“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.