Alex, Approximately

“You see how picky I am about my shoes, and they only go on my feet.”

—Alicia Silverstone, Clueless (1995)

I don’t work with Porter for the next few shifts. Grace, either, which bums me out. The museum sticks me with some older lady, Michelle, who’s in her twenties and has problems counting her cash fast enough. She’s slowing down the line and it’s driving me crazy. Crazy enough to march up to Mr. Cavadini’s office, peer around the corner . . . and then just change my mind and clock out for the day instead of saying anything.

That’s how I roll.

One morning, instead of roaming the boardwalk, Sherlocking my way from shop to shop, stuffing my face with churros, I spend it pummeling Dad in two rounds of miniature golf. He took a half day off from work to hang with me, which was pretty nice. He gave me the choice of either the golf or paddleboarding—and no way in heaven or hell was I dipping my toe in the ocean after hearing Porter’s tale of terror on the high seas. Nuh-uh. I told Dad the whole story, and he was a little freaked himself. He said he’d seen Porter’s dad outside the surf shop and knew the family were surfers, but just assumed the missing-arm incident had happened a long time ago. He had no idea how it went down, or that Porter had rescued him.

See. Only ten days in town, and I was already filling Dad in on choice gossip he hadn’t heard, living here for an entire year. The man needs me, clearly.

My reward for spanking Dad’s behind in putt-putt is that I get to pick our lunch location. Since we grabbed a light breakfast before our golf excursion, I call a breakfast do-over at the Pancake Shack. It’s got a 1950s Americana diner vibe inside, and we grab stools at the counter, where a waitress in a pink uniform brings us glasses of iced tea while we wait for our pancake orders. My dreams have finally come true! Only, they haven’t, because the Pancake Shack doesn’t exactly live up to my expectations, not even their “world-famous” almond pancakes, which I give one thumb down.

When I voice my lukewarm grade, Dad sticks a fork in my order and samples a corner. “Tastes like Christmas.”

“Like those almond cookies grandma used to make.”

“The gross, crumbly ones,” he agrees. “You should have ordered a Dutch Baby. Taste mine. It’s terrific.”

His is way better, but it’s no churro.

“Still haven’t found him, huh?” he asks, and I know he’s talking about Alex. I told him the basic deal, that I’m gun-shy about confessing to Alex that I’ve moved out here, and that I’m trying to find him on my own. Dad and I are a lot alike in many (unfortunate) ways. He gets it. Mom wouldn’t. Mom would have freaked her pants off if she knew Alex even existed in the first place, so there’s that. But Mom didn’t really pay much attention to anything going on in my life back in DC, so it wasn’t like I went to any trouble to hide him. And now that I’m here, I notice that she still isn’t all that concerned, as I have yet to receive any communication from her since the initial Did Bailey arrive okay? phone calls. Whatever. I try not to think about her lack of concern too much.

From my purse, I retrieve a tourist map of the boardwalk. It’s just a cartoony one I picked up for free one morning. I’m using a marker to X out the shops that I’ve either surveyed or that don’t fall into the parameters that Alex has unwittingly provided me—can’t see the ocean from the window, not a shop with a counter, et cetera. “This is what’s left to cover,” I tell Dad, pointing the sections of the map I haven’t hit yet.

Dad grins and chuckles, shaking his head. I try to snatch the map away, but he holds it against the diner counter, moving aside the cast-iron skillet that holds his half-eaten Dutch Baby. “No, no. Let me see this marvelous thing. You’re thorough and precise, a chip off the ol’ block.”

“Ugh,” I complain. “Weirdo.”

“What? This is quality CPA blood running in your veins, right here,” he says proudly, thumping the map like a dork. “Wait, how do you know he just wasn’t working in one of these places on the day you went by? Or unloading a truck out in the alley?”

“I don’t, but I figure I’ll hit every shop twice.” I show him my homemade legend on the corner of the map. Dots for even-day visits, squares for odd. Male symbol for a boy my age working there—but ruled out as a possibility for Alex upon initial assessment. Triangles for churro cart locations. And wavy lines for all three stray boardwalk cats I’ve found so far, including Señor Don Gato.

He puts his arm around my shoulder and kisses the side of my head. “With superior deductive skills like this, how could you not find him? And if he’s not worth the hunt, you have nothing to be ashamed of.”

“I knew I liked you.”

“You kind of have to,” he says with a grin.

I grin back.

Someone walks over to the counter, and Dad leans forward to look past me. His face goes all funny. He clears his throat. “Good morning, Sergeant Mendoza.”

