Alex, Approximately

“Life does not stop and start at your convenience.”

—John Goodman, The Big Lebowski (1998)

Porter was right. I get out of the museum in plenty of time to beat dad home from his trip. I’m so tired, I even go back to sleep for a few more hours. When I wake a second time, it’s almost time for me to get ready for another shift at the Cave, which is crazy. I might as well just move in there. But it’s hard to be too sour about it, because I spent the night with a boy.

SPENT.

NIGHT.

BOY.

That’s right. I did that. I did some other thing too, and they were all excellent. It’s a beautiful day, the sun is shining, and I don’t even care that I have to spend four hours in the Hotbox. At least I don’t have to work a full shift today.

I shower and dress before bounding downstairs just in time to run into Dad and Wanda returning from San Francisco. Talk about two exhausted people. They look happy, though. I don’t really want to know what they did all night, so I don’t pry. But they dig around in the trunk of my dad’s muscle car until they find the gifts they bought for me: a leopard-print scarf and a pair of matching sunglasses.

“To go with Baby,” my dad says, looking hopeful but unsure.

“The scarf is to cover up any future hickeys,” Wanda adds, one side of her mouth tilting up.

Oh, God. Her, too? Does everyone know? My dad tries to repress a smile. “I’m sorry, kiddo. It’s sort of funny, you have to admit.”

Wanda crosses her arms over her chest. “Own it, I say. If your dad gave me a hickey and anyone at the station gave me grief, I’d tell them where they could go. I picked out the sunglasses, by the way.”

I sigh deeply and slide them on. The lenses are dark and huge, brand-new, but very Italian retro cool. “They’re fantastic, thank you. And I hate both of you for the scarf, but it’s still awesome. Stop looking at my neck, Dad. There are no new hickeys.” I checked just to be sure.

After they give me a briefing of their day in the Bay Area, I race out the door and drive back to the Cave. I know Porter’s working, and I’m zipping and floating, high as a kite, eager to see him again. I want to know if he feels as good as I feel after last night. I also want to see Grace and tell her how crazy things were. Though this time, I don’t think I’ll be sharing so many details. Some things are meant to be private. What happens in Room 1001 stays in Room 1001.

But when I park Baby in my normal spot, I see Porter standing outside his van, which is weird. He’s typically inside the building long before I get there. It’s not just that. Something’s wrong: He’s holding his head in his hands.

I slam on the brakes and jump off the scooter, race over to him. He doesn’t acknowledge me. When I pull his hands away from his face, tears are streaming down his cheeks.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

His voice is hoarse and barely there. “Pangborn.”

“What?” I demand, my stomach dropping.

“He didn’t show up for work this morning,” he says. “It happened sometime last night in his home. There wasn’t anything we could’ve done. He lied to me about where the cancer was. It was pancreatic this time, not colon.”

“I don’t understand what you’re saying.” I’m starting to shake all over.

“He’s dead, Bailey. Pangborn’s dead.”

He gasps for a single shaky breath, and curls up against me, sobbing for a second along with me, and then goes quiet and limp in my arms.

The funeral is four days later. I think half of Coronado Cove shows up, and it doesn’t surprise me. He was probably the nicest man in town.

I sort of fell apart the first couple of days. The thought of Porter and me doing what we were doing while Pangborn was dying was a pretty heavy burden. Porter was right: There was nothing we could have done. Pangborn’s cancer was advanced. His younger sister tells Grace and me at the funeral that the doctor had given him anywhere from a few days to a few weeks. She says when it’s at that stage, some people get diagnosed and die that week. He didn’t know when it would happen, so he kept living his life normally.

“He was stubborn that way,” she says in a feminine voice that sounds strangely familiar to his. She lives a couple of hours down the coast with her husband, in a small town near Big Sur. I’m relieved to learn that she’s adopting Daisy, Pangborn’s dog.

We leave the church and drive to the cemetery. I can’t find Grace at the graveside service, so I stand with my dad and Wanda. It’s really crowded. They’ve just played “Me and Julio Down by the School Yard” to end the service, which, it turns out, was Pangborn’s favorite song. This makes me fall apart all over again, so I’m in a weakened state, sniffling on my dad’s shoulder, when the Roths walk up: all four of them.

Well.

I’m too tired to keep this charade up, and it seems like a shame to dishonor Pangborn’s memory. So I throw caution to the wind and my arms around Porter’s torso.

