Alex, Approximately
Page 68
By the time we’d given statements and everyone cleared out, Porter had to go to work at the Cave, so I followed my dad home. It wasn’t until he was ordering us lunch that I realized Porter had, at some point when I wasn’t paying attention, slipped the shark tooth back into my pocket. I got a text from him a few minutes later.
All it said was: We’re not done talking.
The next day after dinner, out of the blue, my dad asks to see my old map of the boardwalk. I’d almost thrown it away in a fit when Alex blew me off weeks ago. I have to dig it out from my desk drawer in my bedroom. Dad spreads it out on the patio table near our redwood tree and studies it, nodding slowly.
“What?” I say.
Dad sits back in his chair and smiles at me. “You know, you’re tenacious and stubborn. You got that from your mom. It’s what makes her a great lawyer. I love tenacious women. That’s what attracted me to Wanda. It’s what makes her a good cop.”
I give him the side eye. Where’s he going with this?
“However, this tenacity thing also has its downside, because it’s all forward movement with blinders on. Like a horse, you know?” He holds his hands up on either side of his eyes. “You plow ahead, and you make a lot of progress that other people wouldn’t make, but you can’t see what’s happening on either side of the road. You have blind spots. You ignore things that are right next to you. Your mom did that all the time.”
“Is that why you got divorced?”
He thinks about this for a long moment. “It was one reason. But this isn’t about your mom and me. I’m talking about you. And your blind spots. Don’t be too tenacious. Sometimes you’ve got to stop and look around.”
“Why don’t you ever just come out and tell me what you’re trying to say, Master Yoda?”
“Because I’m trying to raise you to think for yourself, young Jedi. I can offer advice, but you’ve got to do the work. The whole goal of parenting is for you to become an independent young woman and come up with your own answers. Not for me to provide them for you.”
“It sounds like you read that in a parenting book.”
He holds back a smile. “Maybe I did.”
“What a dork,” I tease. “Okay, what’s your advice, then? Lay it on me.”
“Have you told Porter that you were talking to Alex before you moved out here?”
“Um, no.”
“Maybe you should. People can sense when you’re holding things back from them. I knew your mom was cheating on me with Nate for months before she told me. I had no proof, but I could sense something was wrong.”
I’m so floored by this, I don’t know what to say. Dad has never talked much about Nate—or that he knew Mom was cheating with Nate. It makes me uncomfortable. What’s weird is that he’s so blase. But it’s sort of weirder that we can talk about this together now. And wait just one stinking second—
“I wasn’t cheating on Porter with Alex,” I tell him. “Or cheating on Alex with Porter.”
“What you actually did or didn’t do doesn’t matter,” Dad says. “It’s the secrecy that eats away at you. Just tell Porter. And maybe be honest with Alex while you’re at it. You’ll feel better, I promise.”
“I don’t know about that,” I mutter.
“Like I said, it’s not my job to do the work for you.” He folds up the map in neat squares. “But my advice, dearest daughter, is that you settle up your boy problems in order, one at a time.”
It takes me an entire day to think about everything Dad said, but I think I finally see the logic. Alex was a big part of my daily life for a long time. And, sure, he blew me off. But I should have told him I’d moved across the country. Maybe if I tell him now, he won’t even care anymore, especially now that I’ve broken the ice about Porter in that last heart-to-heart messaging we had. I guess I won’t know until I try.
@mink: Hey. Me again. Are you still out there?
His reply comes two hours later:
@alex: I’m here. What’s up?
@mink: Since we were being all super honest in our last talk, I thought I’d do some more bean spilling. This one is a little bigger. Are you ready?
@alex: Should I be sitting? *is afraid*
@mink: Probably.
@alex: Sitting.
@mink: Okay, so here’s the deal. I’m in town, living with my dad, and have been here for a while. Sorry I didn’t say anything. Long story, but I was worried it might be weird, and I have a tendency to avoid confrontation. But better late than never? I was wondering if you wanted to get together and have lunch. Anyways . . . this is getting awkward, so I’ll shut up. I just wanted you to know that I’m sorry I never said anything about being here, and I thought maybe I could apologize in person, since we’re both in the same town and used to be friends. (And hopefully still are?) What do you say?
