My dad raised his hands. “All right, Mink. I’m just glad you’re okay. And Grace knows someone in town who’s going to help you get the seat xed?”
Another lie. But it’s necessary, because as great as my dad is in a lot of ways, he’s not handy. So he’s ne with letting this mystery person handle it; he’s even happy to lend me money for a new wheel lock. I don’t deserve him.
So that’s what started the stress train. What kept the train chugging along the track was knowing I had to face Xander Roth, son of Pennywise, survivor of the great white shark, father to the boy I made out with … and then went home last night and before I went to sleep did unspeakable things to myself under the covers while thinking about all that making out with said boy. Which is how teen pregnancies don’t happen, I’m fairly certain.
?en, what sped the stress train up to full speed was getting those stupid messages from Alex this morning. Because it sounded like he doesn’t want me to y out here. I mean, of course I’m already out here, but he doesn’t know that. What if I’d already bought a plane ticket? And why did he suddenly get so freaking busy, anyway? Did he meet another girl? Because it sure sounds that way to me.
I don’t know why this bothers me so much. It’s not like I’m not doing the same thing (hello, double standard). And we never promised to save ourselves for each other. We might not even get along in real life. Isn’t that why I was being so cautious in the rst place, drawing out my elaborate map legend of the boardwalk and carefully tracking him down, just in case we weren’t compatible?
It’s just that nothing is working out like I’d planned. Alex and I have a connection—at least, we’re simpatico on paper, but who knows about reality? On the other hand, Porter and I are simpatico in reality, yet we’re also opposites. His life is pretty messy, and I don’t like messy. Been there, done that. It’s why I left my mom and Nate LLC in the rst place. And then there’s the small, eensie-meensie detail that I’m not even supposed to be anywhere near him, thanks to Wanda’s police warnings, ugh. But that’s part of the whole appeal, isn’t it? Because being with Porter is crazy and exciting. And much like a great thriller lm, I’m not sure who’s going to end up dead by the closing credits.
A dark blue van pulls up behind me and parks in a space marked for the surf shop. But it’s not Porter’s van. And it’s not Porter driving—or riding, for that matter. Two people jump out, both eying me with great curiosity. ?e rst is Mr. Roth, wearing a lightweight yellow Windbreaker, one sleeve sewed up, and the second is someone I recognize from photographs as Porter’s sister, Lana. ?ey are both slightly damp, and, I assume from the droplets of water on the boards strapped to the van, have just come from the beach.
“Hi,” Lana says, chewing gum, super friendly and open. “You’re Porter’s girl.”
Am I? ?is makes my chest feel funny. “I work with Porter,” I say as she saunters around the van. God, she moves just like him, slinky, like a cat. And she’s wearing skintight long sleeves and shorts—whatever she’s put on after getting out of her wet suit, I guess, but she’s built like Porter too. Not model-thin, but muscular. Solid and shapely.
“Lana,” she says, joyfully chew-chewing her gum.
“Bailey,” I answer.
“Bai-ley. Yeah, I remember now,” she says, slowly grinning. She’s young and pretty, no makeup, long curly hair. Very laid-back. Open, like Porter. “He’s yapped and yapped about you. Hey, Pops, this is the scooter Davy jacked.”
Mr. Roth, who has completely ignored me up to this point, already has his hand on the back door to the shop. He looks at the scooter, then gives me a critical once-over. “You messing around with Davy?” he says brusquely. Not Porter. Davy.
Shock washes over me. “N-no. God no.”
“Because the last one was, and why did Davy steal this if there isn’t something going on?” He gives me a look like I think he’s an idiot. “You expect me to believe my son comes home with his face banged up for no reason? Like he’s just some hoodlum,
ghting in the streets? I raised him better than that.”
“Dad,” Lana says, sounding almost as humiliated as I feel. “He was defending her honor.”
“Why did it need defending?” Now Mr. Roth is waving his arm at me, angry. “Why did Davy steal this?”
“I don’t know,” I bark back at him, surprised at myself. “Maybe because he’s a scumbag who thought he could make some quick cash. But I didn’t encourage it. I don’t even know him.”
?e door to the shop swings open. Porter rushes out, breathless. He looks … awful. ?e cut on his cheek is dark red and swollen. ?e bump on his temple is now an ugly shade of blue and brown. His usually perfectly groomed scruff is darker and thicker.
“Pops,” he says. “?is is Bailey Rydell. Remember, I told you about xing the scooter seat last night? Like that one you xed before, Mr. Stanley’s.”
Right now I’m wondering how a one-armed man is going to
x anything—and frankly, with his crummy attitude, I don’t
think I want him to bother.
His father doesn’t say anything for several seconds. ?en he looks at me. “I don’t know any Rydells. Who’re your parents?”
Before I can answer, Porter says, “I told you already. Her dad lives in the old McAffee place. He’s an accountant. He’s seeing Wanda Mendoza. Bailey moved here in May, from the East Coast.”
“Oh, yeah. Sergeant Mendoza. She’s all right,” his dad says, still gruff, but a little softer, like he only half believes Porter, but maybe he’s thinking about considering believing him one day soon. And—poof!—just like that, the interrogation is over. “Get inside and help your mom,” he tells Lana before turning to Porter. “Go get the green toolbox out of the van. I’ll also need the keys to her seat.”
Mr. Roth isn’t addressing me. I am dismissed. I’m not sure how I feel about this. Pretty lousy, I think. Porter used to think I was too fancy for him, but now his dad thinks I’m not good enough to date his son? And what was all that business about him assuming I was seeing Davy because “the last one” did? Is this the Chloe girl Porter and Davy were arguing about outside the vintage clothing shop on the boardwalk? Man. ?is guy is a piece of work. When Porter described him as a drill sergeant, he wasn’t kidding. I think Porter dropping Wanda’s name was the only thing that gave me a pass.
Coming here was de nitely a huge mistake. I’m regretting it so hard and wishing I could leave somehow, but I can’t see a way out of it.
When I give Porter my scooter keys, he mouths, Sorry, to me and squeezes my hand, and just this tiny bit of skin-on-skin contact feels like when you wake up on the weekend and smell breakfast cooking: completely unexpected and delightful. One crummy kiss (okay, two—okay, AMAZING KISSES), and my body doesn’t even care that Porter’s dad hates my guts and I’m seconds away from a panic attack; it’s too busy enjoying all the actual, real, live tingles being generated by surfer-boy touch. Not good. I’m so terri ed his dad will see me react, all I do is drop his hand like a hot potato.
