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. ?ere 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.
• • •
?e 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 rst couple of days. ?e thought of Porter and me doing what we were doing while Pangborn was dying was a pretty heavy burden. Porter was right: ?ere 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.
“He was stubborn that way,” she says in a feminine voice that sounds strangely familiar to his. She lives a couple of hours down the coast with her husband, in a small town near Big Sur. I’m relieved to learn that she’s adopting Daisy, Pangborn’s dog.
We leave the church and drive to the cemetery. I can’t nd Grace at the graveside service, so I stand with my dad and Wanda. It’s really crowded. ?ey’ve just played “Me and Julio Down by the School Yard” to end the service, which, it turns out, was Pangborn’s favorite song. ?is makes me fall apart all over again, so I’m in a weakened state, sniffling on my dad’s shoulder, when the Roths walk up: all four of them.
Well.
I’m too tired to keep this charade up, and it seems like a shame to dishonor Pangborn’s memory. So I throw caution to the wind and my arms around Porter’s torso.
Not in a casual we’re friends way either.
He hesitates for a second, and then wraps me in a tight embrace, holding me for an amount of time that’s longer than appropriate, but I just don’t care. Before he lets me go, he whispers in my ear, “You sure about this?”
I whisper back, “It’s time.”
When we pull apart, Mrs. Roth hugs my neck brie y—she’s wearing a fragrant, fresh ower tucked over one ear that tickles my cheek—and Mr. Roth surprises me by squeezing the back of my neck, which almost makes me cry again, and then I nally face my dad. I can tell by the funny look on his face that he’s tallying things up and wondering how in the hell I know this family. His gaze darts to Mr. Roth’s arm and a moment of clarity dawns.
“Dad, this is Mr. and Mrs. Roth, and Porter and his sister, Lana.”
My dad extends his hand and greets the Roths, and Wanda already knows them, so they’re saying hello to her, too. And then Porter steps forward and faces my dad. I’m suddenly nervous. My dad’s never really met any boys who were interested in me, and he’s de nitely never met any boys whom he speci cally forbid me to see … and I speci cally went behind his back and saw anyway. And though, in my eyes, Porter has never looked more handsome, dressed up in a black suit and tie, he’s still sporting that mane of unruly curls that kisses the tops of his shoulders and all that scruff on his jaw. On Mr. Roth, tattoos peek out around the collar of his shirt on his neck. So no, the Roths aren’t exactly prim and proper. If my mom were standing here doing the judging, she would be looking down her nose. I mentally cross my ngers and hope my dad won’t be that way.
After an uncomfortable pause, Dad says, “You’re the boy from work who recovered my daughter’s scooter when it was stolen.”
My heart stops.
“Yes, sir,” Porter answers after a long moment, not blinking. Defensive. Bullish.
My dad sticks his hand out. “?ank you for that,” he says, pumping Porter’s arm heartily, using his other hand to cover Porter’s in one of those extra-good handshakes—making it seem as if Porter saved my life and not a measly bike.
My heart starts again.
“Yes, sir,” Porter says, this time visibly relieved. “Not a problem.”
?at was it? No snotty comments about the hickeys? No accusations? No fty questions or awkwardness? God, I couldn’t love my dad more than I do right now. I don’t deserve him.
“You really didn’t get a look at who stole it, huh?” Wanda says, narrowing her eyes at Porter. “Because I’d really like to know if you have any information.”
