As the silver of the hammerhead shark glides past, Porter slowly turns me around in his arms. I’m vaguely aware of the silhouettes of the people who stand farther along the viewing window, but I don’t care. In our little corner of peaceful darkness, it feels like we’re alone. With my arms circling him, I dare to dip my fingers under the loose hem of his untucked shirt, reaching upward until I touch the solid, bare skin of his back. Right over the same place on me where one of my own scars is, though I’m not sure if I subconsciously mean to do that or if it’s an accident.

He shivers violently, and it’s the sweetest victory.

A pleasant warmth spreads through my chest. The water’s reflection shimmers on the sharp lines of his cheekbones as he holds my face in both hands and bends his head to kiss me, softly, delicately, like I’m something special that deserves to be honored.

But the thing he doesn’t know, the thing that shocks even me, is that I’m not the gentle guardian spirit; I’m the hungry shark. And I fear his arm won’t be enough. I want all of him.

“You’re sweet, and sexy, and completely hot for me.”

—Heath Ledger, 10 Things I Hate About You (1999)

19

If I was worried about dying from not kissing before, now the pendulum has swung in the opposite direction. We definitely overdid it. I got home well before curfew, at eleven, but by then, Porter and I had time to eat dinner in Monterey at a cool restaurant that served a raw ahi tuna salad from Hawaii called poke—so good—and lots more time to park at Lovers Point Park and watch the sunset behind the cypress trees as the waves crashed over the beach.

Or, in our case, not watch the sunset. Which is what we ended up doing. A lot.

And now my dress is covered in grass stains, and because of Porter’s stupid sexy scruff, my face looks red and swollen, as if I got attacked by a swarm of angry bees. And did he really give me three hickeys on my neck? THREE? He swore it was an accident, and that I’m “too white” and bruise too easily. At first I got a little offended by this, but maybe it could be true, because I don’t remember any Hoover-like suction happening during the proceedings. And he did apologize a million times. . . .

Then again, I was pretty distracted, because we were lying in the grass on an elevated area above the beach, and he was pressed against me and it was delightful. I mean, nothing serious happened, really. Mostly just a lot of touching that didn’t stray to any untoward areas, unless my hips and side boobs count. (They don’t, in my opinion, but it was nice. Very nice.) But there was a lot of heavy breathing, and we both agreed once again that we are compatible arguers and kissers. And when he dropped me off at the surf shop, he tapped his temple and told me, “Today is moving up in the brain bank as best day in recent memory.”

In my own brain bank, my Artful Dodger eyes turned into cartoon hearts that pinwheeled.

But things got a little tricky after that.

“What in the name of planet Earth happened to you?” my dad said when I walked in the door, looking at my unholy, bedraggled state.

“Grace and I were goofing around outside in the grass,” I said. “Just wrestling and stuff with some other people from work. No big deal.”

He made a face. “Wrestling?”

Yeah. That sounded like me, all right. I mentally cringed.

“What happened to your mouth?” he asked. He looked appalled and concerned, like I was contagious, and held the sides of my head while he inspected me, lest he catch it too. “Did you get into poison oak or something?”

“Uh, maybe?”

“Should I get some oatmeal? I don’t have any calamine lotion. Should I go to the twenty-four-hour drugstore?”

I was pretty much horrified at this point. “I’m sure I’ll be fine. Just a mild burn or something.”

My dad narrowed his eyes at me. His gaze wandered lower. Don’t look at my neck, don’t look at my neck, don’t—

Uh-oh.

Now we were both horrified. He released my head. “Okay. If you’re sure.”

“Yep-yep-yep, so sure,” I said.

“Did you find your film-fanatic guy? What’s his name, Alex?”

I made a face, because just the mention of his name stings. “I’m not speaking to him at the moment. I think he’s got a girlfriend now, because he blew me off. And no, I haven’t found him yet.”

“Bailey—”

“Dad, just . . . please don’t.”

“Let me say this, okay?” he said, suddenly irritated, which is really unlike him, so it took me aback. And it took him a moment to calm down enough to finish. But when he spoke again, he was serious and eerily fatherly. “You have grown into a beautiful young lady, and people are going to take notice of that, which I don’t particularly relish.”

Oh, brother.

He raised a hand. “But I accept it. However, what I want to talk about is you. Because the thing is, Mink, sometimes when traumatic things happen to people, they retreat until they feel comfortable. Which is okay. But when they’re finally ready to step back into the world, they can be overconfident and make mistakes. Which is not okay. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“Not exactly.”

“Do you remember when your mom had just won that big divorce case for that state senator and was driving too fast on that icy road in Newark on the way to Mr. Katter’s party and the car slid, and then, instead of easing us back on the road, she yanked the wheel and oversteered in the other direction, and we overturned into the ditch?”

“Yeah,” I said. We all nearly died. It was a nightmare. Hard to forget.

“Think about that.”

Cryptic, but I got what he was saying. He thought I was whoring myself out with some stranger just for kicks. For a brief moment, I wanted to break down and tell him everything about Porter, that I wasn’t oversteering and throwing caution to the wind. And for the love of guns, it had been four years! How long did I have to be in “trauma” mode? Wasn’t I allowed to make some decisions for myself and enjoy life? I appreciated his heartfelt concern, but I knew what I was doing . . .

Mostly.

Anyway, that’s all he said about it. Still, my dad may be the nicest guy in the world, but he’s no dummy. The day before I was scheduled to eat dinner at Grace’s house, he suggested driving me over there so he could personally meet Grace’s parents. What could possibly go wrong? When I told her, she laughed so hard and long, I worried she was having a stroke.

In the meantime, though my kiss-stung face has returned to normal, my heart and all working body parts are absolutely not normal. Because every time Porter so much as even walks within ten feet of me at work, I have the same reaction. Four knocks on Hotbox door? I flush. Scent of coconut in the break room? I flush. Sound of Porter cracking jokes with Pangborn in the hallway? I flush.

And every time this happens, Grace is there like some taunting Greek chorus, making a little mmm-hmm noise of confirmation.

Even Pangborn notices. “Are you ill, Miss Rydell?”

“Yes,” I tell him in the break room one day before work. “I’m apparently very ill in the worst way. And I want you to know that I didn’t plan for this to happen. This was not part of my plan at all. If you want to know the truth, I had other plans for the summer!” I think of my boardwalk map, lying folded and abandoned in my purse.

Pangborn nods slowly. “I have no idea what you mean, but I support it completely.”