“That’s all you’re eating?” Dad asks from my left elbow.
I look down at my bowl. It’s mostly full, but not because it’s bad. It’s really, really good, in fact. I’m sitting at a pink picnic table on the northern end of the cove, far from the madding crowd of the boardwalk. Wanda—sorry, Sergeant Mendoza—sits across the table. It’s hard to think of her as a cop now, because she’s dressed in jeans, and we’re eating dinner with her on the beach in front of a pop-up food truck, the infamous posole truck. Also because Dad keeps calling her Wanda, and every time he says it, he smiles a little, only I don’t think he knows he’s doing it. I think they might be playing footsie under the table in the sand, but I’m too distracted to check.
Posole, it turns out, is this amazing Mexican slow-cooked stew made from dried corn, broth, chilies, and meat. They have red, green, and white posole for sale at the truck, and I’m having white, which is the pork kind, and the mildest. It’s topped with sliced fresh radishes and cabbage, and there’re plates of lime wedges at the tables. The sun is setting over the Pacific, so the sky is this crazy gold-and-orchid color, and the posole truck has these multicolored lights strung up over the tables, so it’s all festive and fun. At least, it should be. But we can see a few surfers silhouetted in the dusky waves, and that’s making me think of Porter, which freaks me out.
So no, I can’t eat.
But I have to. I’m starving, and this is silly. I’m not going to be one of those girls who goes all woobly-woo over a boy and picks at her food. It’s Porter Roth, for Pete’s sake. We’re practically archenemies. Look at our stupid compatibility quiz—didn’t we fail that? Or did we? I can’t remember now. All I remember is how cute and earnest he looked, talking about phytoplankton and ocean currents, and how the tiny hairs on his leg tickled when the chairlift rocked.
I feel feverish, just thinking about it again now, God help me.
But then, maybe he didn’t even mean it. He might have only been teasing me. Was he only teasing me? A fresh wave of panic washes over my chest.
No, no, no. This cannot be happening is all I can think, my mind gleaming with terror.
I cannot like Porter Roth.
“Bailey?”
“Huh? No, I love it. Seriously. It’s delicious,” I answer my dad, trying to sound normal as I pick up my spoon. “I had a weird day, is all.”
I push Porter out of my mind. Eat my soup. Concentrate on watching seagulls soaring around the shore. Then I hear my dad tell Wanda in a salacious voice, “She had a date today.”
“O-oh,” Wanda says, mouth curving into a smile.
“Dad, jeez.”
“Well, you didn’t tell me how it went. What was his name? Patrick?”
“If you must know, it went like this,” I say, giving a thumbsdown sign and blowing a big, fat raspberry. “Turns out your daughter gets a failing grade in relationship chemistry, because, funny thing, but Patrick is gay.”
Wanda makes a pained face. “And he didn’t tell you before?”
“Not his fault,” I say. “I guess I just made some wrong assumptions.”
Dad grits his teeth and looks several shades of uncomfortable. He has no idea what to tell me. “Oh, honey. I’m . . . sorry?”
I shake my head. “Like you always say, never assume.”
“Makes an ass out of ‘me’ and ‘u,’ ” he finishes, quoting one of his favorite goofy word games. After a moment, he loosens up and drapes an arm around my back. “I’m truly sorry, kiddo. It wasn’t meant to be, but don’t let it get you down. This town is lousy with cute boys.”
Wanda smiles to herself.
“Gee, Dad. I can’t believe you just said that in front of your girlfriend,” I say in a stage whisper, letting my head fall on his shoulder.
“Me either,” he admits, rubbing my back. “Being a parent is weird.”
Wanda wipes her mouth with a napkin, nodding her head. “So true. My baby is two years older than you, Bailey. And he’s just gone through a crazy breakup.”
“Wait, you have a son?”
She nods. “Been divorced for five years. He’s nineteen. Went to a year of community college, and now he’s taking summer classes at your dad’s alma mater, Cal Poly. Electrical engineering. He’s a smart kid.”
As she’s telling me more about her son, I dig into my stew, wondering if I’ll ever meet this guy. What if my dad remarries? Will I have a stepbrother? That’s bizarre to think about. Then again, Wanda seems pretty cool, and the way she’s talking about Anthony—that’s her son—you’d think he was the most awesome guy on the planet. Besides, my dad’s like me: He doesn’t make rash decisions. I can’t picture him rushing headlong into another marriage, not like Mom—who still hasn’t called, just for the record. Not that I’m counting the days or anything, crying my eyes out for her like a ten-year-old kid who’s been shipped off to summer camp and misses Mommy.
But still. One call? One e-mail?
If she thinks I’m calling first, she can think again. I’m not supposed to be the adult here.
When I’m done eating, I get up from the table and grab my phone out of my purse, which is stashed in the seat of Baby; I drove and met Dad and Wanda here. On my way back to the table, I notice that some of the distant surfers have stripped out of their wet suits. They’ve stuck their boards in the sand, propped them up like gravestones, and are trudging to the posole truck. My pulse leaps as I scan the three boys for Porter’s face. I don’t find it, but I do spot someone else limping across the beach: Davy.
Crud.
I don’t really want to see him again, especially not while I’m with my dad. Unfortunately, no matter how low I duck as I sit back down next to my father, it’s not low enough to escape his hazy gaze.
“Look who it is, little miss thing,” he says in a rough voice. “Cowgirl. You work with Porter at the Cave.”
I raise my hand a couple of inches off the table in a weak wave and lift my chin.
“Davy,” he says, pointing at his chest, which is, as always, naked—even when the other two surfers are clothed. He’s shivering. Put a damn shirt on, dude. “Porter’s friend, remember?”
“Hey,” I say, because it would be weird not to. But why did he have to mention Porter?
“Is that your Vespa?” he asks. “Sweet ride. Looks legit. Has it been restored?”
Wanda sits up straighter and speaks up before I can answer. “What are you doing out here, Mr. Truand?”
“Oh, hello, Officer Mendoza,” Davy says, seemingly unfazed by her presence. “Didn’t recognize you out of uniform.”
“It’s Sergeant Mendoza, and I can still arrest your ass, no matter what I’m wearing.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” he says, smiling like an insurance salesman.
Two older girls in bikini bottoms and T-shirts get up from a nearby table to throw away their trash, and Davy’s friends start hitting on them in the worst way possible. All I hear is “ass for days” and “bury my face down there” and I want to either die or punch them all in the junk. The girls flip them off and after a short but brutal exchange, his friends give up and head to the posole truck like it’s no big deal. Just another few minutes in their day.