Porter makes a low noise.
“Anyway, that’s why,” I say. “Thank you for rescuing me. And for listening.”
I get out of the van and shut the door. It’s old and ornery, so I have to do it again. Then I slog up the hill toward my dad’s house. I don’t get far before the van’s headlights go out and the engine cuts off. Then I hear change and car keys jingling as Porter jogs to catch up.
Wary, I glance up at his face as he falls in step next to me.
“You shouldn’t walk alone at night,” he says. “I won’t let your dad see me.”
“Thanks,” I say.
Three slow steps in tandem. “You could have just said that in the first place, you know.”
“Sorry.”
“Forgiven,” he says, giving me a little smile. “Next time tell me the truth before I mouth off and say stupid stuff, not after. Saves me from looking like a jerk.”
“I kind of like you being all hotheaded,” I joke.
“Hot Stuff, remember?”
“I remember,” I say, giving him a smile. “That’s my house, there.”
“Oh, the old McAffee place. That’s got the tree going through the sunroom in the back.”
“Yeah,” I say, amazed.
“My parents know everyone in town,” he explains.
Maybe now he believes me about not being fancy. I whisper for him to follow me to the far side of the house near the mailbox, where my dad won’t see or hear us approaching if he’s in the living room or his bedroom. His muscle car is parked in the driveway, so I know he’s home, but I can’t see a light on. I wonder if he’s waiting up. It’s the first night I’ve stayed out this late, so chances are good that he’s still awake—especially since we made such a big deal out of the curfew. Now I’m feeling guilty again. Or maybe that’s just all my nerves jingle-jangling because it’s almost midnight and I’m standing in damp grass with a boy I’m not supposed to be seeing.
“So,” Porter says, facing me.
“So . . . ,” I repeat, swallowing hard as I glance around the dark street. A few golden lights glow in the windows of nearby houses, but there’s no sound but the occasional passing of distant cars and a frog singing along with some crickets in the redwoods.
Porter shifts closer. I back up. He’s always in my personal space, I think weakly.
“Why did you come to the bonfire tonight?” he asks in a low voice.
I fiddle with the zipper on my hoodie. “Grace invited me.”
“You snuck out of the house because Grace invited you?”
He steps closer.
I step back—and my butt hits cedar. Crap. I’ve run into the mailbox post. I start to shimmy around it, but Porter’s arm shoots out and blocks me. Damn! Ten points for surfer agility.
“Not this time,” he says, trapping me with his hand on the mailbox. His head dips low. He speaks close to my ear. “Answer the question. Why did you come to the bonfire? Why sneak out at all? Why risk it?”
“Is this a quiz?” I ask, trying to sound mad, but I’m really just insanely nervous. I’m cornered—which I hate. And he’s so close, his hair is tickling my cheek, and his breath is warm on my ear. I’m scared and intoxicated at the same time, worried that if either of us says another word, I might push him away.
That I might not.
I’m trying-trying-trying not to breathe so fast. But Porter shifts, and the hand that isn’t trapping me falls to the side. His fingers dance over my hand, a gossamer touch, and he traces soft patterns on my open palm, Morse code taps, gently urging, send a thousand electric currents of signals up my nerves.
“Why?” he whispers against my cheek.
I whimper.
He knows he’s won. But he asks one more time, this time against my ear. “Why?”
“Because I wanted to see you.”
I can’t even hear my own voice, but I know he does when a sigh gusts out of him, long and hard. His head drops to the crook of my neck and rests there. The fingers that were teasing me with their little tap-tap-tapping messages now curl around my fingers, loosely clasping. And the arm pinning me to the mailbox is now lifting away, and I feel his hand smooth down the length of my hair.
A tremor runs through me.
“Shh,” he says softly against my neck. I nearly fall to pieces.
I don’t know what we’re doing. What he’s planning to do. What I want him to do. But we’re swaying and clinging to each other like the earth might crack open beneath our feet at any given moment, and I’m a little bit afraid that I really might be having a stroke, because I can hear the blood swishing around in my temples and my knees suddenly feel like they’ve gone rubbery and I might collapse.
Then he freezes against me.
“Whatwasthat?” he slurs, pulling all his wonderful warmth away.
Now I hear it. Windowpanes shaking. “Oh, God,” I whisper. I’m going to have a heart attack. “It’s the surround sound on the TV. My dad’s probably watching some stupid sci-fi movie. It shakes the windows during the battle scenes.” Now come back here.
Then we hear a slam. That was no TV. That’s the door to the— “Carport!” I whisper. “Other side of the house!”
“Crap!”
“That way!” I say, shoving him toward a bush.
Two quick strides, and he’s hidden. I hear the squeal of the trash bin in the carport and exhale a sigh of relief; Dad can’t see us from there. But that was close. Too close.
“Bailey?” Dad calls out. “Is that you?”
“Yeah, Dad,” I call back. Stupid curfew. “I’m home. Coming around.”
Movement catches my eye. I turn in time to see Porter sneaking across the street. He’s pretty good, I must admit. No Artful Dodger, but still. When he gets to the other side, he turns to look at me one last time, and I swear I can see him smiling in the dark.
“Never trust a junkie.”
—Chloe Webb, Sid and Nancy (1986)
15
* * *
Tiny arms hug me from behind. I’m engulfed by the scent of baby lotion. “I’m so, so sorry,” Grace’s elfin voice says into the middle of my back as she squeezes me. “Will you ever forgive me?”
It’s the following day, and I’m standing in front of my locker in the break room at work. We texted last night after Porter sneaked away—and after my dad got over being amazed that he never heard Grace’s car drive up, and why didn’t she come inside? Ugh. Once you tell one lie, plan on telling about twenty more, because they pile up like yesterday’s garbage.
“There’s nothing to forgive,” I tell her. I’m just relieved she didn’t think I ditched her for Porter—or ask why I was with him. “But for Halloween, I’m dressing up like a tree and you’re going as a sloth. I’ll carry you around while you eat my leaves.”