“All right, all right,” he grumbles, but I don’t think he’s genuinely irritated. I’m more convinced he feels sorry for me, and that might be worse. “Go stand at the gate over there. I’ll be right back.”
I don’t have the energy to argue. I drag my feet to the chairlift entrance and wait while a stooped, Filipino man—name tag: Reyes—with a raspy voice helps a few stragglers off one of the lifts. Other than one other touchy-feely college-aged couple, it doesn’t look like anyone else is waiting to get on. I don’t blame them. Tendrils of fog cling to the swinging seats, which look much like ski lifts, painted yellow and black. The fat wires that carry the lifts over the boardwalk to the rocky cliffs rest on a series of T-shaped poles; one wire carries the ascending lifts, one wire holds the descenders. Big white lights sit atop each pole, but halfway up the line the fog is so thick that the lights just . . . disappear. I can’t even see the cliffs today.
“Mornin’,” the Bumblebees’ operator says when I greet him.
“What do you do if something happens to one of the lifts?” I ask. “How can you see it?”
He follows my eyes, cranes his neck, and looks up into the fog. “I can’t.”
Not reassuring.
After what seems like an extraordinarily long time, Porter returns, breathless, with our tickets and a small, waxed bag. “Yo, how’s it hanging, Mr. Reyes?” he says merrily to the operator.
“No food allowed on the Bees, Porter,” the elderly man rasps.
Porter stuffs the bag inside his jacket and zips it halfway up. “We won’t touch it until we get to the cliffs.”
“All right,” the man relents, smiling, and he extends an arm to escort us onto the next lift.
Before I can change my mind, we’re boarding a swaying chair behind the groping college-aged couple. Each seat accommodates two people, snugly, and though we’re covered by a plastic yellow-and-black striped bonnet above, it leaves our torsos exposed. This means (A) the coastal wind whips through the chairlift against our backs, and (B) we have a perfect view of the lovey-dovey couple ahead of us and their roaming hands. Terrific.
The operator pulls a handlebar down that locks us in around the waist. I sneak a glance at Porter. I didn’t expect to be sitting so close to him. Our legs are almost touching, and I’m wearing a short skirt. I make myself smaller.
“Fifteen minutes up,” the operator says as he walks alongside our slow-moving chair, “fifteen minutes back down, whenever you’re ready to return. Enjoy yourselves.”
And we’re off. My stomach lurches a little, which is stupid, because we’re not even off the ground yet; these Bees need more zippity-do-dah.
“You all right, there, Rydell?” Porter asks. “Not afraid of heights, are you?”
“Guess we’ll find out,” I say as my dragging toes leave the ground and we begin to take flight, ever-so-slowly.
“You’ll love it,” Porter assures me. “It’ll be great when we hit the fog in a few minutes.”
Once the lift operator ambles away to the gate, out of sight, Porter unzips his jacket a few inches and sticks his hand inside. A second later, he’s pulling something out. It’s cream colored and about half the size of a golf ball. I smell vanilla for one glorious second before he shoves the whole thing in his mouth.
His eyes close in pleasure as he chews. “Mmm. So good.”
“What is that?” I ask.
“Illegal to eat on the Bees,” he reminds me, slipping his phone out of his shorts pocket. “You sure you want to break the rules?”
I skipped breakfast. I was too nervous about meeting Patrick. What a dork. I still can’t believe that all happened. It’s like a bad dream that I can’t shake. And now Porter’s got warm vanilla wafting up from his jacket, right in my face.
“What the hell, Porter?” I whine. “It smells really good.”
“Gracie did mention that you’ve got a mean sweet tooth when it comes to pastries.” He’s flipping through his phone, digging out another ball of whatever it is he’s got. I think it’s a vanilla mini muffin. I smell coconut, too. That might just be him, though.
“See if I tell her anything again,” I complain, kicking my feet as we lift a little higher off the ground.
“Here we go,” he says, finding something on his phone. “New quiz. Let’s make a deal.”
“NO QUIZZES.”
“I’ll be nice this time,” he says. “Promise.”
“Why should I believe you?”
“Because I’ve got a pocketful of moon muffins,” he says with a slow smile.
I don’t know the hell that is, but I really want one. My stomach growls.
“Wow, Rydell. You have a dragon living inside there, or what?”
My head lolls forward as I make little weepy noises. I finally give in. “Okay, but if you piss me off while we’re stuck on this stupid flying bumblebee, just know that my nails are sharp, and I will go for your eyes.” I flash him my freshly painted ruby reds, filed to a vintage almond shape.
He whistles. “Pointy. That’s one glam manicure. And here I was, thinking you were aloof. Sugar brings out the demon in you. Porter likey.”
I get a little flustered, but not enough to stop wanting the muffins.
“So here’s how this works. First”—he pulls out one of his prizes—“this is a moon muffin. Local Coronado Cove specialty. Fresh out of the oven over at Tony’s Bakery right there.” He points backward. “You think you like those sugar cookies at work? Well, you’re going to love this.”
He holds it in the tips of his fingers. I snatch it up, give the sniff test, and then tear it in two, ignoring him when he acts like this is a mistake. I taste it. Totally lovely. Spongy. Light. Dusted in vanilla sugar. “Yum,” I tell him.
Porter makes a victory face. “Told you. Okay, quiz time. This one is for both of us. It’s a . . . friendship quiz. We both have to give answers and see how we match up. To see if we’ll make compatible friends or bitter enemies.”
“Pfft,” I say around a mouthful of moon muffin, brushing crumbs off my boobs. “Enemies. Quiz over; give me another muffin.” I wiggle my fingers in his face.
He laughs and bats away my fingers. “No muffin until we answer the first question. Ready? Question one.” He starts reading. “?‘When we fight, (A) it’s like World War Three, and takes days for us to speak again; (B) we fight hard but make up fast; (C) we never fight.’ What do you think? A, B, or C?”
God, what is it with him and quizzes? Grace wasn’t wrong; he’s obsessed. “Not C, that’s for sure,” I say. “But not A, either. I guess we’re B. We fight hard, but we make up fast. But that’s mainly because you bribe me with food. Keep that up, and we’ll be okay.”
“B it is.” He holds out another muffin without looking up from his phone. I take it while he reads the next question. “?‘Our favorite way to spend our downtime is: (A) surrounded by friends at parties, the more the merrier; (B) always on the go, never staying still; (C) chilling alone.’?”
“I’m guessing you’ll say one of the first two things, but I’m more of a C kind of girl. Does that ruin our score?”