“What?” I nally whisper hotly.
“?is is … amazing,” he says.
“Oh,” I say, brightening. “Just wait. ?e movie gets even better.”
Slow smile.
I pull the covers up to my chin.
A quarter of the way through the movie, my dad comes up to remind me to take all my various cold medicines, at which point several jokes are made at my expense between the males in the room. ?ey both think they’re comedians. We’ll see who’s laughing when Porter gets the lurgy after lounging on my bed.
Halfway through, Porter suddenly asks, “What were your plans this summer?”
“Huh?” I glance at him out of the corner of my eyes.
“?at time at work, you were telling Pangborn that you had other plans this summer, and that I wasn’t part of those plans. What were those plans?”
My heart pounds as I try to think up some plausible excuse, but the cough syrup is slowing down my thought process. “I don’t remember.”
His jaw tightens. “If you come clean about that, I’ll tell you the reason I left your house on game night. Deal?”
Crap. No way am I confessing that I’ve been scoping out another guy half the summer—an anonymous guy who I’ve been chatting with online for months. ?at sounds … unstable. Psychotic. Porter would never understand. And it’s not like Alex and I acted on any feelings. We never proclaimed our love for each other or sent heart- lled, dirty poetry.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I tell Porter.
Even through my buzzy haze, I can sense his disappointment, but I can’t make myself divulge my secrets about Alex.
“?ink hard,” Porter says in a quiet voice. Almost a plea. “You can tell me anything. You can trust me.”
?ere it is again. ?e T word. My mind drifts back to our conversation in the back of the camper van. I need to be able to trust you.
I know he wants me to tell him. I just … can’t.
I’m not sure when it happened, but the last thing I remember is Jimmy Stewart kissing Katharine Hepburn. ?e next thing I know, I’m waking up dopey several hours later.
Porter is long gone.
• • •
Two days later, Cavadini puts me back on the schedule, and I head into work. I don’t see Porter in cash-out. It’s just Grace and the new guard who replaced Pangborn. Porter is here today—I know, because I checked the schedule—so I search for him as we head out to the oor. ?at’s where I spot him, handling the changing of the guard. He’s letting the morning ticket takers out of the Hotbox—two stupid boys, Scott and Kenny. I step up to the back door before they can all walk away and hand Grace my cash drawer, motioning for her to go inside without me.
“You left my house without saying good-bye,” I tell Porter.
“You were pretty sick. I’m kind of busy right now, so—”
“You also left without telling me about game night.”
He glances at Scott and Kenny. “Maybe later,” he says.
“?at’s what you said before.”
“And my offer still stands.” He leans closer and whispers, “Quid pro quo, Clarice.”
Not that again. He’s not Silence of the Lambs–ing me into confessing about Alex. No way, no how. I try another tactic. “You go rst, then I’ll consider telling you.”
“Bailey,” he says again, like it’s some kind of coded warning I should understand. “You really don’t want to do this here.” He glances at the two boys.
It hits me like a physical blow that he’s using evasion techniques against me. From the moment all of this happened on game night with the fake text message—because it was fake, wasn’t it?—to the distraction of ?e Philadelphia Story, until right now, when conveniently he is surrounded by people and therefore cannot discuss the matter.
