Sunglasses 17: Hating in Line

Mel and I exited our room to see Omaira rummaging inside the the aggressive sculpture that was her car. I was surprised it even had a trunk.

She shut it as we neared, then turned and swept her gaze over us. With those sharp cheekbones and icy glare—the glare was for me—Omaira was a bit like an aggressive sculpture herself.

“You didn’t have to wait,” Mel said.

“I wanted to,” she answered cooly.

“Great. Let's get on the road.”

Ten minutes later, we were following Omaira’s car along the busy streets of Pierre. With a population under twenty thousand, “busy” might have been an overstatement for anyone but me. Most people probably thought South Dakota's capital was a wide spot in the road, but Pierre was five times the size of Hoisington—and Hoisington was a hundred times bigger than Drywell.

“This road has five lanes,” I said, then repeated it to myself like an idiot. “Five lanes.” One of them was the turn lane in the middle, but still.

“You’ve never been on a five-lane road?” Mel asked. Her glasses were back on, and I was already missing the way her gaze made me feel like the center of the world. But she looked cute in the jaunty red-and-white scarf she’d looped around her neck and tucked into her open shirt.

“Nope.”

“Seriously?” She sounded taken aback.

“Don’t think so. I went to Wichita when I was little, which is bigger than Pierre. Zoo field trip.” I remembered a bunch of us noisy kids walking the paths in the cool morning air while teachers did their best to contain our manic energy. “The zebras were my favorite. Hey, could a shifter pretend to be an animal and live in a zoo?”

“No,” Mel answered at once, smiling. “People can always tell when an animal is a shifter. Maybe not right away, but eventually.” Her body went taut. “Hang on. That was an expert subject change. We were talking about roads.”

I suppressed a sigh. “I only remember four lanes in Wichita.”

Mel was quiet for several seconds. “St. Louis would probably feel like a different planet,” she said. The words were subdued.

It hadn't been a question, so I remained quiet, but balls of unease rolled around my stomach like lead shot at the thought of visiting Mel’s home city. Heavy traffic. Towering buildings. Tons of people way more interesting than me.

“I know what cities are like,” I finally said, even as the street we were on continued to make me feel like a hick. “I see them on TV all the time.” It was a lame line, but Mel was nice enough not to call me on it. 

Up ahead, Omaira’s low-slung supercar whipped through a hard turn, clinging to the road like its tires were sticky.

Mel made an amused sound. “Show-off.” 

She downshifted and took the same turn at a saner speed. We drove a couple blocks in silence, heading away from the main drag.

“There it is.” She pointed at a white brick building with large glass windows. Square and shabby, but with a full parking lot.

“Krimm’s Koffee,” I said, reading the yellow plastic sign on a weathered pole next to the entrance. The sign was faded and cracked, its black bygone lettering surrounded by a few curvy four-point stars. “Looks vintage,” I added politely.

“Krimm’s has been here since the sixties,” she confirmed, grinning. 

Mel pulled into the lot while Omaira parked on the street. 

“The sign is original,” she continued, effortlessly pulling into a tight spot. “I tracked down a similar typeface for a retro ad once. Like a tribute.” The car fell silent. “Jeremy…” she said wistfully.

I felt ambushed by a stab of jealously. “Who’s Jeremy?”

Mel laughed. “Jeremy is the name of the font. Issued by a company called Photo-Lettering in the first half of the Sixties.” She sighed. “I’ve never been able to find a digital version.”

“So…how do I get you to look at me that way?” I poked my thumb toward the sign. “The way you look at Jeremy.”

Something subtle shifted in her expression, but it was hard to say what with her eyes hidden. She turned from the sign to me, and I could see my face reflected on her glasses in the morning sun. “Who says I’m not?” she asked quietly, her voice gaining that husk that made me crazy.

I swore the temperature shot up a couple degrees. Damn.

“Let me see your eyes,” I breathed, unable to help myself.

Mel looked surprised, but then her expression warmed even more. Like before, I saw that hint of shyness that grabbed me by the heart. With one index finger she pulled the aviators down just enough. Her primal eyes met mine, and I felt my muscles ease. I was becoming addicted to her attention.

“You’re gonna love this place,” she said. Then she winked, and slid the glasses back up.

