Alex, Approximately
Page 51“I’ve just never . . . spent the night in a museum with anyone before.”
Porter’s brows lift. “Oh?”
I grimace. “Can you turn around or something? I can’t look at you and talk about this.”
“What?”
I make twisting movements with my hand. “Face the wall.”
He looks at me like I’m nuts, and then gives in and slowly swivels around in his chair, keeping his head facing me, squinting, until the last possible moment. When he’s facing the wall, I sigh and start talking to his back.
“Like I said before, we just went on one date.” I’m a coward, yes, but having this conversation is so much easier when I don’t have to look in his eyes. “And it was a great date. I mean, wow. I don’t have much to compare it to, but I think it had to be up there in the history books. And even though you gave me those hickeys and ruined my favorite skirt, I would do it all over again.”
“I’m still sorry about the hickeys, but for the record, I got grass stains on my clothes too. And every time I leave the house now, my mom teases me about going out for a roll in the hay and Pops has started calling me Grasshopper.”
“Oh, God,” I whisper.
“Totally worth it,” he says. “But please continue.”
“Anyway,” I say, trying to gather my thoughts. “We went from enemies to a first date to now having the possibility of spending the night together in a museum, and not that I haven’t thought about spending the night in a museum with you, because believe me, I’ve thought about that a lot.”
His head turns sideways, but he still doesn’t look at me. “A lot?”
“O-oh, that’s where you’re very wrong, my friend.” His knee starts bouncing a nervous rhythm.
I smile to myself as a little thrill zips through me. “Well, what I’m saying is that I’m not opposed to such a thing. But I’m guessing you’ve spent many a night in many a museum, and you know, whatever. Good for you. But that intimidates me. And when it comes to this, I need you to let me give the green signal.”
“First,” he says, holding up a finger over his shoulder, “I want to say that I’m insulted that you’d think that I wouldn’t. So thanks for making me feel like a sex criminal, again.”
“Oh, God,” I mumble.
“Second”—another finger joins the first—“I’ve been with two girls, and one of those was a long-term girlfriend who, I might add, cheated on me with Davy, so it’s not like I spend all my weekends in museums, to use your terminology. So there’s no need for all the slut shaming.”
I’m glad he can’t see my face right now, because I’m pretty sure it’s the exact shade of a broiled lobster. Is he mad? I can’t tell by the tone of his voice. Ugh. Why did I make him face the wall? I scoot my chair closer and lay my cheek on his head, burrowing my face into his curls.
“I’m an idiot,” I mumble into the back of his neck. “I don’t know what I’m doing, and I’m so, so sorry.”
His hand reaches around the chair, grasping blindly, patting around until he grabs my shirt and hangs on. “I accept your apology, but only because I’m trapped in here with you all night, and it would be awkward if we spent the entire time fighting.”
“We’re not fighting.”
“We’re always fighting. That’s part of our charm,” he says.
“Porter?”
“Is the girlfriend you were just mentioning . . . Is that the girl you were arguing about with Davy outside the vintage clothing shop? Chloe?”
“Yeah. Chloe Carter. Her dad makes custom surfboards. They were really close with my family. She’s friends with my sister, so the whole thing was kind of a big mess.”
“Were you in love with her?”
He pauses a little too long for my comfort. “No, but it still hurt when she cheated on me. We were friends for a long time before we started dating, so that should have meant something, you know?”
Plus, it was with Davy, someone who was supposed to be his best friend, so it was a double betrayal, but I don’t say this.
Several seconds tick by. I sigh.
“Porter?”
“Yes?”
“This sofa is kind of small, but we have to sleep somewhere. And I do like the idea of sleeping next to you.”
“Me too.”
After a long pause, I add, “In addition to sleeping, what if I do want to see some of the places in the museum that the cameras don’t go . . . just from a distance? Maybe. Possibly. Theoretically. I mean, does everything have to be all or nothing?”
“I know.”
“Bailey, I spend most of my days looking at you through that tiny square screen up there. I’m just grateful to be in the same room. And the fact that you’ll even let me touch you at all is the freaking miracle of the century. So whatever you want or don’t want from me, all you have to do is ask. Okay?”
“Okay,” I whisper, mentally floating away on fluffy white clouds.
“Okay,” he repeats firmly, like that’s all decided, and pushes away from the wall. “Now let me call my folks.”
He makes the call on his cell, explaining everything to his mom, who, from the sound of things, is completely sympathetic about the situation. But then he waits for her to tell his dad, and suddenly he’s gesturing for me to duck under the desk because his dad is making him switch to a video call—like he doesn’t believe his story. I hear Mr. Roth’s sullen voice demanding that Porter repeat everything all over again, and Porter is showing him the computer screen, which clearly says LOCKDOWN and has a timer showing the remaining time left until the doors unlock and, thankfully, even shows the first few letters of Pangborn’s last name as being the person who initiated the command. By now, it’s eleven forty-five, and even grumpy-puss Mr. Roth admits that Porter’s options are few and getting Pangborn fired isn’t one of them.
“I could drive down the beach to his house and wake him up,” Mr. Roth suggests.
Mrs. Roth’s voice interrupts. “It’s a quarter till midnight, and the man may be sick for all we know. Let him be. Porter, baby, is there a blanket there? Can you sleep okay on that sofa?”
He assures her that he’ll find something, and she says that Lana will cover for him in the surf shop tomorrow morning if he can’t get any sleep. And while they’re winding things up, I text my dad and tell him I’m safe—that’s not a lie, right?—and that I hope they’re having fun in San Francisco. His reply is immediate and includes a geeky Settlers of Catan joke, so I assume he’s in a genuinely good mood: Having a blast. We bought you a surprise today. Love you more than sheep.
I text him an equally geeky reply: Love you more than wheat.
I have no idea where Porter’s taking me that is off camera.
First he digs up a weird old-fashioned key out of a desk drawer in the security room. Then we gather up our stuff and head to the lost and found, where we score a baby blanket. Sure, it’s gross to think about using some stranger’s blanket, but whatever. It smells fine. Then he takes me all the way down to the end of Vivian’s wing. There’s a door here that’s been painted the same dark green color as the wall, and because of the lighting, it’s hard to see. I also know from memorizing the employee map that it’s not supposed to be there—as in, it shouldn’t exist.