“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 bon re. ?at’s what does it to me in movies, too. Cars back ring 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. “?e 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 oods 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. ?anks 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.”
?e confusion behind Porter’s eyes sparks and catches re. 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. ?ere 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- 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 ghting? 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. ?is isn’t how I wanted things to end tonight.