Mel exited the roadster in one fluid motion; meanwhile it took my flustered ass three tries to locate the door handle. By the time I was on my feet—jacket in hand to appease Mel’s protectiveness—Omaira had joined us in the parking lot.

“I don’t recognize any cars,” Mel said, peering around. “I thought everyone was on the way?” 

Omaira’s perfectly shaped eyebrow rose like a little drawbridge. “They are. They should arrive within an hour. Or two.” She strode toward the front door.

Realization hit us both at the exact same moment. “Fuck,” we said.

“You left Hoisington early—”

“I was hours ahead—”

We both stopped talking. The silence had that self-conscious buzz when you’ve just done something stupid in front an audience. Our heads turned to look at the door as it bumped closed.

“Anyone who stayed in Hoisington is still hours away,” Mel said flatly.

“Your friend just conned us, right?”

“Super played,” she agreed.

“So that we…” I let it trail away. I wanted to be wrong.

“So that we wouldn’t have hours to ourselves in a motel room?” Her head shook in disbelief. “Yu-p,” she answered, popping the “p.” Reluctantly, an admiring smile surfaced. “Clever bitch.” 

Oddly, I found myself only mildly annoyed. I even appreciated the way Omaira had bluffed past the time mismatch on sheer confidence. Maybe my reaction was due to Mel. She clearly valued their friendship, and that suggested Omaira wasn’t acting petty but genuinely protecting her friend.

Or maybe it was because we’d already fixed what Omaira had tried to break.

Beside me, Mel was regathering her long mahogany hair. My eyes caught on the bright elastic band stowed loosely on a finger as she combed through it. Seeing it partially down made it clear how luxuriant it was. God, I wanted to run my own fingers through it…or see it spread across a white pillow. I had to duck my gaze to the asphalt and will my thoughts to change course.

“How’s that?” she asked.

I looked up. Freshly secured, Mel’s ponytail was fully “in control” for the first time since I’d seen her. 

“It looks—”

A chilly breeze whipped up, and I watched one unruly lock work loose. An overpowering wave of affection gripped me as the gently curled strands came to rest against her cheek. Reaching out, I gently captured it between my thumb and forefinger.

Mel froze. My heart was racing as I slowly ran the lock back, my fingers brushing into her hair. Mel’s lips parted, but she kept quiet. Her cheeks had darkened a shade. The heat of her skin seemed to kiss my fingertips as I carefully tucked it behind her ear.

“Looks perfect,” I said roughly.

“Thanks.” The reply was a few seconds late. Turning distractedly, she pulled open the door and we went inside.

Krimm’s had a classic diner interior. Like a grizzled survivor, everything was clean but battered. Its coffee-ringed Formica booths and tarnished metal stools had achieved dignity entirely through age. It was the sort of place I’d seen in a lot of the shows I’d watched growing up, only with authentic grease stains that somehow added to its charm.

The air smelled like stale coffee and cinnamon, a surprisingly pleasant combo. I followed Mel towards a line of customers in front of a massive glass case, and a new scent—apple?—mixed nicely with the rest.

We sidled up next to Omaira, who was already in line. I went onto my toes to try and get a glimpse inside the case. My stomach grumbled with freshly awakened hunger.

“There’s a full bakery next door,” Mel told me. “The same family owns both businesses. But they make one item you can only buy at Krimm’s.” 

“What?” I asked. I was dangerously close to drooling.

“You have to wait,” Mel said sweetly. She slanted a significant look at Omaira. “Sort of like how we’ll be waiting for everyone else to show up.”

Her friend shrugged, supremely unbothered. “I thought Adriana and Luiz would ‘ave arrived, but they must be souvenir hunting.”

“Because they knew no one else would be here,” Mel murmured.

The line shuffled forward as Omaira rolled her hand in a little flourish as if to say “oh well.”

I was struck again by their differences. Mel’s movements were graceful perfection—like that ballerina performance I’d witnessed in my childhood—while Omaira’s were elaborate and ornate. Her every gesture had exaggerated, almost theatrical timing. If she’d been on a stage I would have recognized every pose from the back row.

“What do you do, Omaira?” I asked suddenly.

She regarded me cooly, deciding if I rated a response. Finally, she said, “I am a saleswoman.”

I blinked. “What do you sell?”

