Alex, Approximately
Page 39
I have to stop myself from smiling because I’m afraid he might open his eyes and catch me. And I don’t want his eyes open, because I can look at him up close now. The sharp lift of his cheekbones. The way his wild curls, damp with misty rain, are honey where the sun has burnished them, darker beneath. The gentle upturn of the outer corners of his eyes, and the prominent jut of his nose.
“Is he going to be okay?” I ask.
“Davy? I really don’t know,” Porter says, sucking in a hard breath as I fix a butterfly bandage to his cut. Three should do it, and that’s all we have, so I guess it will have to. “I’m less worried about him right now, and more worried that you’re sorry you ever gave me your number and will never go out on a date with me, because now you’re thinking all my friends are trash and we really have nothing in common.”
“Is that so?” I peel off the paper backing for the second butterfly bandage. “And why do you even like me if we have nothing in common?”
“Well, you’re a knockout, obviously.”
No one’s ever called me this. I feel my chest getting fluttery and warm.
“And you laugh at my jokes.”
A laugh bursts out—I can’t help it. That’s . . . so very Porter. It’s self-absorbed and kind of endearing at the same time.
“Don’t get me wrong, you’re pretty witty yourself,” he adds, cracking one eye open.
“Oh, am I? That’s awfully generous of you.”
He gives me a sheepish smile, chuckling, and shoves at my hands, because I’m playfully slapping him on the shoulder. “You’re welcome. And, and—listen, now! Oww! I’m injured. Stop laughing, damn you, and listen to me. You have to admit, if you think about it, we get along really, really well when we’re not fighting.”
Is he right? Do we?
I think we just might.
Porter makes a growling noise. “See, but that’s the other thing. I talk too much when I’m around you. You make me feel way too comfortable, and that drives me bananas.”
I laugh one final time and blow my hair out of my eyes. “You drive me bananas too.”
There it is, that stupid, sexy smile of his. He reaches for my hand and stops halfway, groaning. “That is not a good way to move my arm.”
Now I’m concerned again. I ball up the bandage papers and close the first-aid kit. “Davy didn’t injure any anything serious, did he? Ribs?”
“If you want me to take my shirt off, all you have to do is ask, Rydell.”
“I’m serious.”
He sighs. “I don’t think so, but I’m not gonna lie—starting to feel a little achy-breaky in the riblet region. Think I’d better take a peek, so you might want to look away if you’re sensitive to dynamite male bodies. I don’t want you swooning at the sight of raw surfer.”
“Lord knows I’ve been forced to stare at Davy’s naked chest a hundred times, so I’m pretty sure I can handle yours. Come on, let’s see the damage.”
But as he unbuttons his Cave guard shirt, it’s the least sexy thing in the world, because all I’m preoccupied with is how I’m going to drive this van if he’s got a broken rib. And it only gets worse when his shirttails flap open.
If I thought Davy was built, I was wrong. Davy is a twig. Porter is a cliff. He’s what happens when people use all their muscles at once to balance on a tiny plank of wet wood on massive, monster waves every day for years. All at once, I’m amazed at the beauty of the human body, ashamed at myself for using mine to do nothing but walk around the block and watch movies on Dad’s couch, and, most of all, I’m completely and wholeheartedly shocked by what Davy has done to him.
When people say black and blue, they mean later, after the bruises have had time to settle. But right now, his torso is mottled with big red welts, some of them slightly bloodied, some of them radiating jagged, crystalline lines of dark pink. It’s a hideous map of bruises to come. The welt across his ribs looks like South America, it’s so big.
His chin is tucked to his sternum as he holds his shirt open and inspects the damage, and I can tell by his groan that even he’s startled. It hits me all at once. I’m freaked out that he’s so hurt and didn’t say anything, and I’m frustrated that he had to resort to testosterone-fueled rage to solve all this. I’m disturbed by all the violence I witnessed. I’m mad that he has a friend like Davy, and I’m still enraged beyond understanding that Davy stole my scooter.
But despite all that . . . look what he did. Look what he did. For me? And he’s sitting here, in pain, falling apart, and all he’s worried about is that I’m sorry I gave him my number and don’t want to go out on a date with him?
It’s just too much. I fall to pieces.
