Porter (Men of Lovibond 3)

I’ve only seen Porter for a few minutes over the last several days. He gave me the website assignment on Monday and basically disappeared. I appreciate the obvious confidence he must have in me and my abilities, but it’s lonely being by myself so much. I’m confident in my designs, but it would have been nice to have had him here to approve what I’ve done.

“Hey. Everything going okay in here?”

I look up from my computer screen and smile—maybe a little too much—when I see Porter standing in the doorway. “It’s a little lonesome… but all is well.”

“You’ve been sitting in that same spot for three days working on the same thing. Aren’t you stir-crazy?”

“A little. I should probably get up and walk around a bit.” It’s not good to sit in the same position for too long.

“Feel like taking a drive with me?”

A drive… Porter and I in a car… just the two of us. That would probably blur the employee-intern line even more than eating burgers together. My daddy would not approve. “I’m game. Are we riding in the Porsche?”

“No. I’d never drive it to the brewery. I’m in my truck.”

“Where are we going?”

“Not sure. I just know it’ll be away from here.” I follow Porter out of the art department. “Quick detour to grab my keys.”

I stand at his office door waiting for him. “Should I go clock out?”

“No need.”

I watch the door that connects the offices to the warehouse, hoping and praying my dad doesn’t come through it and catch me leaving the brewery with Porter. Doesn’t matter if I’m twenty-one and a college graduate or not. That would not go over well with him. He’s already made that much clear.

Porter stops at Molly’s office doorway. “Frankee and I are going to step out of the office for a little while.”

Frankee and I are going to step out of the office for a little while? Shit. Shit. Shit. That sounds suspicious. God, I hope she doesn’t jump to conclusions. Or say anything to my dad.

The heat is nearly suffocating as soon as we walk out of the brewery. “I bet it’s at least ninety.”

“If it’s ninety out here then it’ll be a hundred and ninety in my truck.”

Porter’s monster black Ford pickup is jacked up and blacked out from top to bottom. It’s badass. “This is not what I expected you to drive.”

“What did you expect?”

“A luxury car.”

“Because my other car is a classic Porsche?”

“I guess.”

Porter follows me to the passenger door and opens it. I’m talking legit. He opens it for me like a gentleman. Like my dad still does for my mom. Like guys my age don’t do. Or at least the ones I’ve dated.

I use the running board to less than gracefully climb into the passenger seat. Thank God I’m wearing Chucks and not some kind of heel. “Short people and tall trucks don’t go together.”

“Guess that means you don’t drive a monster truck?”

“I drive a Honda.” Porter starts the engine and its rumble matches its badass exterior. “It’s big and loud. I guess men enjoy that—the roar of a big motor.”

“We like ‘em big and loud.”

“Because size matters?” Now I’m the one making statements with sexual undertones.

He chuckles. “Can’t lie. Size matters.”

“I like it, even if I do need a ladder to climb into it.”

He turns on the radio. “Want the eighties or nineties station?”

“I’m partial to music from those decades, but I listen to lots of other kinds of music too.”

“I don’t mind eighties or nineties. Nice change of pace for me.”

Porter chooses the eighties station on his satellite radio and Toto’s ‘Africa’ is playing. “Like that one?”

“Love it.”

He’s quiet as he drives down the road and I keep sneaking peeks at him. “Where are we going?”

He stares ahead for a moment. “I don’t know.”

I don’t know Porter well, but I can still recognize that his behavior is odd. “Is everything okay?”

He grips the wheel. “No, Frankee. Everything is not okay. But I don’t want to talk about it while I’m driving.”

Shit. Is he unhappy with my work? Is he going to fire me?

He wouldn’t ask me to leave the brewery just so he could let me go. That doesn’t make sense. Something else must be going on. But what? “I don’t understand what’s happening here.”

“I know, and I’m sorry.” He takes one hand from the steering wheel and pushes it through his hair from front to back. “Would it be okay if I took you to my condo?”

Ohhh… he wants sex. I should have been able to figure that one out when he asked me to go riding with him.

You are so dumb, Frankee.

Porter is incredibly handsome. I’m sure he could ask a dozen women to go to his condo for sex and every one of them would probably say yes. But I’m not that way. I don’t fall onto my back and spread my legs for a guy because he’s hot. That doesn’t make me a prude or goody two-shoes. Just means I have standards.

“I’m sorry if I gave you the impression that I was that kind of girl. I’m not.”

“No, Frankee. God, no. I don’t want to take you to my house for sex. That’s the last thing on my mind right now. I need to talk to you about something. Something that’s really important to me.”

“I thought…” Shit. How humiliating. I want to melt and soak into the leather seat beneath me. “I’m terribly sorry. You can take me to your house if you’d like.”

I’m too embarrassed to utter another word so music is the only noise in the cab of Porter’s truck during the rest of the drive. I’m grateful for the noise. It takes away from the awkward silence.

We park and I follow Porter through the lower-level parking lot to an elevator. Silence all the way until we’re inside his condo. “Want something to drink?”

It’s a hot June day in Alabama. It’s so hot that you almost need an IV to stay hydrated. “I’d take some water.”

One look and I learn two things about Porter: he’s clean and organized. His gray living room’s decor is minimal with streamline furnishings. And spotless. Everything has its place.

“I like your condo. Have you been here long?”

“Two years.”

I bet the cost of living in this area is astronomical. “The area is great. You have so many nearby dining and entertainment options. That must be nice.”

“One of the reasons I chose this place.”

Porter hands a bottled water to me before sitting in the chair beside the sofa. “I’m sure you must think I’m acting crazy.”

“I wouldn’t say crazy. Maybe a little… unusual?”

He twists the top off his bottled water and drinks close to half. “I know we don’t know each other well, but you’re the first person who came to mind when I recently got some bad news.”

I have no idea what that means. “What’s on your mind?”

“My mom was just diagnosed with breast cancer.”

Oh. I get it now—why he asked me here to talk. “I’m sorry to hear that. Did your mom say what stage she has?”

“One B?”

“Did she explain the stages and what they mean?”

“No. She’s so shaken that I’m not sure she’s had time to absorb anything about the stages or treatments.”

That’s understandable. “One B is early breast cancer. The tumor is on the smaller side and has only spread to a few lymph nodes. The five-year survival rate is really high.”

“So one B is a good one to have? I mean, as good as it can be with cancer?”

“As far as cancer goes, there are definitely worse stages.”

The lines in Porter’s face ease. “Was your mom’s bad?”

“She had two A. It’s a little more advanced than one B. The five-year survival rate for her kind is around ninety-three percent.”

“And my mom’s kind is higher than that?”

“Oh, definitely. I’m not positive, but I think they may even predict it to be one hundred percent.”

Porter’s face almost completely relaxes.

Surgery. Radiation. Chemo. Side effects. Expectations. I tell Porter everything I know about breast cancer and its treatments. I answer his hundred and one questions, but more importantly I tell him what to expect as his mother undergoes treatment—the important stuff no one tells you.

“Where does your mother live?”

“Mobile.”

“Is that where you grew up?”

“Yeah.”