“Perfume. Exclusive resorts. Cars. Swimsuits. Swimsuit issues. A Danish cruise line. Colombia.”

I started. “Columbia?”

Her indulgent smile unfurled like a flower. “Por supuesto. By way of the Ministry of Tourism. And, of a certainty, the allure of sex.” Her plump lips gathered into a near-pout, turning her smile into sensual suggestion. “The last I sometimes do pro bono. Care to see?” Then she winked.

Every alarm bell I had went off. I didn’t know if Omaira was genuinely flirting or just trying to prove something to her friend, but I suddenly wanted to be anywhere else. “That’s not, uh—”

As if reading my panicked body language, Mel interposed her slim frame between me and Omaira. Despite being able to look over her head, I instantly felt shielded, like I was behind a battlement. 

Mel said something in Spanish, clearly a warning. Omaira replied in low, insistent tones. Mel answered, jabbing her finger and shaking her head, giving the impression she was both pissed off and disappointed.

In response, Omaira crossed her arms and glowered up at the pressed tin ceiling. Even her anger resembled a high-class ad—she might have been promoting a service for rich beautiful people who hated standing in line. I could almost see the text: “SKIP PLATINUM. WHY WAIT?”

Mel looked at me over her shoulder. “To cut through the shit, Mai is a super model. An honest-to-goddess bona fide super model. And unfortunately she sometimes behaves like one.”

“I am behaving like a sister.” The other woman sounded genuinely hurt, but Mel’s face wasn't sympathetic as she whirled around. Their conversation resumed in Spanish.

A growing unease blunted my appetite. My presence with Mel seemed to keep causing problems with her friends. I didn't want to come between her and her…cousins…but I also knew there was no chance I was leaving. Was I being selfish?

The thought took me back to our kiss in the motel room. I hadn't imagined the softness in Mel’s eyes or the tenderness in my heart. No…it couldn't be selfish to nurture something that made us both feel this way. I had to trust Mel. She would tell me if things were getting too tough. In the meantime I would do my best not to throw fuel on the fire.

The conversation in front of me had ended. A taut silence seemed to surround Mel and Omaira even in the noisy room. Mel abruptly took my hand and gently pulled me back the way we came. At first I thought she was going to leave the line, but she smiled and gestured to the older couple behind us.

“We need a few more minutes to decide,” she explained.

It was easy for Mel to change places, but my standard Midwest-sized body had to awkwardly slide against the guide rail. We made it past that couple and kept going. I murmured an apology as I barely missed a woman's foot and almost kneed her kid in the nose. Mel didn’t stop until five people were between us and Omaira. 

“Sorry,” she said as we finally got sorted into our new space. She pushed another newly-escaped curl behind her ear. “Mai and I need to take a time out.”

“That sounded tense,” I said, watching her carefully.

“It was.” She exhaled, and fell silent.

The line shuffled forward and we shuffled with it, side by side. Thanks to our rapid relocation I still hadn’t seen inside Krimm’s tantalizing bakery case, but my stomach—twisted-up over the fact I was causing two friends to fight—needed time to recover anyway.

Almost without conscious thought I reached out…and wrapped my arm around Mel’s lower back. Startled, she turned and looked at me. I held my breath but kept going. My palm landed on her opposite hip. I gently tugged. My touch was light, ready to pull back…but all at once Mel leaned into me. We both exhaled at the same time. Feeling giddy, I tightened my hold. It wasn’t like physical contact with Mel solved all my troubles, they just felt more solvable this way—I hoped it was the same for her.

“Thank you,” she said.

“I’m the one who needed this.”

We flowed with the line, enjoying the moment. Each time Mel’s hip bumped against my upper thigh I felt a zing go through me. I didn’t even question the tingling sensation anymore, it was just part of the wonder that came with Mel, this amazing woman who had literally driven into my life.

“Don’t think badly of Maira,” Mel said after we’d moved a few more steps.

My eyes instinctively shot to the intimidatingly beautiful woman ordering at the register. The poor kid operating it was bright red. “I’ll try.”

“I assume you've noticed that my cousins…that we can be…weird.” Mel worried at her lip. “A lot of us didn't have very normal lives growing up.”

“I’ve started to realize that,” I said as neutrally as I could.