“Hey, hey,” he says, alarmed, sitting up quickly, and then groaning a little. And that only makes me sob harder. He buttons his shirt halfway, covering up some of the evidence. “It’s okay. I’ve had broken bones before. I’m not broken today, promise. I’m just sore.”
“It’s just awful,” I say, choking back tears. “I’m so sorry you had to do that.”
“He had it coming. You don’t know everything he’s done to me. This is just the last straw. Hey, whoa, shush.” His hands stroke over my upper arms.
I calm down. Turn my head and wipe my nose on my shoulder. Brush away tears.
“There.” He swipes a thumb over my cheek, going back over what I’ve missed. Traces the arch of my eyebrows. Chases a flyaway tendril of hair at my temple. “And you know what?” he says in a low, intense voice. “I’d do it again in a heartbeat, because you didn’t deserve what he did to you. I will be your revenge.”
My breath catches, and I am overcome. Before I even know what I’m doing, I lean forward and kiss him.
Not a polite kiss.
Not a gracious kiss.
And he definitely doesn’t kiss me. O-oh, no. I’m the kisser, which is the first time in my life that’s happened—not the kissing, I mean, the initiating. I mean, hello. Evader! Initiating is not my style. But here I am, mouth firmly pressed against his. I’m not ashamed to say that I’m desperate about it and more than a little insistent, and if he doesn’t kiss me back soon . . .
But he does. Je-sus, he does. It’s as if a switch flipped in his brain—by Jove, I think he’s got it! And I nearly start crying again, I’m so relieved, so happy. But then his mouth opens over mine, and a switch flips on in my brain (ding!), and then his tongue rolls against mine, and a switch flips on in my body (ding! ding!), and holymotherofgod that feels good. We’re kissing, and it’s amazing, and his hand is stroking down my back, and chills are racing everywhere, and DEAR GOD HE’S GOOD AT THIS.
A massive shudder goes through me and I freak out a little. My head’s suddenly filled with all the things he’s said about being eighteen and sexual freedom, and there is no doubt in my mind that he’s exercised his rights with other girls—which is fine, whatever. No judgment. It’s just that I have . . . not, and all this super-filthy kissing makes me more than aware of the experience gap between us. Which worries me. And thrills me. And worries me.
(And thrills me.)
Dear God: Save me from myself.
He breaks the kiss—probably because he can sense all the internal freaking out I’m doing. And yeah, sure enough, he says, “Bailey?”
“Is he going to be okay?” I ask.
“Davy? I really don’t know,” Porter says, sucking in a hard breath as I fix a butterfly bandage to his cut. Three should do it, and that’s all we have, so I guess it will have to. “I’m less worried about him right now, and more worried that you’re sorry you ever gave me your number and will never go out on a date with me, because now you’re thinking all my friends are trash and we really have nothing in common.”
“Is that so?” I peel off the paper backing for the second butterfly bandage. “And why do you even like me if we have nothing in common?”
“Well, you’re a knockout, obviously.”
No one’s ever called me this. I feel my chest getting fluttery and warm.
“And you laugh at my jokes.”
A laugh bursts out—I can’t help it. That’s . . . so very Porter. It’s self-absorbed and kind of endearing at the same time.
“Don’t get me wrong, you’re pretty witty yourself,” he adds, cracking one eye open.
“Oh, am I? That’s awfully generous of you.”
He gives me a sheepish smile, chuckling, and shoves at my hands, because I’m playfully slapping him on the shoulder. “You’re welcome. And, and—listen, now! Oww! I’m injured. Stop laughing, damn you, and listen to me. You have to admit, if you think about it, we get along really, really well when we’re not fighting.”
Is he right? Do we?
I think we just might.
Porter makes a growling noise. “See, but that’s the other thing. I talk too much when I’m around you. You make me feel way too comfortable, and that drives me bananas.”
I laugh one final time and blow my hair out of my eyes. “You drive me bananas too.”
There it is, that stupid, sexy smile of his. He reaches for my hand and stops halfway, groaning. “That is not a good way to move my arm.”
Now I’m concerned again. I ball up the bandage papers and close the first-aid kit. “Davy didn’t injure any anything serious, did he? Ribs?”
“If you want me to take my shirt off, all you have to do is ask, Rydell.”
“I’m serious.”
