by Jenn Bennett
“Thanks for not making it weird. I don’t want it to be a big deal anymore, you know? That’s why I wanted to show you. Out here in the sun.”
“I get it,” he says. “I totally get it.”
I lean forward and press my lips against the sweet dip where his collarbones meet. He pushes back my hair with his palm and kisses me in the middle of my forehead, both eyelids, on the tip of my nose. Then he pulls me tight against him and folds me up in his arms. I breathe him into my lungs as deeply as I can, all his sun-burnished, warm goodness. Thank you, thank you, thank you, I try to tell him with my body. And from the way he’s holding me—like I’m a whole person, not a broken toy—I think he understands.
“Does this mean you want to stop our game now?” he murmurs after a time.
I tilt my head back to see his face. “Are you chickening out on me?”
He grins that slow and cocky grin of his and pushes me back until I’m an arm’s length away. “Both at the same time, on the count of three.”
“Not fair! I’ve got two pieces of clothing left.”
“I’ll close my eyes until you say I can open them. One, two . . .”
With a euphoric cry, I fumble with my bra strap and strip off my underwear. I did it!
“Holy shit, you’re beautiful,” he murmurs.
“Cheater.” I’m 100 percent naked. On a public beach. And more important, I don’t care, because Porter’s taken off his clothes too, and that’s far more interesting than any fleeting sense of modesty I have. Because he’s naked. And he’s gorgeous.
And he’s very excited about our mutual sans-clothing situation.
“Oh,” I say, looking down between us.
“I’m pretty proud of that,” he admits with a smile, urging my hand forward. When I touch him, he stands on tiptoes for a moment and looks like he might pass out, which makes me very excited about our mutual sans-clothing situation.
“Now I’m thinking about the back of the camper van,” I say.
He blows out a hard breath and pushes my hand away. “I think that’s a dicey idea. Maybe we should get dressed first. God, you’re so beautiful.”
“You mentioned that.”
“Let me look at you some more first. I need to memorize all of you for later. In case I never get to see this again. Shit. I can’t believe you talked me into . . .” His eyes are heavy-lidded. “This is either the best or worst idea I’ve ever agreed to. You’re killing me, Bailey Rydell.”
“I know you’ve got condoms in that first-aid kit.”
A wave crashes again the rock bridge.
“Bailey . . .”
“Porter.”
“It might be terrible. Trust me, I have experience in these matters.”
“It might not, though, right?”
Seagulls circle overhead, squawking.
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure,” I say. I’ve been thinking about it a lot over the last few weeks. And I’ve made up my mind. “If you want to, with me, that is. I’m not trying to pressure you.”
He swears softly. “It’ll be a miracle if I can make it all the way back to the van. But if you change your mind, you can, you know? At any point. Even in the middle of it.”
But I don’t change my mind.
Not on the way to the van, or when we’re dumping his surfboard out to make room. And not when he’s asking me a dozen times if I’m sure, and trying to convince me otherwise by doing the fabulous thing he did to me in the museum with his fingers, which only makes me want him more. Not when we start, and he’s being careful and slow and deliberate, and I can’t bear to look at his face, but I don’t know where to look, so I’m looking between us, because I’m worried it will be messy, and that it’s going to hurt, and it does, but the pain is over fast, and then it’s just . . . so much more intense than I expected. But he’s going so slow, and then he says—
“Are you still okay?” in a husky, breathless voice.
Yes, I still am.
And I don’t change my mind in the middle of it, when it’s overwhelming, and he stops, because he’s afraid I want him to stop, but I’m okay—I’m so okay—and convince him to keep going.
And not after, when we’re clinging to each other like the world just fell apart and is slowly clicking back together, piece by piece, breath by breath . . . heartbeat by beautiful heartbeat.
I do not regret a single moment.
• • •
“What is this?” I ask some time later, tugging on something white that’s wedged in a crevice as we lie tangled together on an old blanket in the back of the van. In the back of my mind, I’m thinking that I know for sure I saw another condom in the first-aid kit, and I’m wondering how long I have to wait to bring this up without looking too eager. But I’m propped up on my elbows and Porter’s lazily running his fingers across my back, meandering down my butt and the back of my leg, and this feels pretty freaking good, so I guess I’m in no hurry.
The jagged object I shimmy out of the crevice is about an inch long and triangular, and it’s got a piece of silver fitted on one side, through which a silver jump ring is attached.
“Huh. I thought I lost that,” he says, pausing my sensual back scratch to take it from me. “That came out of my arm. Genuine great white tooth. It’s a lucky charm. Or a curse, whichever way you want to look at it. I had it on my key chain, but I was switching keys out and set it down. Must have rolled off the seat or something.”
“It’s huge,” I say.
