
“I’m subscribed to her firm’s newsletter. She’s fine. She won a big court case last week.”
“So . . .”
He sighs. “You know how long it’s taking you to get over Greg Grumbacher? Well, it’s taking her just as long. Because it may have hurt and scared you, but not only did it do those things to her, too, she’s also living with the guilt that the whole thing is her fault. And she still hasn’t forgiven herself. I’m not sure she ever will completely. But the difference between the two of you is that you’re ready to try to move on, and she still isn’t.”
I think about this. “Is she going to be okay?”
“I don’t know,” he says, rubbing a gentle hand over my cheek. “But you are.”
The following day, I decide I am finished letting Porter simmer. No more games. This whole thing has spun so far out of control. I am just . . . done.
At eight in the morning, I text Porter and tell him I want to meet and talk. He suggests the surf shop. He says his family is at the beach, watching Lana surf, and he is there alone opening the shop. It hurts my heart that he’s not out there with them, but I don’t say that, of course. Our texting is all very civil. And meeting in a public place sounds like a reasonable plan.
It takes me a little while to stoke up my courage. I cruise down Gold Avenue. Circle the boardwalk parking lots. Idle for a minute watching the fog-covered top of the Bumblebee Lifts. Speed down the alley to make sure Mr. Roth’s van isn’t parked out back.
Since I’m unsure where our relationship stands, I decide to park Baby in front of the shop, like a lot of the other scooters do along the boardwalk storefronts. No special privileges: I can walk through the entrance like any other Mary, Jane, or Sue.
Ignoring the compelling scent of the first churros being fried that morning, I spy movement in the shop and wait for Porter to let me inside. Surf wax wafts when the door swings open. But it’s the sight of his handsome face that makes my throat tighten painfully.
“Hi,” I say stoically.
“Hi,” he answers gruffly.
I stand there for a second, and then he gestures for me to come inside. When I do, that big white fluffy cat I saw on the roof with Don Gato tries to sneak in the door with me. He shoos it away with his foot and says, “Scram.”
He locks the door behind me before glancing at his red surf watch, changing his mind, and unlocking it again. “One minute until nine,” he explains. “Time to open.”
“Oh,” I say. Doesn’t really look like there’s a line of people itching to get inside, so I guess we still have plenty of privacy. Then again, I don’t know when his family’s coming back. Better make this quick.
Ooaf. Why am I so nervous?
Porter looks in turns hopeful and worried and wary. He shoves his hands into his pockets and heads toward the back of the shop. I follow. When he gets to the counter, he walks around it and faces me like I’m a customer.
Okay, then.
“So . . . ,” he says. “You mentioned that you were ready to talk.”
Nodding, I reach inside my pocket and pull out the shark tooth. I’ve already removed my keys. I set it down on the counter and slide it toward him. “You gave this to me on the condition that I be more honest and open with you because you need to trust me. However, I’ve clearly done something that has hurt you, and must assume that I have broken your trust. Therefore, I am returning your tooth, and dissolving our . . . whatever it is we are—”
“Bailey—”
“Please let me finish. My mom’s a lawyer. I know how important verbal contracts are.”
“Dammit, Bailey.”
The shop door opens behind me. Great. Can’t people wait five stinking minutes for Mr. Zog’s Sex Wax? I mean, come on.
Just when I’m ready to move aside and let Porter deal with the customer walking up behind me, Porter’s expression transforms into something very close to rage. And it’s at this exact moment that I recognize the pattern I’m hearing on the wooden floor. It’s not the sound of someone walking: it’s the sound of someone limping.
“Get the fuck out of here,” Porter shouts.
I swing around, heart pounding, and see Davy heading toward me. He looks much rougher than the last time I saw him at Fast Mike’s motorcycle garage, which is saying a lot. He’s not only wearing a shirt, miracle of miracles, he’s wearing a sand-colored trench coat, and it looks like he’s still on at least one crutch, partially hidden behind the coat.