I wait and wait and wait for his reply. This is a mistake. I should probably delete my message. If he hasn’t read it yet, I might still be able to . . .
@alex: What about your boyfriend?
@mink: This would be a nonromantic lunch. I’m sorry, nothing’s changed since our last conversation. I’m still not over him.
@alex: Why don’t we go with our original plan? Meet me Sunday night on the beach under the California flag, half an hour before the film festival’s showing of North by Northwest.
Oh, crap. I wasn’t prepared for that! I tear my room apart searching for the film festival guide that Patrick gave me and look up the schedule for the free films they’re showing on the beach. North by Northwest doesn’t start until nine p.m. It will be dark by then. Should I meet a strange boy after dark? That doesn’t seem advisable. Then again, it’s a public place, and when I browse the film guide, there are photos from last year; all the concessions areas appear well lit. Surely the flag is somewhere around there.
Should I do this? The Artful Dodger definitely would not. But am I that person anymore?
@mink: Okay. I’ll meet you there.
That’s one boy problem taken care of. Now for the next. This one seems harder. I shoot off a quick text.
Me: Hey, you busy? I was hoping we could meet somewhere and talk. I’m willing to do the quid pro quo thing now. You win.
Porter: Actually, I’m sort of booked until after Sunday. How about after that?
Me: Okay, it’s a deal. Will text you then.
Actually, I’m relieved. North by Northwest is on Sunday, so that gives me time to meet Alex and mend things with him before I talk to Porter. Who knew two boys could be so much trouble?
In North by Northwest, Cary Grant plays an advertising executive who’s mistaken for a CIA agent named Kaplan. The thing is, Kaplan doesn’t really exist. So throughout the film, Cary Grant is constantly being forced to pretend he’s someone he’s not—a fake of a fake. Nothing is what it seems, which is what makes the story so fun to watch. Alex and I have discussed the film’s merits online, but it’s strange to think about those conversations now. I definitely wish I could be seeing it under happier circumstances.
By the time Sunday night rolls around, I’m strangely calm. Maybe it’s because this has been a long time coming, me meeting Alex. Or maybe it’s because I don’t feel the same way about him as I once did, now that Porter’s in my life. I think back to the beginning of the summer, when I was so worried and nervous about everything Alex could or could not be—tall or short, bald or hairy, shy or chatty—and none of those things matter anymore.
All it said was: We’re not done talking.
The next day after dinner, out of the blue, my dad asks to see my old map of the boardwalk. I’d almost thrown it away in a fit when Alex blew me off weeks ago. I have to dig it out from my desk drawer in my bedroom. Dad spreads it out on the patio table near our redwood tree and studies it, nodding slowly.
“What?” I say.
Dad sits back in his chair and smiles at me. “You know, you’re tenacious and stubborn. You got that from your mom. It’s what makes her a great lawyer. I love tenacious women. That’s what attracted me to Wanda. It’s what makes her a good cop.”
I give him the side eye. Where’s he going with this?
“However, this tenacity thing also has its downside, because it’s all forward movement with blinders on. Like a horse, you know?” He holds his hands up on either side of his eyes. “You plow ahead, and you make a lot of progress that other people wouldn’t make, but you can’t see what’s happening on either side of the road. You have blind spots. You ignore things that are right next to you. Your mom did that all the time.”
“Is that why you got divorced?”
He thinks about this for a long moment. “It was one reason. But this isn’t about your mom and me. I’m talking about you. And your blind spots. Don’t be too tenacious. Sometimes you’ve got to stop and look around.”
“Why don’t you ever just come out and tell me what you’re trying to say, Master Yoda?”
“Because I’m trying to raise you to think for yourself, young Jedi. I can offer advice, but you’ve got to do the work. The whole goal of parenting is for you to become an independent young woman and come up with your own answers. Not for me to provide them for you.”
“It sounds like you read that in a parenting book.”
He holds back a smile. “Maybe I did.”
“What a dork,” I tease. “Okay, what’s your advice, then? Lay it on me.”
“Have you told Porter that you were talking to Alex before you moved out here?”
“Um, no.”
“Maybe you should. People can sense when you’re holding things back from them. I knew your mom was cheating on me with Nate for months before she told me. I had no proof, but I could sense something was wrong.”