Waiting for a waitress to take her order is a tall, curvy Latina cop in a navy uniform. Wavy hair, brown woven through with strands of gray, is pulled tight into a thick ponytail at the base of her neck. A pair of dark purple sunglasses sits on her face. I recognize those: She’s the cop who flashed her lights at Davy and Porter at the crosswalk, the first day I got into town.

“Morning, Pete,” she says in a husky voice. One corner of her mouth curls at the corner. Just slightly. Then her face turns unreadable. I think she’s peering down at me, but it’s hard to tell, especially with the sunglasses on. “Dutch Baby?” she says.

“You know it,” my dad answers, and laughs in an odd way.

I look between them. My dad clears his throat again. “Wanda, this is my daughter, Bailey. Bailey, this is Sergeant Wanda Mendoza of the Coronado Cove Police Department.”

Like I couldn’t figure that out. She smiles and sticks out her arm to offer me a firm handshake. Wow. Knuckle-cracking firm. I’m awake now. And I’m not sure, but I think she might be uncomfortable. Do cops get nervous? I didn’t think that was possible.

“Heard a great deal about you, Bailey.” She has? Who the heck is this and why hasn’t Dad mentioned her? Are they friends?

“I do the sergeant’s taxes,” Dad explains, but it sounds like a lie, and both of them are looking in different places—him at the counter and her at the ceiling. When her head tilts back down, she taps her fingernails on the counter. I glance at the gun holstered to her hip. I don’t like guns; they make me uncomfortable, so I guess we’re even.

“I like your brows,” she finally says. “Glamorous.”

I’m caught off guard for a second. Then I’m pleased. “I do them myself,” I tell her. Finally someone who appreciates the importance of a good arch. Plucking is painful.

“Impressive,” she confirms. “So, how’re you liking California?”

“It’s a different planet.” I realize that might not sound positive, so I add, “I like the redwoods and the churros.”

That makes her smile. Almost. She lifts her chin toward my dad. “Have you taken her to the posole truck?”

“Not yet,” he says. “She’s never had posole. Have you?” he asks, giving me a questioning look.

“No clue what you’re talking about.”

She blows out a breath and shakes her head like Dad has let down his entire country. “I’ve got a messed-up schedule right now, but sometime in the next couple of weeks, we should take her.”

We? Take her? They are a we?

“It will knock your socks off,” Dad assures me while the cop places a to-go order with the waitress. He stands and fumbles with his wallet. “That reminds me . . . Bailey, give me a second. I need to talk to the sergeant about something.” He hands me a wad of cash to pay for our check and then he walks with the cop down the counter, where they lean a little closer, but don’t seem to be talking about anything all that important. That’s when it all comes into focus.

Jeezy creezy. My dad’s dating a cop.

She seems nice. Has a great handshake. Pretty hot. The same height as him. Hope she likes him as much as he likes her, because he’s smiling like a doofus. Then I hear her quietly laughing at something he says, and see her push her purple glasses up to rest atop her head and that makes me feel better.

As I wait for the CPA–cop macking session to come to an end, I pack up my boardwalk map and look around the diner. Without my dad’s body blocking the view, I now notice the person who’s been sitting on the stool adjacent to his. It’s a boy about my age with sandy-blond hair. He’s eating eggs and drinking coffee. When he moves his arm, I see two things: (A) He’s wearing a red T-shirt screen-printed in black with Cary Grant’s face, and (B) he’s reading a guide to the summer film festival.

My heart picks up speed as my gaze flicks over him. He’s eating slowly, engrossed in his reading, taking small bites of scrambled eggs. His well-fitting shorts reveal toned, tan legs. Worn sandals slap against the counter’s metal footrest as his knee bounces. The orange-and-blue key chain sitting next to his plate is printed with a familiar logo that I’ve seen on the boardwalk: Killian’s Whale Tours. That’s not by definition a retail shop, but it is a storefront along the boardwalk that has a view of the ocean. One with a counter, and possibly a family-owned business. I mentally call up my map and place the shop about three stores away from a churro cart. No resident cat, but then again, cats are mobile.

Could it be . . . ?

My brain is telling me to slow down, but my heart is thinking, Pennies from heaven!

He’s cute. But he’s no Porter.

God, what’s wrong with me? Who cares about stupid old Porter, anyway? I push him out of my mind and focus on what’s in front of me, try to match it to the Alex I have in my mind. Could this guy be witty? Sensitive? He looks well-groomed. Are serial killers well-groomed?