“No way, that’s just a baby tooth. You saw the sharks at the aquarium. Great white was twice their size. And he was a teenager.”
I try to imagine the tooth implanted in Porter’s arm. “I know it’s a bad memory, but the tooth itself should be survivor’s pride, or something. A badge of honor.”
“You want to borrow it?”
“Me?”
“For your scooter keys. Might match your whole animal-print vibe.” He pauses. “I mean, if it’s too much, no big deal. I’m not trying to brand you, like you’re my girl or anything.”
Because if people see this, they’ll definitely know we’re dating each other. “Am I? Your girl, I mean.”
“I don’t know. Are you?” He offers the shark tooth in his open palm, hesitates, and closes his fingers around it. “If you are, you have to promise me something first.”
“What’s that?”
“You’ve got to start opening up to me.” He glances toward my back. “Look, I totally understand why you didn’t tell me the whole story about the gunshot wound until now, but you can’t be that way around me anymore. I already had a girlfriend who kept things from me, and I spent weeks walking around oblivious while she was screwing Davy behind my back.”
“First, ew, I have better taste than that, and second, I would never do that to you.”
He kisses my ear. “I believe you.”
“So, yeah, speaking of Chloe . . . Were you and Davy having sex with Chloe at the same time?”
“Together?” He sounds appalled.
I smile. “You know what I mean.”
“No,” he says, sounding sheepish. “Chloe and I were going through a dry spell at the time. There was no cross-contamination, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
I sort of was.
“And we always used condoms. Every time.”
“Good to know,” I mumble. Very good.
“Anyway, back to you,” he says. “What I’m trying to say is that you’re sort of bad about bottling things up. And I’m not saying you’ve got to turn into Grace. I like you just the way you are. But in order for this to work, you’ve got to tell me stuff. I need you to trust me—”
“Of course I do.” Hello. Did we not just have sex?
“—and I need to be able to trust you,” he finishes.
I start to argue, but I’m embarrassed that he’s even brought this up.
He nudges my chin with his, forcing me to face him, and speaks quietly against my mouth. �
�Listen to me, okay? What’s between us? This is the best thing that’s ever happened to me in my entire life, and I don’t want it to end. Sometimes you feel so tricky, like fog over the ocean—like you just showed up at the beginning of the summer, and one day the sun will come out and you’ll disappear and go back to your mom. And that scares the hell out of me. So that’s why I tell you things about me, because I figure if I weigh you down with my baggage, then you’ll be less likely to run.”
My heart twists.
I press my brow against his. “Artful Dodger.”
“Huh?”
“That’s me. Or it used to be.” That morning on the beach when Grace was mad at me ghosts through my thoughts. I need to do better. “I’m trying, Porter. I really am. I want you to trust me.”
“That’s all I ask.” He leans back to look at me, smiles softly, and opens up his fingers to reveal the shark tooth again. “So . . . do you want it? People might talk.”
I snatch it up with a grin. “Maybe they’ll say that you’re mine.”
“Bailey, I’ve been yours. I’ve just been waiting for you to make up your mind.”
Later that night, after Porter brings me back home, I’m too blissed out to be around people, especially my dad. So I put on my leopard scarf and sunglasses and take Baby out for a drive around the neighborhood. When I get to the big hill at the end of our street, I throw my hands up in the air, shouting, “I’m in love!” to the redwood trees.
“Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain.”
—Frank Morgan, The Wizard of Oz (1939)
24
* * *
My dad’s no cook, but the CPA in him can follow a recipe like no one’s business. Together, however, we managed to ruin a roasted chicken, which was still raw two hours into cooking. That’s when we figured out that something was wrong with one of our oven’s elements. We dumped the chicken, gave it last rites over the garbage can—RIP—and called for pizza. And even though we were a little upset by the failure, our guests—Wanda, Grace, and Porter—didn’t seem to mind.
It’s been a week since Nude Beach, and it’s the first time Porter’s been invited inside my house, so I’m nervous anyway. I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s because I’ve hung out at Porter’s house several times, and it’s so comfortable over there, and now I’m worried it won’t be the same here. He already cracked a joke about hanging out with a cop, so there’s that, too. Even though I don’t think about Wanda as being some kind of intimidating authority figure, I can understand why Porter might feel that way. Now I feel defensive about her and want him to like both her and my dad, and that feels . . . stressful.
But when the pizza’s delivered and Porter’s thumbing through my dad’s DVD collection, things start looking up. Turns out my dad and Porter like a lot of the same sci-fi movies. Porter has no idea what a huge mistake he’s just made, because Dad is thrilled out of his ever-loving mind and will not shut up with the nerdery talk: Have you seen this space-pirate gem from 1977? What about this long-lost 1982 flick? If they start talking Star Wars, I’m going to have to shut it all down.
