I believe that. I really do.
“But you?” He squints at me. “What’s this all about?”
Hesitating, I chew the inside of my mouth. “You remember when we were making out that night in the museum?”
“Like every waking minute of my day,” he says with a slow smile.
I chuckle. “Me too,” I admit before refocusing. “You remember when you started to touch my stomach, and I stopped you?”
His smile fades. “Yeah. I’ve been wondering when you were going to tell me about that.”
“I think I’m ready now.”
He nods several times. “Cool. I’m glad.”
Of course, now that I’ve said this, fear overtakes me. I hesitate, gritting my teeth. “?ing is, I need to show you, not tell you. I think this is one of the reasons I’ve hated beaches for so long … the bikini issue. So I think I should just do this, you know?” I’m not sure if I’m talking to him or myself, but it doesn’t matter. “Yeah. I’m going to do it.”
He looks confused.
“I’m about to get naked on this beach,” I tell him.
“Oh, shit,” he says, looking truly stunned. “Okay. Um, all right. Yeah, okay.”
“But I’ve never been naked on a beach with anyone, so this is weird for me.”
He points at me and grins. “Not a problem. Would you like some company? I’m fond of being naked. It’s easier when the playing eld’s even.”
I consider his proposition. “Yeah, okay. ?at actually would make it easier.”
“I just want you to know that there are so many jokes I could make right now,” he says.
We both laugh, me a little nervously, and then decide upon a strip-poker method to the clothing removal. Porter volunteers to go rst. He scans the beach to make sure we’re still alone, and without further ado, peels off his T-shirt. Nice, but it’s not really fair, because (A) I’ve seen it before, and (B) he’s not really exposing anything he can’t expose in public. He signals for me to go next.
Carefully considering all my options (I’m smartly wearing good matching undergarments), I take off my shorts. He’s surprised. He also can’t take his eyes off me. I like that … I think. I haven’t decided yet. I just tell myself that it’s the same amount of fabric as wearing a bathing suit, so what’s the difference?
“You play dirty, Rydell,” he says, unbuttoning his shorts. Before I can open my mouth to argue, he’s in nothing but a pair of olive-colored boxer shorts.
Whew. He’s got great legs.
Okay, my turn again, as he helpfully reminds me with get on with it hand gestures. Guess it’s the shirt, I think as I pull it over my head and toss it to the sand. A bra is the same amount of fabric as a bathing suit, and it’s a good bra. I hear him suck in a quick breath, so I think that’s good? My boobs aren’t great, but they aren’t bad, either, and—
His ngers trace the bottom of my scar. “Is this it? ?is is what I felt?”
I look down at my ribs and cover his hand, pressing it against my stomach. ?en I uncover them and we look together. It’s bright and sunny, and we’re both halfway naked. And if there’s anyone I feel safe with … if there’s anyone I trust, oddly enough, it’s Porter.
“Yes, this is it,” I say.
He looks at it. Glances at my face. Waits.
“?at’s where the bullet went in,” I tell him, ngering the puckered ridge of scarring that’s never completely healed right. I turn to the side and show him my back. “Here’s where it exited.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Greg Grumbacher. ?at’s where he shot me.”
“You told me … I mean, I thought he shot your mom?”
I shake my head slowly. “My mom wasn’t supposed to be home. He followed me home that day because his plan was to kill me. He had a note to leave with my body. His reasoning was that my mom took away his kid in the divorce, so he was taking away hers.”
