Alex, Approximately

“Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain.”

—Frank Morgan, The Wizard of Oz (1939)

My dad’s no cook, but the CPA in him can follow a recipe like no one’s business. Together, however, we managed to ruin a roasted chicken, which was still raw two hours into cooking. That’s when we figured out that something was wrong with one of our oven’s elements. We dumped the chicken, gave it last rites over the garbage can—RIP—and called for pizza. And even though we were a little upset by the failure, our guests—Wanda, Grace, and Porter—didn’t seem to mind.

It’s been a week since Nude Beach, and it’s the first time Porter’s been invited inside my house, so I’m nervous anyway. I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s because I’ve hung out at Porter’s house several times, and it’s so comfortable over there, and now I’m worried it won’t be the same here. He already cracked a joke about hanging out with a cop, so there’s that, too. Even though I don’t think about Wanda as being some kind of intimidating authority figure, I can understand why Porter might feel that way. Now I feel defensive about her and want him to like both her and my dad, and that feels . . . stressful.

But when the pizza’s delivered and Porter’s thumbing through my dad’s DVD collection, things start looking up. Turns out my dad and Porter like a lot of the same sci-fi movies. Porter has no idea what a huge mistake he’s just made, because Dad is thrilled out of his ever-loving mind and will not shut up with the nerdery talk: Have you seen this space-pirate gem from 1977? What about this long-lost 1982 flick? If they start talking Star Wars, I’m going to have to shut it all down.

The entire time they’re talking, I can’t tear my eyes away from Porter. What I’m feeling for him now is like drowning and floating at the same time. When he gives me a quick glance, I’m overwhelmed. Does he feel like this too? This epic connection between us? It’s thrilling and frightening. Like the rest of my life was just a series of bad B movies and we just walked onto the set of Citizen Kane.

“Lord, you’ve got it bad,” Grace whispers near my ear. “Must have been good, huh?”

Ugh, I should never have told her what happened on the beach. I didn’t give her any details, but maybe that’s the problem. She’s filling them in with her dirty little mind. I bat her arm away, and our discreet, playful slap-fest devolves into immature giggling. When my dad and Porter notice, something near hysteria rises up in me, and I herd Grace toward the sofa, ducking out of sight.

I’m trying so hard to be more open with him, to talk about . . . all of this. These chaotic feelings. About what happened in the back of the camper van. We haven’t been together again, not like that. Haven’t had time. We’ve had some lovely deep kisses in the front of the van after work and a lot of midnight phone calls about nothing much at all, really—we just needed to hear each other’s voices. But every time I try to tell him how I really feel, how much I really feel, my chest feels like a hundred-pound fiery fist is squeezing my heart.

Sheer panic.

Once a coward, always a coward.

What if I can’t change? If I can’t be as honest and open as he needs me to be? As reliable a friend as Grace wants me to be? What if Greg Grumbacher ruined me forever? That’s what scares me the most.

After all the male-on-male sci-fi talk, we all retire to the porch and sit around the patio table near the redwood tree that grows through the roof. Dad brings out the holy worn game box.

“Okay,” he says very seriously. “What Bailey and I are choosing to share with you tonight is a Rydell family tradition. By taking part in this game—nay, this cherished and sacred ceremony—”

I snort a little laugh while he continues his speech.

“—you are agreeing to honor our proud family heritage, which extends as far back as . . . well, I think the price sticker on the box is from around 2001, so it’s pretty ancient.”

Wanda rolls her eyes. “I’ll give it my attention for fifteen minutes, Pete.”

“No, Sergeant Mendoza,” he says dramatically, slicing his hand through the air as if he’s some stern politician at a podium, commanding attention. “You will give Settlers of Catan your attention for a full hour or two, because the colonies deserve it.”

“And because it will take you at least that long to build up your settlements,” I tell her.

“Is there a dungeon master?” Porter asks.

Dad and I both chuckle.

“What?” Porter says, grinning.

“We have so much to teach you,” I say, putting my hand on his. “And there’s no dungeon master. Wrong kind of game nerd.”

“Is this more or less boring than Monopoly?” Grace asks.

“Less,” Dad and I say together.

“Monopoly is for losers,” Dad informs her.

Porter frowns. “I love Monopoly.”

“We have an entire chest full of old board games,” I whisper loudly to him.

“I’m not going to like this, am I?” Wanda says on a heavy sigh.

“Now might be a good time to break out that expensive bottle of wine you guys brought back from San Francisco,” I suggest.

