@alex: I see. But he makes you laugh?
I suddenly feel horrible. Here I am, spilling my guts about Porter, but I don’t really know how Alex feels about it. About me. About this whole situation I just laid at his feet.
@mink: No one makes me laugh like you do.
@alex: That’s all I ever wanted.
I laugh a little, then begin to cry.
@mink: I miss you too. I miss watching movies with you. And I’m sorry everything changed. I didn’t know things were going to turn out this way. But I hope we can still be friends, because my life was better with you in it. And that’s the truth.
@alex: I hope we can still be friends too. I need to go, though.
When the app tells me he’s logged off, my soft crying turns into full-on sobbing. I’m not sure why, but I feel as though I’ve lost something important. Maybe it’s because he didn’t agree that absolutely, we should and will be friends—he said he hopes we can still be friends. Meaning what? He’s not sure? Have I damaged not one, but two relationships?
My state of illness doesn’t allow me to cry for long before my entire upper respiratory system clogs up and threatens to shut down. It’s probably for the best. I force myself to calm down, try to blow my nose, and finish watching the last few minutes of Key Largo. At least I can count on Humphrey Bogart coming back for Lauren Bacall, though for a second there, it was touch and go.
When the credits roll, I hear noise in the stairwell, and then my dad appears in the doorway. “You— Hey . . . have you been crying?” he says in a hushed voice. “Are you okay? What’s wrong?”
I wave a hand. “Nothing. It’s fine.”
His brow furrows for a second, but he seems to believe me. “You have a visitor, Mink. You feeling up for it?” He gives me a warning look, though how I’m supposed to interpret that look is beyond me.
I sit up straighter in my bed. Visitor? Grace is at work. “I . . . guess?”
Dad moves out of the way and motions for someone to come inside my room.
Porter.
“Hey,” he says, gritting his teeth when he sees me. “Wow, you weren’t faking, were you? Should I don one of those surgical masks?”
My dad chuckles. “I haven’t caught it yet. But you might want to keep your distance and wash your hands on the way out.”
Porter gives my dad a casual salute, and before I know it, we’re alone. Just me and Porter. In my bedroom. A week ago, that would have been a fantasy. Now I’m stuffed into unflattering booty shorts and a faded T-shirt with an embarrassing, uncool band on it that I don’t listen to anymore. My unwashed hair is shoved into one of those messy buns that’s actually messy, not sexy messy. And I can’t think straight because I’m high on cough syrup.
“So, this is your secret garden?” he says, strolling around as I stealthily try to shovel wads of used tissues off my bedcovers into a wastebasket. He stops in front of my dresser to inspect all the printouts I’ve taped around the mirror: vintage pin-curl instructions, retro nail-painting guides, and several close-up photos showcasing Lana Turner’s hair. “Ah. I get it now.”
I’m sort of wishing he didn’t. I feel very exposed, as if he’s peeking behind the Wizard of Oz’s curtain. Why didn’t I close my closet door? I hope there’s nothing embarrassing in there.
He’s made it to my stack of boxes. “What’s all this? Going somewhere?”
“No, I just haven’t unpacked everything yet.”
“You’ve been in California for how long now?”
“I know, I know,” I mumble. “I just haven’t had the time.”
He gives me an askance look before moving on to my shelves of DVDs. “But you had time to unpack fifty million movies? God, you are just like your dad, aren’t you? Total film fanatic, and super organized. Are these alphabetical?”
“By genre, then alphabetical by title,” I say weakly, feeling foolish.
He whistles. “We need you over at Casa Roth to reorganize the madhouse that is our DVD library, stat. Lana keeps forgetting to put the discs back in the cases after she watches something.”
“I hate that,” I say.
“I know, right? Criminal offense.”
“Porter?”
“Yeah?”
“Why are you here?”
He turns around, hands in the pockets of his shorts. “I’m done with needing space. That was stupid. Just forget about it.”
“Wait, what? How can I forget about it? What is ‘it’? I need to know what I did.”
“You didn’t do anything. It was just a misunderstanding.”
Still confused. “About me?” My cough-syrup-addled brain goes back to that night again, like it has a hundred times before, and all I can latch on to is . . . “You got a text from someone? You said it wasn’t Davy, but were you lying? What does this have to do with me?”
He squints. “Are you drunk, or is this just how you are when you’re sick?”
“Errmm,” I moan, waving my hand at the bottle on my nightstand. “Codeine.”
“Holy . . . You’re on the purp? Glad Davy’s not here, or he’d have stolen that and downed the whole thing in one gulp. Are you taking the right dose?”
I stick out my tongue and make an ahh sound. When both of Porter’s brows slowly rise, I take that as a sign that my answer wasn’t appropriate, and sigh deeply, pulling the bedspread higher over my chest. “Yes, I took the right dose,” I say grumpily. “And if you’re just trying to avoid answering my questions, I’d like you to leave.”
He stares at me for entirely too long, like he’s thinking things over, or hatching some sort of devious plan—I can’t tell which. The keys that hang on the leather strap from his belt loop rock against his hip as he jangles his pocket change. Then, abruptly, he turns around and heads to my DVD shelves, runs his fingers along the cases, and plucks one out.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Where’s your player? Here? Let’s see, what do we have . . . Key Largo? Is that any good? Let me just put it back in the case. I don’t want to pull a Lana. Is everything—”
“Porter!”
“—set, or do I have to switch the input? Where’s your remote? If you’ve gotten your diseased crud on it, I’m not touching it. Scoot over. And don’t cough on me.” He’s peeling off his HOT STUFF jacket and motioning to let him sit next to me in the double bed.
I’m suddenly well aware that my father is right downstairs. And wait—why do I care? I’m sick. And gross. And we’re not even together.
Are we?
“Porter—”
“Scooch.”
I scooch. He plops down next to me, long legs stretched out and ankles crossed on top of the covers. When he sees one of my snotty tissues next to his elbow, he makes a sour face.