I angrily toss the tissue onto the floor. “I’m not watching a movie with you until you tell me why you stormed out of my house that night.”
“I’m being completely real with you when I say it was the misunderstanding of the century. And it’s nothing you did wrong. I realize that now. Like I told you before, I needed some time to think about things, because it was . . . well, it doesn’t matter. But”—he crosses his arms over his chest when I start to protest, like he’s not budging—“let’s drop the whole thing.”
“What? That’s—”
“Look, it’s really nothing. It was stupid. I’m sorry for making you worry over nothing. Let’s just forget it. Hit play, will you?”
I stare at him, flabbergasted. “No.”
“No, what?”
“I can’t accept that. I need to know what happened.”
He leans back against the headboard and looks at me for a long time. A really long time. Now I’m uncomfortable, because he’s smiling at me—this strange, slow smile that’s hiding a secret. It makes me want to hide or hit him.
“Maybe I’ll feel like talking after the movie starts,” he says. “What’s this flick about, anyway? I just picked something random.”
Momentarily distracted, I glance at the menu on the screen. “The Philadelphia Story? You’ve never seen this?”
He shakes his head slowly, still smiling that funny smile. “Tell me about it.”
That’s weird, because it looked like he was choosing something particular on the shelf, but whatever. “It’s one of my favorite movies. Katharine Hepburn is a society woman, an heiress, you see, who learns to love the right man—that’s her pompous ex, Cary Grant, who she bickers with constantly—by kissing the wrong man, who’s Jimmy Stewart.”
“Is that so?”
“Your grandmother never watched it?” I ask.
“Don’t remember this one. Do you think I’ll like it? Or should I pick out something else?” He throws a leg over the side of the bed. “Because if you want, I could go ask your dad for suggestions—”
I clamp a hand around his arm. “Oh wait, it’s wonderful. So funny. Like, brilliantly funny. Let’s watch it.”
“Hit play,” he says, sinking back into my pillows. “You can fill me in on trivia as it goes.”
“And then you’ll tell me?” I insist.
“Hit play, Mink.”
I narrow my eyes at his use of my nickname, unsure if he’s making fun of me, but I’ll give him a pass. Because, hello! The Philadelphia Story. I could watch this a thousand times and never get weary of it. Watching with someone else who’s never seen it is so much better. With Porter? I can’t believe my luck. I hope he likes it.
We start the movie, and for the moment, I’m not caring that I’m sick anymore. I’m just happy that Porter’s here with me, and that he’s laughing warmly at the right lines. It would be perfect, really, if he wouldn’t stop staring at me. He’s watching my face more than the screen, and every time I look at him quizzically, he doesn’t even glance away. He just smiles that same knowing smile. And that’s creeping me out.
“What?” I finally whisper hotly.
“This is . . . amazing,” he says.
“Oh,” I say, brightening. “Just wait. The movie gets even better.”
Slow smile.
I pull the covers up to my chin.
A quarter of the way through the movie, my dad comes up to remind me to take all my various cold medicines, at which point several jokes are made at my expense between the males in the room. They both think they’re comedians. We’ll see who’s laughing when Porter gets the lurgy after lounging on my bed.
Halfway through, Porter suddenly asks, “What were your plans this summer?”
“Huh?” I glance at him out of the corner of my eyes.
“That time at work, you were telling Pangborn that you had other plans this summer, and that I wasn’t part of those plans. What were those plans?”
My heart pounds as I try to think up some plausible excuse, but the cough syrup is slowing down my thought process. “I don’t remember.”
His jaw tightens. “If you come clean about that, I’ll tell you the reason I left your house on game night. Deal?”
Crap. No way am I confessing that I’ve been scoping out another guy half the summer—an anonymous guy who I’ve been chatting with online for months. That sounds . . . unstable. Psychotic. Porter would never understand. And it’s not like Alex and I acted on any feelings. We never proclaimed our love for each other or sent heart-filled, dirty poetry.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I tell Porter.
Even through my buzzy haze, I can sense his disappointment, but I can’t make myself divulge my secrets about Alex.
“Think hard,” Porter says in a quiet voice. Almost a plea. “You can tell me anything. You can trust me.”
There it is again. The T word. My mind drifts back to our conversation in the back of the camper van. I need to be able to trust you.
I know he wants me to tell him. I just . . . can’t.
I’m not sure when it happened, but the last thing I remember is Jimmy Stewart kissing Katharine Hepburn. The next thing I know, I’m waking up dopey several hours later.
Porter is long gone.
? ? ?
Two days later, Cavadini puts me back on the schedule, and I head into work. I don’t see Porter in cash-out. It’s just Grace and the new guard who replaced Pangborn. Porter is here today—I know, because I checked the schedule—so I search for him as we head out to the floor. That’s where I spot him, handling the changing of the guard. He’s letting the morning ticket takers out of the Hotbox—two stupid boys, Scott and Kenny. I step up to the back door before they can all walk away and hand Grace my cash drawer, motioning for her to go inside without me.
“You left my house without saying good-bye,” I tell Porter.
“You were pretty sick. I’m kind of busy right now, so—”
“You also left without telling me about game night.”
He glances at Scott and Kenny. “Maybe later,” he says.
“That’s what you said before.”
“And my offer still stands.” He leans closer and whispers, “Quid pro quo, Clarice.”
Not that again. He’s not Silence of the Lambs–ing me into confessing about Alex. No way, no how. I try another tactic. “You go first, then I’ll consider telling you.”
“Bailey,” he says again, like it’s some kind of coded warning I should understand. “You really don’t want to do this here.” He glances at the two boys.
It hits me like a physical blow that he’s using evasion techniques against me. From the moment all of this happened on game night with the fake text message—because it was fake, wasn’t it?—to the distraction of The Philadelphia Story, until right now, when conveniently he is surrounded by people and therefore cannot discuss the matter.
Is this what it feels like to be Artful Dodgered? Because it sucks, big-time.