Alex, Approximately
Page 33

“I did stupid things when I was younger too,” Porter says softly. “What happened?”
“I knew something was wrong by the time we’d gotten to the door, and I wasn’t going to let him into the house, but it was too late. I was small and he was big. He overpowered me and pushed his way inside. . . .”
“Shit,” Porter murmurs.
“My mom was home,” I continue. “She’d forgotten some paperwork she’d needed for a case. It was just a lucky coincidence. If she hadn’t have been there . . . I don’t know. Everyone’s still alive today, so that’s a good thing. Still, when there’s a crazy man waving a gun around in your house, threatening your mom—”
“Jesus Christ.”
Deep breath. I check myself, making sure I’m not heading into shaky territory again, but I’m okay this time. “It was the sound that caught me by surprise at the bonfire. That’s what does it to me in movies, too. Cars backfiring sometimes have the same effect. I don’t like loud explosions. Sounds stupid to say it like that.”
“Umm, not stupid. If that happened to me, I’d probably be the same way. Trust me, I’ve got hang-ups.” He makes a broad sweeping gesture toward the collection of sharks and hydras on the van’s dash.
I chuckle a little at that, touching one of the bouncy sharks’ heads, and relax. “Yeah. So anyway. I guess a gunshot wound isn’t the worst possible outcome. And the guy went to prison, obviously.”
“God, Bailey. I don’t know what to say.”
I shrug. “Me either. But there you go.”
“Is that why your parents divorced?”
I start to say no, then think about this for a minute. “The divorce happened over a year ago, but now that you mention it, things never were the same after the shooting. It put a strain on our family.”
He nods thoughtfully. “Mom says misfortune either breaks people apart or brings them closer. God knows our family has seen enough of it to know.”
“But your parents are still okay.” I try not to make this a question, but I don’t really know.
He smiles. “My parents will be one of those couples you see on the news who are ninety years old and have been together forever.”
Must be nice. I want to say I thought that about my parents too, but now I wonder if I ever really did.
He asks me for directions to my dad’s place and knows the neighborhood; he’s lived here all his life, so that’s no surprise. As the van climbs the last few winding redwood-lined streets, we’re both quiet, and now I feel awkward about what I just told him. And there’s something else, too: a nagging sense that in the midst of all this, I’ve forgotten something. A block away from home, I remember. Alarm floods my chest.
“Stop the van!”
“What?” he slams on the brakes. “What’s wrong?”
I unclick my seat belt. “I . . . I’ll just get out here. Thanks for the ride.”
“What? I thought you said it’s the next street?”
“It is, but—”
“But what?”
I shake my head. “I can walk the rest of the way.”
The confusion behind Porter’s eyes sparks and catches fire. Now he’s insulted. “Are you kidding? You don’t want your dad to see me, do you?”
“It’s not personal.”
“Like hell it’s not. What, my camper van is too busted for Redwood Glen? Are all the BMWs and Mercedes going to chase me back down to the shore?”
“Don’t be an idiot. There are no BMWs here.”
He points to the driveway in front of us.
Okay, one BMW. But it’s not like my dad drives a brand-new luxury vehicle, or that we live in one of these fancy houses—his place used to be a vacation rental. He’s dating a cop, not a doctor; he watches sci-fi movies, not opera. Come to think of it, Grace’s family is way better off than we are. But Porter is being stubborn, and it’s closing in on midnight. I don’t have time to argue with him about petty stuff like this.
“I have a curfew,” I tell him impatiently.
“Fine.” He leans across my lap and pops open the door handle. “Get out, then. I don’t want to embarrass you.”
Okay, now I’m mad. How did we go from me spilling my guts to fighting? I’m totally confused as to why his feelings are so hurt. Is he really this sensitive? So much for the stereotype that girls are the only ones who wear their feelings on their sleeves. I think about something Alex told me online once: Boys are dumb.
Irritated and a little hurt myself, I push open the heavy door and swing my legs outside. But before I jump out, all my tumbling feelings stick in my throat and I hesitate. This isn’t how I wanted things to end tonight.
Maybe he’s not the only one being dumb.
“The problem is,” I say, half inside the van, half out, “that my dad is dating a cop, and the three of us were eating at the posole truck the other day, and Davy was there, and he made an ass out of himself in front of them . . .”
I rush to get the rest of it out before I lose my nerve. “And she told my dad that he’s bad news, and that he’s involved with a bunch of serious narcotic stuff—and after tonight, I really don’t ever want to see him again, no offense. But during all of this, Davy brought up your name in front of them, so when he left, I was trying to defend you to my dad and Wanda, and she said your family is okay, but by then the damage was already done. Because my dad has blacklisted Davy, and I basically lied to go to the bonfire tonight, so he thinks I’m at the boardwalk with Grace.”
Porter makes a low noise.
“Anyway, that’s why,” I say. “Thank you for rescuing me. And for listening.”
I get out of the van and shut the door. It’s old and ornery, so I have to do it again. Then I slog up the hill toward my dad’s house. I don’t get far before the van’s headlights go out and the engine cuts off. Then I hear change and car keys jingling as Porter jogs to catch up.
Wary, I glance up at his face as he falls in step next to me.
“You shouldn’t walk alone at night,” he says. “I won’t let your dad see me.”
“Thanks,” I say.
Three slow steps in tandem. “You could have just said that in the first place, you know.”
“Sorry.”
“Forgiven,” he says, giving me a little smile. “Next time tell me the truth before I mouth off and say stupid stuff, not after. Saves me from looking like a jerk.”
“I kind of like you being all hotheaded,” I joke.
“Hot Stuff, remember?”
“I remember,” I say, giving him a smile. “That’s my house, there.”
“Oh, the old McAffee place. That’s got the tree going through the sunroom in the back.”
“Yeah,” I say, amazed.
“My parents know everyone in town,” he explains.
Maybe now he believes me about not being fancy. I whisper for him to follow me to the far side of the house near the mailbox, where my dad won’t see or hear us approaching if he’s in the living room or his bedroom. His muscle car is parked in the driveway, so I know he’s home, but I can’t see a light on. I wonder if he’s waiting up. It’s the first night I’ve stayed out this late, so chances are good that he’s still awake—especially since we made such a big deal out of the curfew. Now I’m feeling guilty again. Or maybe that’s just all my nerves jingle-jangling because it’s almost midnight and I’m standing in damp grass with a boy I’m not supposed to be seeing.