Maybe he’s not the only one being dumb.
“?e 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 bon re tonight, so he thinks I’m at the boardwalk with Grace.”
Porter makes a low noise.
“Anyway, that’s why,” I say. “?ank 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. ?en 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. ?en 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.”
“?anks,” I say.
?ree slow steps in tandem. “You could have just said that in the rst 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. “?at’s my house, there.”
“Oh, the old McAffee place. ?at’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 rst 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.
“So,” Porter says, facing me.
“So … ,” I repeat, swallowing hard as I glance around the dark street. A few golden lights glow in the windows of nearby houses, but there’s no sound but the occasional passing of distant cars and a frog singing along with some crickets in the redwoods.
Porter shifts closer. I back up. He’s always in my personal space, I think weakly.
“Why did you come to the bon re tonight?” he asks in a low voice.
I ddle with the zipper on my hoodie. “Grace invited me.”
“You snuck out of the house because Grace invited you?”
He steps closer.
I step back—and my butt hits cedar. Crap. I’ve run into the mailbox post. I start to shimmy around it, but Porter’s arm shoots out and blocks me. Damn! Ten points for surfer agility.
“Not this time,” he says, trapping me with his hand on the mailbox. His head dips low. He speaks close to my ear. “Answer the question. Why did you come to the bon re? Why sneak out at all? Why risk it?”
“Is this a quiz?” I ask, trying to sound mad, but I’m really just insanely nervous. I’m cornered—which I hate. And he’s so close, his hair is tickling my cheek, and his breath is warm on my ear. I’m scared and intoxicated at the same time, worried that if either of us says another word, I might push him away.
?at I might not.