The entire time they’re talking, I can’t tear my eyes away from Porter. What I’m feeling for him now is like drowning and floating at the same time. When he gives me a quick glance, I’m overwhelmed. Does he feel like this too? This epic connection between us? It’s thrilling and frightening. Like the rest of my life was just a series of bad B movies and we just walked onto the set of Citizen Kane.
“Lord, you’ve got it bad,” Grace whispers near my ear. “Must have been good, huh?”
Ugh, I should never have told her what happened on the beach. I didn’t give her any details, but maybe that’s the problem. She’s filling them in with her dirty little mind. I bat her arm away, and our discreet, playful slap-fest devolves into immature giggling. When my dad and Porter notice, something near hysteria rises up in me, and I herd Grace toward the sofa, ducking out of sight.
I’m trying so hard to be more open with him, to talk about . . . all of this. These chaotic feelings. About what happened in the back of the camper van. We haven’t been together again, not like that. Haven’t had time. We’ve had some lovely deep kisses in the front of the van after work and a lot of midnight phone calls about nothing much at all, really—we just needed to hear each other’s voices. But every time I try to tell him how I really feel, how much I really feel, my chest feels like a hundred-pound fiery fist is squeezing my heart.
Sheer panic.
Once a coward, always a coward.
What if I can’t change? If I can’t be as honest and open as he needs me to be? As reliable a friend as Grace wants me to be? What if Greg Grumbacher ruined me forever? That’s what scares me the most.
After all the male-on-male sci-fi talk, we all retire to the porch and sit around the patio table near the redwood tree that grows through the roof. Dad brings out the holy worn game box.
“Okay,” he says very seriously. “What Bailey and I are choosing to share with you tonight is a Rydell family tradition. By taking part in this game—nay, this cherished and sacred ceremony—”
I snort a little laugh while he continues his speech.
“—you are agreeing to honor our proud family heritage, which extends as far back as . . . well, I think the price sticker on the box is from around 2001, so it’s pretty ancient.”
Wanda rolls her eyes. “I’ll give it my attention for fifteen minutes, Pete.”
“No, Sergeant Mendoza,” he says dramatically, slicing his hand through the air as if he’s some stern politician at a podium, commanding attention. “You will give Settlers of Catan your attention for a full hour or two, because the colonies deserve it.”
“And because it will take you at least that long to build up your settlements,” I tell her.
“Is there a dungeon master?” Porter asks.
Dad and I both chuckle.
“What?” Porter says, grinning.
“We have so much to teach you,” I say, putting my hand on his. “And there’s no dungeon master. Wrong kind of game nerd.”
“Is this more or less boring than Monopoly?” Grace asks.
“Less,” Dad and I say together.
“Monopoly is for losers,” Dad informs her.
Porter frowns. “I love Monopoly.”
“We have an entire chest full of old board games,” I whisper loudly to him.
“I’m not going to like this, am I?” Wanda says on a heavy sigh.
“Now might be a good time to break out that expensive bottle of wine you guys brought back from San Francisco,” I suggest.
Porter grins at me and rubs his hands together excitedly. “This looks super weird. I’m so in. Let’s play.”
God, I love him. I don’t even know why I was so worried before. This is all fine now.
Dad unpacks the game and explains all the rules, confusing everyone in the process. We finally just start playing and teach as we go. They get the hang of it. I’m not sure if they like it as much as Dad and I do, but everyone seems to be having fun. We’re laughing and goofing around a lot, anyway. Everything’s going great, until about an hour into the game.
The pizza made me thirsty. I excuse myself to get some iced tea from the kitchen and ask if anyone else needs a refill. My dad does, so I leave to fetch tea for both of us. While I’m headed away from the table, my dad says, “Thanks, Mink.”
Behind me, I hear Porter ask my dad, “What did you call her?”
“Huh? Oh, ‘Mink’? That’s just a childhood nickname,” my dad says through the open doorway.
“I hear you call her that all the time,” Wanda remarks, “but you never told me why.”
“It’s actually a funny story,” Dad says.
I groan as I pour our tea, but my dad is already in storytelling mode, and I can hear him from the kitchen.
“This is how it came about. When Bailey was younger, fourteen years old, she was in the hospital for a couple of weeks.” I glance back br
iefly to see him giving Wanda a lift of his brows that tells me they’ve had this conversation, so she knows about the shooting. “The entire time she was there, the TV was stuck on the classic movie station. You know, with all the old movie stars—Humphrey Bogart and Cary Grant, Katharine Hepburn. Night and day, that’s all that was on. We were so worried about her, that by the time anyone thought to change the channel, she’d already started to actually like some of the movies and wouldn’t let us change it.”
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.”