He sighs. “I don’t think so, but I’m not gonna lie—starting to feel a little achy-breaky in the riblet region. Think I’d better take a peek, so you might want to look away if you’re sensitive to dynamite male bodies. I don’t want you swooning at the sight of raw surfer.”
“Lord knows I’ve been forced to stare at Davy’s naked chest a hundred times, so I’m pretty sure I can handle yours. Come on, let’s see the damage.”
But as he unbuttons his Cave guard shirt, it’s the least sexy thing in the world, because all I’m preoccupied with is how I’m going to drive this van if he’s got a broken rib. And it only gets worse when his shirttails flap open.
If I thought Davy was built, I was wrong. Davy is a twig. Porter is a cliff. He’s what happens when people use all their muscles at once to balance on a tiny plank of wet wood on massive, monster waves every day for years. All at once, I’m amazed at the beauty of the human body, ashamed at myself for using mine to do nothing but walk around the block and watch movies on Dad’s couch, and, most of all, I’m completely and wholeheartedly shocked by what Davy has done to him.
When people say black and blue, they mean later, after the bruises have had time to settle. But right now, his torso is mottled with big red welts, some of them slightly bloodied, some of them radiating jagged, crystalline lines of dark pink. It’s a hideous map of bruises to come. The welt across his ribs looks like South America, it’s so big.
His chin is tucked to his sternum as he holds his shirt open and inspects the damage, and I can tell by his groan that even he’s startled. It hits me all at once. I’m freaked out that he’s so hurt and didn’t say anything, and I’m frustrated that he had to resort to testosterone-fueled rage to solve all this. I’m disturbed by all the violence I witnessed. I’m mad that he has a friend like Davy, and I’m still enraged beyond understanding that Davy stole my scooter.
But despite all that . . . look what he did. Look what he did. For me? And he’s sitting here, in pain, falling apart, and all he’s worried about is that I’m sorry I gave him my number and don’t want to go out on a date with him?
It’s just too much. I fall to pieces.
“Hey, hey,” he says, alarmed, sitting up quickly, and then groaning a little. And that only makes me sob harder. He buttons his shirt halfway, covering up some of the evidence. “It’s okay. I’ve had broken bones before. I’m not broken today, promise. I’m just sore.”
“It’s just awful,” I say, choking back tears. “I’m so sorry you had to do that.”
“He had it coming. You don’t know everything he’s done to me. This is just the last straw. Hey, whoa, shush.” His hands stroke over my upper arms.
I calm down. Turn my head and wipe my nose on my shoulder. Brush away tears.
“There.” He swipes a thumb over my cheek, going back over what I’ve missed. Traces the arch of my eyebrows. Chases a flyaway tendril of hair at my temple. “And you know what?” he says in a low, intense voice. “I’d do it again in a heartbeat, because you didn’t deserve what he did to you. I will be your revenge.”
My breath catches, and I am overcome. Before I even know what I’m doing, I lean forward and kiss him.
Not a polite kiss.
Not a gracious kiss.
And he definitely doesn’t kiss me. O-oh, no. I’m the kisser, which is the first time in my life that’s happened—not the kissing, I mean, the initiating. I mean, hello. Evader! Initiating is not my style. But here I am, mouth firmly pressed against his. I’m not ashamed to say that I’m desperate about it and more than a little insistent, and if he doesn’t kiss me back soon . . .
But he does. Je-sus, he does. It’s as if a switch flipped in his brain—by Jove, I think he’s got it! And I nearly start crying again, I’m so relieved, so happy. But then his mouth opens over mine, and a switch flips on in my brain (ding!), and then his tongue rolls against mine, and a switch flips on in my body (ding! ding!), and holymotherofgod that feels good. We’re kissing, and it’s amazing, and his hand is stroking down my back, and chills are racing everywhere, and DEAR GOD HE’S GOOD AT THIS.
A massive shudder goes through me and I freak out a little. My head’s suddenly filled with all the things he’s said about being eighteen and sexual freedom, and there is no doubt in my mind that he’s exercised his rights with other girls—which is fine, whatever. No judgment. It’s just that I have . . . not, and all this super-filthy kissing makes me more than aware of the experience gap between us. Which worries me. And thrills me. And worries me.
(And thrills me.)
Dear God: Save me from myself.
He breaks the kiss—probably because he can sense all the internal freaking out I’m doing. And yeah, sure enough, he says, “Bailey?”
