But I don’t change my mind.
Not on the way to the van, or when we’re dumping his surfboard out to make room. And not when he’s asking me a dozen times if I’m sure, and trying to convince me otherwise by doing the fabulous thing he did to me in the museum with his fingers, which only makes me want him more. Not when we start, and he’s being careful and slow and deliberate, and I can’t bear to look at his face, but I don’t know where to look, so I’m looking between us, because I’m worried it will be messy, and that it’s going to hurt, and it does, but the pain is over fast, and then it’s just . . . so much more intense than I expected. But he’s going so slow, and then he says— “Are you still okay?” in a husky, breathless voice.
Yes, I still am.
And I don’t change my mind in the middle of it, when it’s overwhelming, and he stops, because he’s afraid I want him to stop, but I’m okay—I’m so okay—and convince him to keep going.
And not after, when we’re clinging to each other like the world just fell apart and is slowly clicking back together, piece by piece, breath by breath . . . heartbeat by beautiful heartbeat.
I do not regret a single moment.
? ? ?
“What is this?” I ask some time later, tugging on something white that’s wedged in a crevice as we lie tangled together on an old blanket in the back of the van. In the back of my mind, I’m thinking that I know for sure I saw another condom in the first-aid kit, and I’m wondering how long I have to wait to bring this up without looking too eager. But I’m propped up on my elbows and Porter’s lazily running his fingers across my back, meandering down my butt and the back of my leg, and this feels pretty freaking good, so I guess I’m in no hurry.
The jagged object I shimmy out of the crevice is about an inch long and triangular, and it’s got a piece of silver fitted on one side, through which a silver jump ring is attached.
“Huh. I thought I lost that,” he says, pausing my sensual back scratch to take it from me. “That came out of my arm. Genuine great white tooth. It’s a lucky charm. Or a curse, whichever way you want to look at it. I had it on my key chain, but I was switching keys out and set it down. Must have rolled off the seat or something.”
“It’s huge,” I say.
“No way, that’s just a baby tooth. You saw the sharks at the aquarium. Great white was twice their size. And he was a teenager.”
I try to imagine the tooth implanted in Porter’s arm. “I know it’s a bad memory, but the tooth itself should be survivor’s pride, or something. A badge of honor.”
“You want to borrow it?”
“Me?”
“For your scooter keys. Might match your whole animal-print vibe.” He pauses. “I mean, if it’s too much, no big deal. I’m not trying to brand you, like you’re my girl or anything.”
Because if people see this, they’ll definitely know we’re dating each other. “Am I? Your girl, I mean.”
“I don’t know. Are you?” He offers the shark tooth in his open palm, hesitates, and closes his fingers around it. “If you are, you have to promise me something first.”
“What’s that?”
“You’ve got to start opening up to me.” He glances toward my back. “Look, I totally understand why you didn’t tell me the whole story about the gunshot wound until now, but you can’t be that way around me anymore. I already had a girlfriend who kept things from me, and I spent weeks walking around oblivious while she was screwing Davy behind my back.”
“First, ew, I have better taste than that, and second, I would never do that to you.”
He kisses my ear. “I believe you.”
“So, yeah, speaking of Chloe . . . Were you and Davy having sex with Chloe at the same time?”
“Together?” He sounds appalled.
I smile. “You know what I mean.”
“No,” he says, sounding sheepish. “Chloe and I were going through a dry spell at the time. There was no cross-contamination, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
I sort of was.
“And we always used condoms. Every time.”
“Good to know,” I mumble. Very good.
“Anyway, back to you,” he says. “What I’m trying to say is that you’re sort of bad about bottling things up. And I’m not saying you’ve got to turn into Grace. I like you just the way you are. But in order for this to work, you’ve got to tell me stuff. I need you to trust me—”
“Of course I do.” Hello. Did we not just have sex?
“—and I need to be able to trust you,” he finishes.
I start to argue, but I’m embarrassed that he’s even brought this up.
He nudges my chin with his, forcing me to face him, and speaks quietly against my mouth. “Listen to me, okay? What’s between us? This is the best thing that’s ever happened to me in my entire life, and I don’t want it to end. Sometimes you feel so tricky, like fog over the ocean—like you just showed up at the beginning of the summer, and one day the sun will come out and you’ll disappear and go back to your mom. And that scares the hell out of me. So that’s why I tell you things about me, because I figure if I weigh you down with my baggage, then you’ll be less likely to run.”
My heart twists.
I press my brow against his. “Artful Dodger.”
“Huh?”
“That’s me. Or it used to be.” That morning on the beach when Grace was mad at me ghosts through my thoughts. I need to do better. “I’m trying, Porter. I really am. I want you to trust me.”
“That’s all I ask.” He leans back to look at me, smiles softly, and opens up his fingers to reveal the shark tooth again. “So . . . do you want it? People might talk.”
I snatch it up with a grin. “Maybe they’ll say that you’re mine.”
“Bailey, I’ve been yours. I’ve just been waiting for you to make up your mind.”
Later that night, after Porter brings me back home, I’m too blissed out to be around people, especially my dad. So I put on my leopard scarf and sunglasses and take Baby out for a drive around the neighborhood. When I get to the big hill at the end of our street, I throw my hands up in the air, shouting, “I’m in love!” to the redwood trees.
“Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain.”
—Frank Morgan, The Wizard of Oz (1939)
24
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