“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Where’s your player? Here? Let’s see, what do we have … Key Largo? Is that any good? Let me just put it back in the case. I don’t want to pull a Lana. Is everything—”
“Porter!”
“—set, or do I have to switch the input? Where’s your remote? If you’ve gotten your diseased crud on it, I’m not touching it. Scoot over. And don’t cough on me.” He’s peeling off his HOT STUFF jacket and motioning to let him sit next to me in the double bed.
I’m suddenly well aware that my father is right downstairs. And wait—why do I care? I’m sick. And gross. And we’re not even together.
Are we?
“Porter—”
“Scooch.”
I scooch. He plops down next to me, long legs stretched out and ankles crossed on top of the covers. When he sees one of my snotty tissues next to his elbow, he makes a sour face.
I angrily toss the tissue onto the oor. “I’m not watching a movie with you until you tell me why you stormed out of my house that night.”
“I’m being completely real with you when I say it was the misunderstanding of the century. And it’s nothing you did wrong. I realize that now. Like I told you before, I needed some time to think about things, because it was … well, it doesn’t matter. But”—he crosses his arms over his chest when I start to protest, like he’s not budging—“let’s drop the whole thing.”
“What? ?at’s—”
“Look, it’s really nothing. It was stupid. I’m sorry for making you worry over nothing. Let’s just forget it. Hit play, will you?”
I stare at him, abbergasted. “No.”
“No, what?”
“I can’t accept that. I need to know what happened.”
He leans back against the headboard and looks at me for a long time. A really long time. Now I’m uncomfortable, because he’s smiling at me—this strange, slow smile that’s hiding a secret. It makes me want to hide or hit him.
“Maybe I’ll feel like talking after the movie starts,” he says. “What’s this ick about, anyway? I just picked something random.”
Momentarily distracted, I glance at the menu on the screen. “?e Philadelphia Story? You’ve never seen this?”
He shakes his head slowly, still smiling that funny smile. “Tell me about it.”
?at’s weird, because it looked like he was choosing something particular on the shelf, but whatever. “It’s one of my favorite movies. Katharine Hepburn is a society woman, an heiress, you see, who learns to love the right man—that’s her pompous ex, Cary Grant, who she bickers with constantly—by kissing the wrong man, who’s Jimmy Stewart.”
“Is that so?”
“Your grandmother never watched it?” I ask.
“Don’t remember this one. Do you think I’ll like it? Or should I pick out something else?” He throws a leg over the side of the bed. “Because if you want, I could go ask your dad for suggestions—”
I clamp a hand around his arm. “Oh wait, it’s wonderful. So funny. Like, brilliantly funny. Let’s watch it.”
“Hit play,” he says, sinking back into my pillows. “You can ll me in on trivia as it goes.”
“And then you’ll tell me?” I insist.
“Hit play, Mink.”
I narrow my eyes at his use of my nickname, unsure if he’s making fun of me, but I’ll give him a pass. Because, hello! ?e Philadelphia Story. I could watch this a thousand times and never get weary of it. Watching with someone else who’s never seen it is so much better. With Porter? I can’t believe my luck. I hope he likes it.
We start the movie, and for the moment, I’m not caring that I’m sick anymore. I’m just happy that Porter’s here with me, and that he’s laughing warmly at the right lines. It would be perfect, really, if he wouldn’t stop staring at me. He’s watching my face more than the screen, and every time I look at him quizzically, he doesn’t even glance away. He just smiles that same knowing smile. And that’s creeping me out.