Not in a casual we’re friends way either.

He hesitates for a second, and then wraps me in a tight embrace, holding me for an amount of time that’s longer than appropriate, but I just don’t care. Before he lets me go, he whispers in my ear, “You sure about this?”

I whisper back, “It’s time.”

When we pull apart, Mrs. Roth hugs my neck briefly—she’s wearing a fragrant, fresh flower tucked over one ear that tickles my cheek—and Mr. Roth surprises me by squeezing the back of my neck, which almost makes me cry again, and then I finally face my dad. I can tell by the funny look on his face that he’s tallying things up and wondering how in the hell I know this family. His gaze darts to Mr. Roth’s arm and a moment of clarity dawns.

“Dad, this is Mr. and Mrs. Roth, and Porter and his sister, Lana.”

My dad extends his hand and greets the Roths, and Wanda already knows them, so they’re saying hello to her, too. And then Porter steps forward and faces my dad. I’m suddenly nervous. My dad’s never really met any boys who were interested in me, and he’s definitely never met any boys whom he specifically forbid me to see . . . and I specifically went behind his back and saw anyway. And though, in my eyes, Porter has never looked more handsome, dressed up in a black suit and tie, he’s still sporting that mane of unruly curls that kisses the tops of his shoulders and all that scruff on his jaw. On Mr. Roth, tattoos peek out around the collar of his shirt on his neck. So no, the Roths aren’t exactly prim and proper. If my mom were standing here doing the judging, she would be looking down her nose. I mentally cross my fingers and hope my dad won’t be that way.

After an uncomfortable pause, Dad says, “You’re the boy from work who recovered my daughter’s scooter when it was stolen.”

My heart stops.

“Yes, sir,” Porter answers after a long moment, not blinking. Defensive. Bullish.

My dad sticks his hand out. “Thank you for that,” he says, pumping Porter’s arm heartily, using his other hand to cover Porter’s in one of those extra-good handshakes—making it seem as if Porter saved my life and not a measly bike.

My heart starts again.

“Yes, sir,” Porter says, this time visibly relieved. “Not a problem.”

That was it? No snotty comments about the hickeys? No accusations? No fifty questions or awkwardness? God, I couldn’t love my dad more than I do right now. I don’t deserve him.

“You really didn’t get a look at who stole it, huh?” Wanda says, narrowing her eyes at Porter. “Because I’d really like to know if you have any information.”

Crap.

“Uh . . .” Porter scratches the back of his head.

Lana smacks her gum. “What do you mean? It was—”

“Shut it, Lana,” Porter mumbles.

Wanda turns her narrowed eyes on me now. “I remember someone eyeing your scooter at the posole truck a few days before it got jacked.”

Oh, crud. She really doesn’t miss anything, does she? Guess that’s why she’s a cop.

Mr. Roth puts a hand up. “Sergeant Mendoza, Porter and I have had a long talk about this, and I think we all want the same thing. Hell, we probably want it even more than you do.” Mr. Roth suspiciously eyes my dad, who is probably the only person here who hasn’t put two and two together that Davy is the one who stole my scooter—or maybe he has. I can’t tell. Regardless, Mr. Roth clears his throat and says, “What with my kid getting pummeled that day, driving out to Timbuktu to get her bike back.”

Too much information in front of my dad, ugh.

“I wouldn’t say ‘pummeled,’ ” Porter argues good-humoredly. “You should’ve seen the other guy.”

Mr. Roth ignores him and continues. “What I’m trying to say is that no one wants to punish that joker more than I do. But Porter handled things the best way he knew how at the time, and I support that.”

“Hey, I got a kid,” Wanda says. “And off the record, I don’t disagree with you. But that ‘joker’ is still out there, and mark my words, he’s going to strike again. Next time, you may not be so lucky. He may hurt himself or someone else.”

Mr. Roth nods. “I hear you loud and clear. I worry about it all the time. In fact, I saw him hobbling around on the boardwalk last week and it was all I could do not to put him in the hospital again.”

A knot in my gut tightens. Last I’d heard, Porter had found out through the rumor mill that Davy had been laid up at home for the last couple of weeks due to Porter reinjuring his knee during the fight at Fast Mike’s garage. Guess he’s back on his feet again.

Wanda points a finger around our group. “Make me a promise, all of you. Next time Davy Truand does anything, or even starts to do anything, you call nine-one-one and tell them to send me. Let’s not meet again at another funeral, okay?”