Porter grins at me and rubs his hands together excitedly. “This looks super weird. I’m so in. Let’s play.”

God, I love him. I don’t even know why I was so worried before. This is all fine now.

Dad unpacks the game and explains all the rules, confusing everyone in the process. We finally just start playing and teach as we go. They get the hang of it. I’m not sure if they like it as much as Dad and I do, but everyone seems to be having fun. We’re laughing and goofing around a lot, anyway. Everything’s going great, until about an hour into the game.

The pizza made me thirsty. I excuse myself to get some iced tea from the kitchen and ask if anyone else needs a refill. My dad does, so I leave to fetch tea for both of us. While I’m headed away from the table, my dad says, “Thanks, Mink.”

Behind me, I hear Porter ask my dad, “What did you call her?”

“Huh? Oh, ‘Mink’? That’s just a childhood nickname,” my dad says through the open doorway.

“I hear you call her that all the time,” Wanda remarks, “but you never told me why.”

“It’s actually a funny story,” Dad says.

I groan as I pour our tea, but my dad is already in storytelling mode, and I can hear him from the kitchen.

“This is how it came about. When Bailey was younger, fourteen years old, she was in the hospital for a couple of weeks.” I glance back briefly to see him giving Wanda a lift of his brows that tells me they’ve had this conversation, so she knows about the shooting. “The entire time she was there, the TV was stuck on the classic movie station. You know, with all the old movie stars—Humphrey Bogart and Cary Grant, Katharine Hepburn. Night and day, that’s all that was on. We were so worried about her, that by the time anyone thought to change the channel, she’d already started to actually like some of the movies and wouldn’t let us change it.”

I sigh dramatically as I walk back through the doorway onto the porch and set down our glasses of tea.

“Anyway, for a few days, after surgery, it was a little touch and go. And being a dad, I was worried, of course. I told her if she healed up and made it out of the hospital, I’d buy her whatever she wanted. Most girls her age would probably say, I don’t know—a car? A pony? A trip to Florida with her friends? Not Bailey. She saw those glamorous actresses wearing all those fur coats before it wasn’t PC to do so anymore, and she said, ‘Daddy, I want a mink coat.’ ”

Wanda guffaws. “Did you get her one?”

“A fake fur,” Dad says. “It was just the attitude I never forgot. And she still loves those old movies. Is everything all right, Porter?”

As I’m scooting my chair back under the table, I glance up and see that Porter has a peculiar look on his face. He looks like someone just told him his dog died.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

He’s staring at the table and won’t look at me. He was just laughing and clowning around a minute ago, now all of a sudden he’s clammed up and his jaw looks as if it’s made of stone and might break off.

Everyone’s staring at him. He shuffles around in his seat and brings his hand up with his phone. “I got a text from my mom. Gotta go, sorry.”

No way. The old I got a text trick? That’s an Artful Dodger maneuver. He just pulled my own con on me?

“What’s wrong?” I say again, standing up from the table with him.

“Nothing, nothing,” he mutters. “It’s no big deal. She just needs my help and it can’t wait. Sorry.” He seems agitated and distracted. “Thanks for dinner and stuff.”

“Anytime,” my dad says, worry creasing a line through his brow as he shares a look with Wanda. “You’re always welcome here.”

“See you, Grace,” Porter mumbles.

I can barely keep up with Porter as he strides toward the front door, and when we’re outside, he bounds down the steps without looking at me. Now I’m freaking. Maybe he really did get a text, but it wasn’t from his mom. Because there’s only one person that makes him this intense, and if he’s avoiding my dad and Wanda, I’m worried it might have something to do with Davy.

“Porter,” I call as he heads down the driveway.

“Gotta go,” he says.

That just makes me mad. He can avoid my dad all he wants, but me? “Hey! What the hell is wrong with you?”

He spins around, and his face is suddenly livid with anger. “Was this some sick game?”

“Huh?” I’m completely confused. He’s not making any sense, and his gaze is shifting all over my face. “You’re scaring me. Did something happen?” I ask. “Is this about Davy? Did he do something again? Please talk to me.”

“What?” Bewilderment clouds his face. He squeezes his eyes closed and shakes his head, mumbling, “This is so screwed up. I can’t . . . I gotta go home.”

“Porter!” I shout to his back, but he doesn’t turn around. Doesn’t look my way again. I just stand helplessly, cradling my elbows in the driveway, watching as his van rumbles to life and disappears down the street around the redwood trees.