I’m so floored by this, I don’t know what to say. Dad has never talked much about Nate—or that he knew Mom was cheating with Nate. It makes me uncomfortable. What’s weird is that he’s so blase. But it’s sort of weirder that we can talk about this together now. And wait just one stinking second—
“I wasn’t cheating on Porter with Alex,” I tell him. “Or cheating on Alex with Porter.”
“What you actually did or didn’t do doesn’t matter,” Dad says. “It’s the secrecy that eats away at you. Just tell Porter. And maybe be honest with Alex while you’re at it. You’ll feel better, I promise.”
“I don’t know about that,” I mutter.
“Like I said, it’s not my job to do the work for you.” He folds up the map in neat squares. “But my advice, dearest daughter, is that you settle up your boy problems in order, one at a time.”
It takes me an entire day to think about everything Dad said, but I think I finally see the logic. Alex was a big part of my daily life for a long time. And, sure, he blew me off. But I should have told him I’d moved across the country. Maybe if I tell him now, he won’t even care anymore, especially now that I’ve broken the ice about Porter in that last heart-to-heart messaging we had. I guess I won’t know until I try.
@mink: Hey. Me again. Are you still out there?
His reply comes two hours later:
@alex: I’m here. What’s up?
@mink: Since we were being all super honest in our last talk, I thought I’d do some more bean spilling. This one is a little bigger. Are you ready?
@alex: Should I be sitting? *is afraid*
@mink: Probably.
@alex: Sitting.
@mink: Okay, so here’s the deal. I’m in town, living with my dad, and have been here for a while. Sorry I didn’t say anything. Long story, but I was worried it might be weird, and I have a tendency to avoid confrontation. But better late than never? I was wondering if you wanted to get together and have lunch. Anyways . . . this is getting awkward, so I’ll shut up. I just wanted you to know that I’m sorry I never said anything about being here, and I thought maybe I could apologize in person, since we’re both in the same town and used to be friends. (And hopefully still are?) What do you say?
I wait and wait and wait for his reply. This is a mistake. I should probably delete my message. If he hasn’t read it yet, I might still be able to . . .
@alex: What about your boyfriend?
@mink: This would be a nonromantic lunch. I’m sorry, nothing’s changed since our last conversation. I’m still not over him.
@alex: Why don’t we go with our original plan? Meet me Sunday night on the beach under the California flag, half an hour before the film festival’s showing of North by Northwest.
Oh, crap. I wasn’t prepared for that! I tear my room apart searching for the film festival guide that Patrick gave me and look up the schedule for the free films they’re showing on the beach. North by Northwest doesn’t start until nine p.m. It will be dark by then. Should I meet a strange boy after dark? That doesn’t seem advisable. Then again, it’s a public place, and when I browse the film guide, there are photos from last year; all the concessions areas appear well lit. Surely the flag is somewhere around there.
Should I do this? The Artful Dodger definitely would not. But am I that person anymore?
@mink: Okay. I’ll meet you there.
That’s one boy problem taken care of. Now for the next. This one seems harder. I shoot off a quick text.
Me: Hey, you busy? I was hoping we could meet somewhere and talk. I’m willing to do the quid pro quo thing now. You win.
Porter: Actually, I’m sort of booked until after Sunday. How about after that?
Me: Okay, it’s a deal. Will text you then.
Actually, I’m relieved. North by Northwest is on Sunday, so that gives me time to meet Alex and mend things with him before I talk to Porter. Who knew two boys could be so much trouble?
In North by Northwest, Cary Grant plays an advertising executive who’s mistaken for a CIA agent named Kaplan. The thing is, Kaplan doesn’t really exist. So throughout the film, Cary Grant is constantly being forced to pretend he’s someone he’s not—a fake of a fake. Nothing is what it seems, which is what makes the story so fun to watch. Alex and I have discussed the film’s merits online, but it’s strange to think about those conversations now. I definitely wish I could be seeing it under happier circumstances.
By the time Sunday night rolls around, I’m strangely calm. Maybe it’s because this has been a long time coming, me meeting Alex. Or maybe it’s because I don’t feel the same way about him as I once did, now that Porter’s in my life. I think back to the beginning of the summer, when I was so worried and nervous about everything Alex could or could not be—tall or short, bald or hairy, shy or chatty—and none of those things matter anymore.
