I sigh dramatically as I walk back through the doorway onto the porch and set down our glasses of tea.
“Anyway, for a few days, after surgery, it was a little touch and go. And being a dad, I was worried, of course. I told her if she healed up and made it out of the hospital, I’d buy her whatever she wanted. Most girls her age would probably say, I don’t know—a car? A pony? A trip to Florida with her friends? Not Bailey. She saw those glamorous actresses wearing all those fur coats before it wasn’t PC to do so anymore, and she said, ‘Daddy, I want a mink coat.’?”
Wanda guffaws. “Did you get her one?”
“A fake fur,” Dad says. “It was just the attitude I never forgot. And she still loves those old movies. Is everything all right, Porter?”
As I’m scooting my chair back under the table, I glance up and see that Porter has a peculiar look on his face. He looks like someone just told him his dog died.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
He’s staring at the table and won’t look at me. He was just laughing and clowning around a minute ago, now all of a sudden he’s clammed up and his jaw looks as if it’s made of stone and might break off.
Everyone’s staring at him. He shuffles around in his seat and brings his hand up with his phone. “I got a text from my mom. Gotta go, sorry.”
No way. The old I got a text trick? That’s an Artful Dodger maneuver. He just pulled my own con on me?
“What’s wrong?” I say again, standing up from the table with him.
“Nothing, nothing,” he mutters. “It’s no big deal. She just needs my help and it can’t wait. Sorry.” He seems agitated and distracted. “Thanks for dinner and stuff.”
“Anytime,” my dad says, worry creasing a line through his brow as he shares a look with Wanda. “You’re always welcome here.”
“See you, Grace,” Porter mumbles.
I can barely keep up with Porter as he strides toward the front door, and when we’re outside, he bounds down the steps without looking at me. Now I’m freaking. Maybe he really did get a text, but it wasn’t from his mom. Because there’s only one person that makes him this intense, and if he’s avoiding my dad and Wanda, I’m worried it might have something to do with Davy.
“Porter,” I call as he heads down the driveway.
“Gotta go,” he says.
That just makes me mad. He can avoid my dad all he wants, but me? “Hey! What the hell is wrong with you?”
He spins around, and his face is suddenly livid with anger. “Was this some sick game?”
“Huh?” I’m completely confused. He’s not making any sense, and his gaze is shifting all over my face. “You’re scaring me. Did something happen?” I ask. “Is this about Davy? Did he do something again? Please talk to me.”
“What?” Bewilderment clouds his face. He squeezes his eyes closed and shakes his head, mumbling, “This is so screwed up. I can’t . . . I gotta go home.”
“Porter!” I shout to his back, but he doesn’t turn around. Doesn’t look my way again. I just stand helplessly, cradling my elbows in the driveway, watching as his van rumbles to life and disappears down the street around the redwood trees.
“The time to make up your mind about people is never.”
—Katharine Hepburn, The Philadelphia Story (1940)
25
* * *
I text.
I call.
I text.
I call.
He doesn’t respond.
Grace tries, too, but he doesn’t answer her, either. “I’m sure it’s some stupid misunderstanding,” she assures me. But I’m pretty positive she doesn’t believe that.
After Grace goes home, I continue to replay the entire porch conversation in my head, looking for clues, trying to remember exactly when I noticed something was wrong. I ask my dad, but he’s no help. I’m so anguished, I even ask Wanda, and when I can tell by the expression on her face that even she feels pity for my desperate state, I nearly start sobbing in front of her, and that’s when I know things have gone to hell in a handbasket.
“He claimed he got a text sometime during or after your dad was telling that story,” Wanda says.
I rub the sockets of my eyes with the heel of my palms; my head’s throbbing. On top of this, I think I’m getting sick. “But why wouldn’t he tell me about it?”
“I hate to ask this,” my dad says in a gentle voice, “but did you do anything that may have wounded his feelings? Lie to him in some way that he may have found out about?”
“No!” I say. “Like cheat on him or something?”
Dad raises both hands. “I didn’t mean to imply that. Does he know about your online friend?”
“Alex?” I shake my head. “I haven’t spoken to Alex online in weeks. And I never met him in person—or even found him. He blew me off because he found a girlfriend or something, I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. We never even really flirted. He was a sweet guy. We were just friends, honest.”
“No sexting or dirty photos that could have been leaked online?” Wanda asks.
“God no,” I say, and my dad practically wilts, he’s so relieved. Way to have faith, jeez.
“Just checking,” Wanda says. She’s in total cop-interrogation mode. “And Porter was the hickey giver, right?”
“Yes,” I snap. I don’t mean to, but I can’t help it.
I don’t like where this conversation is going. Before long, she’s going to ask me to submit to STD testing. And meanwhile, my dad, who’s staring absently at his sci-fi movies, makes a choking noise, like he just realized something, but when I ask him what it is, he waves it away.
“It’s nothing,” he says, looking dazed and almost . . . amused. “Whatever’s going on, I’m sure you’ll figure it out, sweetie.”
That just makes me even more frustrated, and a little angry, to be honest. None of this is really helping, so what’s the point? I sneeze twice, and when Dad asks me if I’m coming down with a cold, I ignore him and go to my room. Then I plug in my phone and watch it as if the fate of the entire planet depends on one small, melodic chime emanating from its tiny speaker.
I wait until two a.m., and when that chime doesn’t come, I turn on my side and stare at the wall, heart shattering, until I drift into restless sleep.
? ? ?
By the time my shift at the Cave rolls around the next day, I’ve made myself so sick with worry, I can’t tell whether I want to see Porter or not. I’ve been trying so hard not to use Artful Dodger tactics lately, but I hesitate in the parking lot when I see his van, and take the long way around to the employee door. This must be how alcoholics feel when they fall off the wagon.