I feel feverish, just thinking about it again now, God help me.
But then, maybe he didn’t even mean it. He might have only been teasing me. Was he only teasing me? A fresh wave of panic washes over my chest.
No, no, no. This cannot be happening is all I can think, my mind gleaming with terror.
I cannot like Porter Roth.
“Bailey?”
“Huh? No, I love it. Seriously. It’s delicious,” I answer my dad, trying to sound normal as I pick up my spoon. “I had a weird day, is all.”
I push Porter out of my mind. Eat my soup. Concentrate on watching seagulls soaring around the shore. Then I hear my dad tell Wanda in a salacious voice, “She had a date today.”
“O-oh,” Wanda says, mouth curving into a smile.
“Dad, jeez.”
“Well, you didn’t tell me how it went. What was his name? Patrick?”
“If you must know, it went like this,” I say, giving a thumbs-down sign and blowing a big, fat raspberry. “Turns out your daughter gets a failing grade in relationship chemistry, because, funny thing, but Patrick is gay.”
Wanda makes a pained face. “And he didn’t tell you before?”
“Not his fault,” I say. “I guess I just made some wrong assumptions.”
Dad grits his teeth and looks several shades of uncomfortable. He has no idea what to tell me. “Oh, honey. I’m . . . sorry?”
I shake my head. “Like you always say, never assume.”
“Makes an ass out of ‘me’ and ‘u,’?” he finishes, quoting one of his favorite goofy word games. After a moment, he loosens up and drapes an arm around my back. “I’m truly sorry, kiddo. It wasn’t meant to be, but don’t let it get you down. This town is lousy with cute boys.”
Wanda smiles to herself.
“Gee, Dad. I can’t believe you just said that in front of your girlfriend,” I say in a stage whisper, letting my head fall on his shoulder.
“Me either,” he admits, rubbing my back. “Being a parent is weird.”
Wanda wipes her mouth with a napkin, nodding her head. “So true. My baby is two years older than you, Bailey. And he’s just gone through a crazy breakup.”
“Wait, you have a son?”
She nods. “Been divorced for five years. He’s nineteen. Went to a year of community college, and now he’s taking summer classes at your dad’s alma mater, Cal Poly. Electrical engineering. He’s a smart kid.”
As she’s telling me more about her son, I dig into my stew, wondering if I’ll ever meet this guy. What if my dad remarries? Will I have a stepbrother? That’s bizarre to think about. Then again, Wanda seems pretty cool, and the way she’s talking about Anthony—that’s her son—you’d think he was the most awesome guy on the planet. Besides, my dad’s like me: He doesn’t make rash decisions. I can’t picture him rushing headlong into another marriage, not like Mom—who still hasn’t called, just for the record. Not that I’m counting the days or anything, crying my eyes out for her like a ten-year-old kid who’s been shipped off to summer camp and misses Mommy.
But still. One call? One e-mail?
If she thinks I’m calling first, she can think again. I’m not supposed to be the adult here.
When I’m done eating, I get up from the table and grab my phone out of my purse, which is stashed in the seat of Baby; I drove and met Dad and Wanda here. On my way back to the table, I notice that some of the distant surfers have stripped out of their wet suits. They’ve stuck their boards in the sand, propped them up like gravestones, and are trudging to the posole truck. My pulse leaps as I scan the three boys for Porter’s face. I don’t find it, but I do spot someone else limping across the beach: Davy.
Crud.
I don’t really want to see him again, especially not while I’m with my dad. Unfortunately, no matter how low I duck as I sit back down next to my father, it’s not low enough to escape his hazy gaze.
“Look who it is, little miss thing,” he says in a rough voice. “Cowgirl. You work with Porter at the Cave.”
I raise my hand a couple of inches off the table in a weak wave and lift my chin.
“Davy,” he says, pointing at his chest, which is, as always, naked—even when the other two surfers are clothed. He’s shivering. Put a damn shirt on, dude. “Porter’s friend, remember?”
“Hey,” I say, because it would be weird not to. But why did he have to mention Porter?
“Is that your Vespa?” he asks. “Sweet ride. Looks legit. Has it been restored?”
Wanda sits up straighter and speaks up before I can answer. “What are you doing out here, Mr. Truand?”
“Oh, hello, Officer Mendoza,” Davy says, seemingly unfazed by her presence. “Didn’t recognize you out of uniform.”
“It’s Sergeant Mendoza, and I can still arrest your ass, no matter what I’m wearing.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” he says, smiling like an insurance salesman.
Two older girls in bikini bottoms and T-shirts get up from a nearby table to throw away their trash, and Davy’s friends start hitting on them in the worst way possible. All I hear is “ass for days” and “bury my face down there” and I want to either die or punch them all in the junk. The girls flip them off and after a short but brutal exchange, his friends give up and head to the posole truck like it’s no big deal. Just another few minutes in their day.
Now that the circus is over, Davy seems to remember he was talking to me.
“So anyways, cowgirl, you’re still invited. Remember?” He holds up a finger to his lips and winks at me. It takes me a second to realize that he’s talking about the bonfire. I guess. Who really can tell when it comes to this idiot. I don’t respond, and he doesn’t notice. He and his buds are already distracted by the next thing—another car, this time full of more dudes. They race to go meet them. Thank God. I’m totally embarrassed to be on the same beach as these morons. They’re bringing society down by several pegs, just breathing the same air as us.
“Go far, far away, please,” I mutter.
“You know him?” Wanda asks, suddenly very concerned in a cop sort of way.
Now my dad’s concerned too—in a father sort of way.
“No, no,” I say, waving my hand. “He knows someone I work with.”
“Porter Roth?” Dad says. “I thought he was a security guard, not a beach bum.”
Guess that’s where I picked up that phrase. “He is. I mean, he’s not,” I say. Oh, crap. I don’t want my dad associating the two of them together. “Porter’s not like Davy. I don’t even know if they’re really friends anymore. I ran into Davy on the boardwalk and he started calling me cowgirl because I was buying a scarf, and then he invited me to hang out, but that didn’t mean I was going or anything—”
“Whoa,” Dad says. “Slow down.”