“And you’re soft. No more kissing, I promise. Please, Bailey. Let me hold you, no manhandling. Just for a little while. Until it stops raining. I like the rain.”
He beckons me into the shelter of his arm, and since I’m on the side that didn’t get too beat up, I gently curl against him. He’s warm and solid, and I try to be as weightless and small as possible, try not to cause more pain, but he pulls me against him more firmly, and I give in. He sighs deeply, and we sit like that together, watching the rain fall over the ocean. Not talking. Just us. Just quiet.
But in that quiet, images of his bloody fight with Davy race back. This body that’s holding me right now so protectively . . . it was violently tearing another human being apart. How can he be both things—tender and brutal? Is this what boys are? Or is this what Porter is? He’s so complicated. I swear, the more I learn about him, the less I understand who he really is.
His ferocity unnerved me today, so why did I kiss him?
And why do I trust someone who can shake me up like that?
I think of our heated arguments. If I’m being honest with myself, I’m not exactly an innocent bystander. He provokes me, but do I allow myself to be provoked? Do I want it? And what about my ruthless takedown of that kid who stole the Maltese falcon? Grace keeps teasing me that I’ve got secret strength, and it’s starting to make me think more and more about my stupid therapist back in New Jersey and all his talk about me paying the price for my avoidance techniques. Shake up a bottle of soda long enough, when you take off the top, it’s going to explode.
Am I more afraid of Porter . . . or the person he’s unleashing inside me?
LUMIèRE FILM FANATICS COMMUNITY
PRIVATE MESSAGES>ALEX>NEW!
@mink: Hey, sorry we haven’t talked much recently.
@alex: MINK. I’m so glad you messaged me. I’ve been meaning to talk to you. You haven’t made a firm decision about flying out here yet, have you?
@mink: No, why would you ask that?
@alex: God, it took you so long to reply, for a second I thought I’d lost you there. Anyway, that’s actually a good thing. Things are crazy at work for me right now. So before you get your dad to buy a plane ticket, just check with me beforehand, okay? Since it’s so busy here.
@mink: Yeah, okay. I’ve been busy too, actually.
@alex: Then you understand. So just let me know? In case my situation changes?
@mink: Okay. Sure. You know I never rush into anything.
“Fight back, you coward! Fight back!”
—Daniel Radcliffe, Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince (2009)
17
* * *
A couple of hours before my shift the next morning, sunlight is already breaking through the gray sky as I pull Baby into a narrow alley behind Penny Boards Surf Shop. Porter’s supposed to meet me here. He says his dad can fix the wonky lock on my seat, since it appears that Davy took a crowbar to it and screwed up the lock. I’m nervous about meeting his dad. Really nervous.
This is a mistake. That’s all I can think. I’m not sure how he talked me into coming here right now, but I didn’t really know what else to do about my bike.
My own dad was none too happy when he got home last night from San Jose and I told him the story of the stolen scooter. If he only knew the entire story, he’d have a heart attack—so really, he’s lucky to have a daughter who cares enough about the state of his ticker to make sure that he only got the bare details he actually needed. And those details were as follows: The bike was stolen from the Cave’s parking lot, but one heroic security guard, a Mr. Porter Roth, chased the unruly teens off the museum property, sustaining injuries in the process, and got my bike back. A shame that Porter couldn’t identify the boys who took it, otherwise he would have filed a police report.
“It all happened so fast,” I told him. “I’m glad he was there.”
“He didn’t see the thieves’ faces?”
Err . . . “It was raining. They hit him and took off running.”
“I still think we should tell Wanda.”
“The museum security is taking care of it, Dad. Let them do their jobs, okay?”
My dad raised his hands. “All right, Mink. I’m just glad you’re okay. And Grace knows someone in town who’s going to help you get the seat fixed?”
Another lie. But it’s necessary, because as great as my dad is in a lot of ways, he’s not handy. So he’s fine with letting this mystery person handle it; he’s even happy to lend me money for a new wheel lock. I don’t deserve him.
So that’s what started the stress train. What kept the train chugging along the track was knowing I had to face Xander Roth, son of Pennywise, survivor of the great white shark, father to the boy I made out with . . . and then went home last night and before I went to sleep did unspeakable things to myself under the covers while thinking about all that making out with said boy. Which is how teen pregnancies don’t happen, I’m fairly certain.
Then, what sped the stress train up to full speed was getting those stupid messages from Alex this morning. Because it sounded like he doesn’t want me to fly out here. I mean, of course I’m already out here, but he doesn’t know that. What if I’d already bought a plane ticket? And why did he suddenly get so freaking busy, anyway? Did he meet another girl? Because it sure sounds that way to me.
I don’t know why this bothers me so much. It’s not like I’m not doing the same thing (hello, double standard). And we never promised to save ourselves for each other. We might not even get along in real life. Isn’t that why I was being so cautious in the first place, drawing out my elaborate map legend of the boardwalk and carefully tracking him down, just in case we weren’t compatible?
It’s just that nothing is working out like I’d planned. Alex and I have a connection—at least, we’re simpatico on paper, but who knows about reality? On the other hand, Porter and I are simpatico in reality, yet we’re also opposites. His life is pretty messy, and I don’t like messy. Been there, done that. It’s why I left my mom and Nate LLC in the first place. And then there’s the small, eensie-meensie detail that I’m not even supposed to be anywhere near him, thanks to Wanda’s police warnings, ugh. But that’s part of the whole appeal, isn’t it? Because being with Porter is crazy and exciting. And much like a great thriller film, I’m not sure who’s going to end up dead by the closing credits.
A dark blue van pulls up behind me and parks in a space marked for the surf shop. But it’s not Porter’s van. And it’s not Porter driving—or riding, for that matter. Two people jump out, both eying me with great curiosity. The first is Mr. Roth, wearing a lightweight yellow Windbreaker, one sleeve sewed up, and the second is someone I recognize from photographs as Porter’s sister, Lana. They are both slightly damp, and, I assume from the droplets of water on the boards strapped to the van, have just come from the beach.