After the service, my dad doesn’t give me any grief about Porter. He doesn’t even give me any grief about Davy being the one who stole my scooter. So when we’re alone, I just tell him that I’m sorry I kept it all from him, and I explain why I did, and that I won’t do it again. Ever, ever, ever.

“It hurts me that you felt the need to lie, Mink,” he says.

And that makes me cry all over again.

And because he’s the nicest guy in the world, he just holds me until I’m all dried out. And when I’m no longer in danger of drowning the entire cemetery in my misery, à la Alice in Wonderland, he straightens me up and lets me go home with Porter for the rest of the afternoon.

The Roths live in an old house a block away from the beach on the outskirts of town in a neighborhood that probably was halfway nice ten years ago. Now it’s starting to get a little rundown, and half the homes have FOR SALE signs in the sandy yards. Their clapboard fence is sagging, the cedar paneling is starting to buckle, and the brutal ocean wind has beaten up the wind chimes that line the gutters. But when I walk inside, it smells like surf wax and wood, and it’s stuffed from ceiling to floor with trophies and driftwood and dried starfish and family photos and a bright red Hawaiian hibiscus tablecloth on the kitchen table.

“I’m starving,” Lana says. “Funerals make me hungry.”

“Me too,” Mrs. Roth says. “We need comfort food. P&P?”

“What’s P&P?” I ask.

“Popcorn and peanuts,” Porter informs me.

She looks around for approval, and everyone nods. I guess this is a Roth family tradition. Sounds a little strange, but I’m on a winning streak with food around this town, so who am I to argue? And when she pops the popcorn in a giant pan on the stove with real kernels, it smells so good, I actually salivate.

While she’s salting the popcorn, Porter goes to his room and changes out of his suit, and I help Mrs. Roth dig out bowls in the kitchen. It’s weird being alone with her, and I secretly wish Porter would hurry up. Now that he’s not here as a buffer, I feel like an actor shooting a scene who’s blanking on all her lines. What am I supposed to be saying? Maybe I need cue cards.

“How’s your mom feel about you being out here in California?” she asks out of the blue.

“I don’t know,” I say. “I haven’t heard from her.”

“Are you not close?”

I shrug. “I thought so. This is the first time I’ve been away from h-home.” Man. Seriously? I can’t cry again. Funerals are the worst. I swipe away tears before they have a chance to fall, and shake it off.

“I’m sorry, sweetie,” Mrs. Roth says in a kind voice. “I didn’t mean to dredge up bad stuff.”

“It’s just that she hasn’t even e-mailed or texted. I’ve been gone for weeks. You’d think she’d want to know if I’m okay. I could be dead, and she wouldn’t even know.”

“Have you tried calling her?”

I shake my head.

“Does your dad talk to her?”

“I don’t know.”

“Maybe you should ask him. At least talk to him about it. She could be going through something in her marriage or at work—you never know. She might need to hear from you first. Sometimes parents aren’t very good at being grown-ups.”

She pats my shoulder, and it reminds me of Pangborn.

We head to a sofa in the den under a giant wooden surfboard suspended from exposed rafters; the board is engraved in pretty cursive with the word PENNYWISE. I sit in the middle of Porter and Lana, holding a big plastic bowl of popcorn with just the right amount of salt and roasted peanuts. The peanuts are heavy and fall to the bottom of the bowl, so we’re forced to constantly shake it up and hunt for them, making the popcorn spill all over our laps, which they argue is half the fun. The Roths sit nearby in a pair of recliners, though Mr. Roth’s recliner looks like it was manufactured in 1979.

“It’s his favorite chair, Bailey, and he won’t give it up,” Mrs. Roth says, stretching her arm out to touch Mr. Roth’s face. “Don’t look at it too long or it will grow legs and walk out of here.”

Lana giggles. Mr. Roth just grunts and almost smiles. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him kiss his wife’s hand before she takes it away.

While eating our feast, we watch The Big Lebowski, which is sort of bizarre, because Alex was trying to get me to watch this a couple of months ago. And the Roths have it on DVD, so they are all amazed I’ve never seen it. Turns out, it’s really good. And what’s even better, in addition to Porter preparing me for the sound of gunshots in the movie—so I won’t be caught off guard—and quoting lines along with the actors, which makes me smile despite the dreary events of the day, is when he leans close and whispers into my ear, “You belong here with me.”

And for that moment, I believe that I do.