This is harder than I thought it would be.

I pull myself together and remember that if it is Alex, he doesn’t know who I am. To him, I’m just a girl sitting in a diner. I’m not Mink. Deep breath.

“Grant,” I say.

He looks up from the brochure. “Excuse me?”

“Your shirt,” I explain. “Cary Grant. Only Angels Have Wings, if I’m not mistaken.” I’m not. I’m totally showing off. What a total geek I am, but I can’t help myself.

His head drops. He smiles now, and he’s got great teeth, a big, white smile. “Yes. You’re the second person ever to recognize that, and I’ve been wearing this for almost a year.” His voice isn’t what I imagined. Sharper, somehow. But still good.

“I’m a huge Grant buff,” I say. “Bringing Up Baby, The Philadelphia Story, The Awful Truth, His Girl Friday.” I tick them off on my fingers, getting a little carried away and flushed in the cheeks. Reel it back in, Rydell. I clear my throat. “And North by Northwest, of course,” I add, dangling that like the bait that it is.

“Everyone loves that,” he agrees.

Huh. Can’t tell if he’s being droll or sarcastic. Then again, Alex has a superior sense of humor. Hard to tell.

He thinks for a moment, then says, “If I had to pick one, it would be My Favorite Wife.”

“Seriously? I love that movie,” I say. “Irene Dunne and Randolph Scott are brilliant.”

“Adam and Eve,” he agrees, smiling.

“I’ve seen it a hundred times.”

“You know, Randolph Scott and Cary Grant were lovers.”

I nod. “Probably. No one’s ever proven it, but I don’t doubt it. I think he probably liked men and women.” I shrug. Who cares anyway? Cary Grant was sex on a stick. More important, he was charm on a stick. At least on the big screen. I don’t really care what he did off the screen.

“Patrick, by the way,” he says, and it takes me a second to realize he’s introducing himself.

Patrick. Huh. Not Alex, but Patrick? Of course, we aren’t using our real names online, so that means nothing. More important, does this feel right? I honestly can’t tell, but my pulse is racing, so if that’s any indication, maybe that’s a yes? And he still doesn’t know to connect the Me sitting here with the Online Me, so I guess it’s okay to give out my real name now. Besides, my dad’s a few feet away, not to mention a cop with a badass handshake.

“I’m Bailey,” I say, then decide to add, “I’m new in town.”

“Cool. Nice to meet another movie aficionado.” He slides the film festival brochure toward me. “We have a summer film festival every year. This year’s lineup is so-so. A few good things, like the Georges Méliès shorts and North by Northwest.”

Heart. Pounding. So. Fast.

“I would love to see all of those,” I squeak out in a voice higher than Grace’s.

“Right?” he says, grabbing his keys and gesturing toward the festival brochure. “Keep that. It’s hot off the presses. Anyway, gotta get back to work. I’m at the whale tours up on the boardwalk—Killian’s. Orange and blue, down by the big gold Ferris wheel. Can’t miss it. If you ever want to have coffee and talk about Cary Grant, come by and see me.”

“I might take you up on that offer.” I hate coffee, but whatever. It sounds so adult, so romantic. This is not a boy who’d get me fired or embarrass me in front of dozens of people. This boy is sophisticated. Whale watching! That sounds so much nicer than surfing.

He raises a hand, a triangle of toast clamped in his mouth, and jogs out the front door.

I’m reeling. Seriously, truly reeling.

“Who was that?” my dad murmurs over my shoulder, watching Patrick get into what appears to be some sort of red Jeep.

“I’m not one hundred percent sure,” I say. “But I think I’m getting warmer.”

LUMIÈRE FILM FANATICS COMMUNITY PRIVATE MESSAGES>ALEX>NEW!

@mink: Anything new in your life?

@alex: Like . . . ?

@mink: I don’t know. Something happened recently that made me have a little more hope about the future.

@alex: Me too, actually, now that you mention it. Maybe. For your future hope . . . how far ahead are we talking? Tomorrow? Next week? (Next month?)

@mink: I’m a one-step-at-a-time kinda gal. So I guess I’ll try tomorrow and see where that leads.

@alex: You definitely don’t dive into anything, do you? (I was hinting.)

@mink: I really don’t. (I know you were.)

@alex: Maybe sometimes you should. Take a chance. Do something crazy. (Are you going to ask your dad about the film festival?

@mink: Is that what you would do? (Maybe I already have.)

@alex: With the right person? Yes. (When will you let me know?)

@mink: Interesting. (He’s thinking about it. And so am I.)