“I'd hate for you to think our community is, like, a cult or something,” she said fast, as if she’d pried the top of my head off and seen my number one suspicion. “It isn’t. It’s just very traditional. Sheltered. And there were—there are—a lot of…” Mel made a vaguely frustrated gesture.

“Rules? Folk customs?”

Her arm fell like a string had been cut. She looked oddly defeated, but she nodded. “Yeah. Those. It means that a lot of them didn't get a chance to see much of the world until they were older. I was lucky. My childhood was…ordinary.”

Ordinary. The way she said that word, wistful and tinged with regret, made me think Mel had enjoyed it a lot more than she wanted to admit—maybe even to herself. I wondered if she missed her mom, or felt abandoned by her. Or was I reflecting my own pain now?

“I can sympathize,” I said, mentally steering past the subject of mothers. “I know what it’s like to feel cut off from the world.”

Her expression was thoughtful. “I guess you do.”

I put on my best yokel accent. “You’re talking to a fella who ain't what never seen a five lane road.” Despite making it a joke, a remnant of embarrassment still put heat on the back of my neck.

Mel’s expression reflected her amusement, but her next words were quietly sincere. “Did you like Drywell growing up?”

Something about the question—or the asker—made me seriously consider it. Being a kid in the ass-end of nowhere had left me with mixed feelings, but at least my feelings were mixed; some of my peers had left Drywell the moment they’d turned eighteen, fleeing like they were escaping prison.

“Yeah,” I said at last. “I did. They bussed us to Hoisington for school, and the Wagner brothers always kept things lively. I had friends and ‘adventures.’ I know Grams was kind of peculiar, but…I liked her peculiarities. She saw the whole world through her shows. She got everything she needed from them. Culture, entertainment, wisdom. I sort of did too.” 

“Uh oh,” Mel said, “my ‘but’ detector just went off.”

“Thanks for noticing. I try to do at least ten squats a day—”

“Wrong butt.” Mel emphasized the word with a sexy hip bump. “I'm onto your clever subject changes.” She swatted my thigh with her fingers.

Personally, her reprimand felt more like a reward. I chuckled. “But…I want more than Drywell. I still want to go places. I want to…sample the world’s possibilities.”

My mouth clamped shut and I suppressed a wince. If I’d said that to the Wagners, Terry would ask me what the hell I was smoking, while Derry would agree with me in the form of a smug lecture about all the wonders I was missing…despite having not seen them either.

Mel simply replied, “Go on.”

Feeling unbalanced by her interest, I found myself wading deeper into honesty than I'd planned. “There’s not much more to it than that,” I admitted. “I've just been kind of…stuck.”

“In Drywell?”

I shook my head. “For better or worse, Drywell still feels like home. It’s more like…stuck between my life with Grams and the life that’s supposed to come after.” I tried to laugh, but it was more like a cough. “It’s too easy.”

“Easy?” Mel’s attention was making me nervous, but it was wrapped in that giddy feeling. I liked that feeling when she was the cause.

“The routine is easy,” I told her. “The way the days just…roll on. It’s simple to roll with them if they aren’t too bad. Life doesn’t even have to be good. ‘Good enough’ is good enough.”

The line was shifting again, finally about to bring the treasures of the bakery case in sight. But Mel’s aviators held only my reflection. 

“Is that what your life is, Cal? Good enough?”

I looked away from my troubled face. “Maybe I had a decent excuse that first year. I was…lost in grief. But the second…” I shook my head. “I could have taken one step. A single step. Community college, buying a car, something. But I didn't. I haven’t gotten any further than thinking. I think about the outside world, about my future…about a good life. But just thoughts.”

“Until last night.”

I blinked. Turning, I looked at Mel, whose oh-so-kissable lips were crooked up in an enigmatic smile. A frisson of wonder ran down my spine. “Until last night,” I agreed, realizing it was true.

“You know,” she added, that smile like an engraved invitation to a future makeout session, “St. Louis is wonderful to visit. I could show you more than five lanes, Cal. A lot more…if you don’t mind an awkward shifter girl for a guide.”

I made a sound of strangled disbelief. “Awkward? You’re like the coolest girl I've ever met.”

“Really?” Her voice was so surprised I was astounded. 

I squeezed her hip. “How do you not know this? You drive a vintage car. You chase tornadoes. You’re living in what has to be an exciting city. You must realize you're cool.”

