Alex, Approximately
Page 53

“Bailey,” he says. A warning.
“Quiz me,” I challenge.
He mumbles a filthy little curse, but his hand begins to climb upward, oh-so-slowly. “Okay, Rydell. If you’re locked in a museum all night with a guy you’re falling for, and he’s cool enough to show you the Cave’s dirtiest secret—God, your skin is so soft.”
“Mmphrm?” I murmur, moving around to give him better access.
“Oh,” he murmurs back cheerfully.
Hand firmly gripping my upper thigh, he kisses me, and I kiss him back, and it’s desperate and wonderful.
“Okay,” he says, sounding drugged. “Now, where was I? Oh yes, here.” Much to my delight, his hand continues its roaming ascent. Only, there’s not much farther it can go. He hesitates, chuckling to himself, and switches legs, repeating the same pattern on the other thigh.
Then stops.
I whimper. I’m genuinely frustrated.
Until he shifts a little, and I feel him pressed against my hip. No mistaking that.
“I’m having some trouble concentrating on this quiz,” he admits, smiling against my neck.
“Whatever you do, don’t you dare give me another hickey.”
He pretends to bite me, and then he shows me other things besides moon muffins and posole that I didn’t know I was missing, things two people locked in a museum overnight can do with their hands and fingers and a whole lot of ingenuity. The boy has every right to be wearing that HOT STUFF cartoon devil patch on his jacket.
Unlike our previous roll in the grass, this touching definitely is not rated PG, and when Porter offers to do the thing to me that I normally do for myself, who am I to look a gift horse in the mouth? It’s possibly the most amazing thing that’s ever, ever happened to me. I even return the favor—still pretty amazing, though much more so for him, for obvious reasons.
But wow.
All of that touching wears me out, and it’s two in the morning, which is too late for my blood. I’m wound up in him, arms and legs, and he’s the big spoon to my little spoon, and as I’m dozing off, in and out of consciousness, lights flicker. I hear voices. Not alarming voices. No one’s in the museum; we’re still alone. But he’s reached over me and wedged his laptop out of his backpack, and it’s sitting on the velvet cushion above our heads. There’s something playing on the screen.
“What’s going on?” I say, my voice sounding thick to my own ears as I tilt my head upward. I can’t quite open my eyes all the way, but I can make out shapes and moving light through my eyelids.
“Sorry, sorry,” he says in a bone-weary voice. “Is it bothering you? I can’t get to sleep without a movie or TV on.”
“S’fine,” I slur, snuggling back against him. A few seconds later, I say. “Is that Roman Holiday?”
His deep voice vibrates through my back. “It’s an indie film. They’re quoting it. Wait, you know Roman Holiday?”
“Pfft,” I say sloppily, too tired to explain my love of film. “Question is, how do you know Roman Holiday?”
“My grandma—my mom’s mother—lived with us before she died. She’d stay up late watching movies in the den, and when I was a kid, I’d fall asleep in her lap on the couch.”
How funny. That’s how he knew about Breakfast at Tiffany’s, too. “Maybe you and I have more in common than you think,” I say before I drift into dreams.
“Life does not stop and start at your convenience.”
—John Goodman, The Big Lebowski (1998)
21
Porter was right. I get out of the museum in plenty of time to beat dad home from his trip. I’m so tired, I even go back to sleep for a few more hours. When I wake a second time, it’s almost time for me to get ready for another shift at the Cave, which is crazy. I might as well just move in there. But it’s hard to be too sour about it, because I spent the night with a boy.
SPENT.
NIGHT.
BOY.
That’s right. I did that. I did some other thing too, and they were all excellent. It’s a beautiful day, the sun is shining, and I don’t even care that I have to spend four hours in the Hotbox. At least I don’t have to work a full shift today.
I shower and dress before bounding downstairs just in time to run into Dad and Wanda returning from San Francisco. Talk about two exhausted people. They look happy, though. I don’t really want to know what they did all night, so I don’t pry. But they dig around in the trunk of my dad’s muscle car until they find the gifts they bought for me: a leopard-print scarf and a pair of matching sunglasses.
“To go with Baby,” my dad says, looking hopeful but unsure.
“The scarf is to cover up any future hickeys,” Wanda adds, one side of her mouth tilting up.
Oh, God. Her, too? Does everyone know? My dad tries to repress a smile. “I’m sorry, kiddo. It’s sort of funny, you have to admit.”
Wanda crosses her arms over her chest. “Own it, I say. If your dad gave me a hickey and anyone at the station gave me grief, I’d tell them where they could go. I picked out the sunglasses, by the way.”
I sigh deeply and slide them on. The lenses are dark and huge, brand-new, but very Italian retro cool. “They’re fantastic, thank you. And I hate both of you for the scarf, but it’s still awesome. Stop looking at my neck, Dad. There are no new hickeys.” I checked just to be sure.
After they give me a briefing of their day in the Bay Area, I race out the door and drive back to the Cave. I know Porter’s working, and I’m zipping and floating, high as a kite, eager to see him again. I want to know if he feels as good as I feel after last night. I also want to see Grace and tell her how crazy things were. Though this time, I don’t think I’ll be sharing so many details. Some things are meant to be private. What happens in Room 1001 stays in Room 1001.
But when I park Baby in my normal spot, I see Porter standing outside his van, which is weird. He’s typically inside the building long before I get there. It’s not just that. Something’s wrong: He’s holding his head in his hands.
I slam on the brakes and jump off the scooter, race over to him. He doesn’t acknowledge me. When I pull his hands away from his face, tears are streaming down his cheeks.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
His voice is hoarse and barely there. “Pangborn.”
“What?” I demand, my stomach dropping.
“He didn’t show up for work this morning,” he says. “It happened sometime last night in his home. There wasn’t anything we could’ve done. He lied to me about where the cancer was. It was pancreatic this time, not colon.”
“I don’t understand what you’re saying.” I’m starting to shake all over.
“He’s dead, Bailey. Pangborn’s dead.”
He gasps for a single shaky breath, and curls up against me, sobbing for a second along with me, and then goes quiet and limp in my arms.
The funeral is four days later. I think half of Coronado Cove shows up, and it doesn’t surprise me. He was probably the nicest man in town.
I sort of fell apart the first couple of days. The thought of Porter and me doing what we were doing while Pangborn was dying was a pretty heavy burden. Porter was right: There was nothing we could have done. Pangborn’s cancer was advanced. His younger sister tells Grace and me at the funeral that the doctor had given him anywhere from a few days to a few weeks. She says when it’s at that stage, some people get diagnosed and die that week. He didn’t know when it would happen, so he kept living his life normally.