“I’m about to get naked on this beach,” I tell him.
“Oh, shit,” he says, looking truly stunned. “Okay. Um, all right. Yeah, okay.”
“But I’ve never been naked on a beach with anyone, so this is weird for me.”
He points at me and grins. “Not a problem. Would you like some company? I’m fond of being naked. It’s easier when the playing field’s even.”
I consider his proposition. “Yeah, okay. That actually would make it easier.”
“I just want you to know that there are so many jokes I could make right now,” he says.
We both laugh, me a little nervously, and then decide upon a strip-poker method to the clothing removal. Porter volunteers to go first. He scans the beach to make sure we’re still alone, and without further ado, peels off his T-shirt. Nice, but it’s not really fair, because (A) I’ve seen it before, and (B) he’s not really exposing anything he can’t expose in public. He signals for me to go next.
Carefully considering all my options (I’m smartly wearing good matching undergarments), I take off my shorts. He’s surprised. He also can’t take his eyes off me. I like that . . . I think. I haven’t decided yet. I just tell myself that it’s the same amount of fabric as wearing a bathing suit, so what’s the difference?
“You play dirty, Rydell,” he says, unbuttoning his shorts. Before I can open my mouth to argue, he’s in nothing but a pair of olive-colored boxer shorts.
Whew. He’s got great legs.
Okay, my turn again, as he helpfully reminds me with get on with it hand gestures. Guess it’s the shirt, I think as I pull it over my head and toss it to the sand. A bra is the same amount of fabric as a bathing suit, and it’s a good bra. I hear him suck in a quick breath, so I think that’s good? My boobs aren’t great, but they aren’t bad, either, and— His fingers trace the bottom of my scar. “Is this it? This is what I felt?”
I look down at my ribs and cover his hand, pressing it against my stomach. Then I uncover them and we look together. It’s bright and sunny, and we’re both halfway naked. And if there’s anyone I feel safe with . . . if there’s anyone I trust, oddly enough, it’s Porter.
“Yes, this is it,” I say.
He looks at it. Glances at my face. Waits.
“That’s where the bullet went in,” I tell him, fingering the puckered ridge of scarring that’s never completely healed right. I turn to the side and show him my back. “Here’s where it exited.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Greg Grumbacher. That’s where he shot me.”
“You told me . . . I mean, I thought he shot your mom?”
I shake my head slowly. “My mom wasn’t supposed to be home. He followed me home that day because his plan was to kill me. He had a note to leave with my body. His reasoning was that my mom took away his kid in the divorce, so he was taking away hers.”
Porter stares at me.
“Mom lunged for the gun, so he missed most of my vital organs. I bled a lot. They had to sew up some stuff. My lung collapsed. I was in the hospital for a couple of weeks.”
His shoulders sag. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”
“You’re the first person I’ve told. My classmates heard, but my mom put me in another school after it happened. Anyway, there you go. Told you I was screwed up,” I say, giving him a small smile.
He curls his hand around my waist, rubbing from the front scar to the back. “Thank you for telling me. For showing me.”
“Thanks for not making it weird. I don’t want it to be a big deal anymore, you know? That’s why I wanted to show you. Out here in the sun.”
“I get it,” he says. “I totally get it.”
I lean forward and press my lips against the sweet dip where his collarbones meet. He pushes back my hair with his palm and kisses me in the middle of my forehead, both eyelids, on the tip of my nose. Then he pulls me tight against him and folds me up in his arms. I breathe him into my lungs as deeply as I can, all his sun-burnished, warm goodness. Thank you, thank you, thank you, I try to tell him with my body. And from the way he’s holding me—like I’m a whole person, not a broken toy—I think he understands.
“Does this mean you want to stop our game now?” he murmurs after a time.
I tilt my head back to see his face. “Are you chickening out on me?”
He grins that slow and cocky grin of his and pushes me back until I’m an arm’s length away. “Both at the same time, on the count of three.”
“Not fair! I’ve got two pieces of clothing left.”
“I’ll close my eyes until you say I can open them. One, two . . .”
With a euphoric cry, I fumble with my bra strap and strip off my underwear. I did it!
“Holy shit, you’re beautiful,” he murmurs.
“Cheater.” I’m 100 percent naked. On a public beach. And more important, I don’t care, because Porter’s taken off his clothes too, and that’s far more interesting than any fleeting sense of modesty I have. Because he’s naked. And he’s gorgeous.
And he’s very excited about our mutual sans-clothing situation.
“Oh,” I say, looking down between us.
“I’m pretty proud of that,” he admits with a smile, urging my hand forward. When I touch him, he stands on tiptoes for a moment and looks like he might pass out, which makes me very excited about our mutual sans-clothing situation.
“Now I’m thinking about the back of the camper van,” I say.
He blows out a hard breath and pushes my hand away. “I think that’s a dicey idea. Maybe we should get dressed first. God, you’re so beautiful.”
“You mentioned that.”
“Let me look at you some more first. I need to memorize all of you for later. In case I never get to see this again. Shit. I can’t believe you talked me into . . .” His eyes are heavy-lidded. “This is either the best or worst idea I’ve ever agreed to. You’re killing me, Bailey Rydell.”
“I know you’ve got condoms in that first-aid kit.”
A wave crashes again the rock bridge.
“Bailey . . .”
“Porter.”
“It might be terrible. Trust me, I have experience in these matters.”
“It might not, though, right?”
Seagulls circle overhead, squawking.
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure,” I say. I’ve been thinking about it a lot over the last few weeks. And I’ve made up my mind. “If you want to, with me, that is. I’m not trying to pressure you.”
He swears softly. “It’ll be a miracle if I can make it all the way back to the van. But if you change your mind, you can, you know? At any point. Even in the middle of it.”