She glanced away. “I just told you we were weird. And now that you’ve met Adriana and Luis…well I wouldn't call them ‘cool.’ ”

I chuckled. “They’re a bit weird. But honestly also cool. Cool weird. Eccentrically hip.”

“What about Maira?” Mel persisted. “She’s way cooler—”

“Nope,” I said. A confused line appeared between Mel’s brows. “No offense, Mel…but Omaira is acting way more weird than cool.”

“The way she’s behaving is…yeah. I guess that’s true.” She bit her lip.

“Which leaves you the last cool chick standing.” 

I could tell how pleased she was by the way she lowered her head. Mel probably wasn’t used to winning out around Omaira. I felt a twinge of pity for the saps who missed Mel because of her friend’s flashy charm—only a twinge, because I wanted Mel to myself. 

“You thinking I’m the cool chick is going straight to my ego,” she announced abruptly. “I’ve decided to become a storm chasing influencer. Krimm’s will beg to sponsor me.”

I laughed. “Damn straight. But don’t run too far ahead. I mean, you're talking to a simple boy from Drywell just trying to keep up.”

“He’s doing just fine keeping up,” Mel said. Her hand squeezed the front of my thigh. I half stumbled, surprised at how steady I felt when my weight leaned harder into her. Oh yeah…shifter strength. “And I think he’s cool too.”

“Even if one of his friends recently bought a kid-sized go kart to kick-off his ‘championship’ racing career?”

“Oh, is that one of the brothers?” Mel asked. The Wagners had featured heavily in the stories I’d shared with her last night. “The ones who own the illegal fireworks stand?”

I held up a hand, barely managing to stifle more laughs. “I said it's legal status is ‘murky.’ That's all I know about it.”

She smiled and nudged my shoulder in the casual and intimate way that girls who were friends sometimes did. Or girlfriends. “Either way, I’m not discouraged. I think you're cool. So if you say I’m cool, I must be cool.”

“Extremely cool.” I grinned. “Maybe a little weird too.”

“The good kind?”

“The best.” I leaned over and darted a quick kiss against Mel’s hair. God. I didn’t care if she bought her shampoo at the Dollar Store, it was my new favorite scent. “Yes, by the way. I would love for you to show me St. Louis. It’s kind of terrifying, but I think I could handle it with you around.”

Her head leaned against my shoulder and it was pure heaven. “If you still feel that way after the end of this chase season, we’ll plan something for fall.” Pause. “You can crash at my place to save money.”

My mouth went dry, which roughened my answer. “I’d like that.”

We moved forward, and at last we were in front of Krimm’s polished display. Mel’s head shot off my shoulder so fast I wondered if there was a religious artifact inside. My guess wasn’t far off.

A row of identical pastries woke my stomach from its coma. Each was the size of a small football. Rumpled and golden brown and dripping with glaze. Slices of caramelized apple had been set on top and I could smell them along with the cinnamon and sugar.

“Krimm’s famous apple fritters,” Mel pronounced in the same hushed tone one might say, “The thrice-blessed bones of Aloysius Apollo.”

I nodded, completely agreeing with her fervor. “They’re massive.”

“Yes,” she breathed. “They are.”

“You can count on me. I will do my part to finish ours off,” I said jokingly. She slowly turned to stare at me with a flat expression. Apparently Krimm’s Famous Apple Fritters were a non-joking matter.

“You think we’re splitting one?” Mel’s incredulous tone wiped the smile off my face.

“No?”

“Why are you saying it like you’re not sure?” Her eyebrows raised up comically high.

My smile came back. I rubbed the back of my neck and made my voice low and manly. “I meant ‘hell no, we’re definitely not sharing.’ Screw that. Uh, back off and let me have my own!”

“Don’t worry,” Mel soothed, letting her trademark huskiness caress every syllable.“I’ll eat whatever you can’t finish.” Her voice whipped up my hormones like Grams’ 1970s stand mixer set to max. 

Recalling her earlier assault on our snack bag, I didn’t doubt it for a second. But the way her voice had dipped just now—and the memory of her lips against mine—had me hoping I might be the next snack on Mel’s menu. 

“Bon appétit,” I said, sounding only slightly strangled.