Sunglasses 3: Flirting with Flirting

As I stroked Mel’s feathers, a jolt of awareness struck. This thing was laying on her chest. Along with the charm, my finger was tracing the subtle swell of another, more innate, charm. I sucked in a breath at the same time Mel gave a sharp exhale. She stepped away. My hand jerked back.

“I didn't mean to interrupt—”

“So where are you—”

We lapsed into silence.

“You first,” Mel said.

I cleared my throat. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your relaxation. It was just, uh, cool to see you again, and I didn’t think before coming over.” Was it okay to say that? Well shit…too late.

Mel’s smile came back, a softer one with cute little lifts at the corners of her mouth. She’d liked that. The screw of tension inside me loosened.

“I mean…that's totally fine.” Her hand came up to touch the tie securing her pony tail, as if she was checking it. The gesture almost seemed flustered.

“What were you going to ask?” I said.

“I was wondering where you were coming from.” Her chin dipped as she took in my cargo pants and long-sleeved Henley. “Since you’re not working.”

I was in my comfort clothes. The cargos were ratty and time had faded the shirt to dryer-lint gray…but my worries about what she might think only flickered. Going by her own outfit, Mel clearly appreciated casual wear. Besides, despite missing a shave I didn’t look scruffy—score one for unimpressive beard genetics.

“Oh, I’m coming back from—”

“Cal!” Terry’s irritated bark echoed across the lot. “Come get your damn groceries!”

“…grocery shopping,” I finished, feeling my ears heat. “Guess I’d better get those inside.”

“I’ll be here.”

Mel would…be here. I nodded, and only a mental intervention at the last instant stopped my arm from a jazz hand farewell. I walked back across the lot in a daze, her words nuzzling my brain.

Okay okay…let’s take a second, Cal. She told you that because she wants you to come back, right? Why else would she put it that way? She’d just say goodbye if you were annoying her. I still don’t stand a chance. I mean, obviously I don’t. But flirting isn’t dating. And she’s flirting, isn't she? It takes two to flirt. Or tango. Or use pump two.

My face contorted to hold in an unhinged laugh. I stumbled to a stop next to the Bronco, where Terry had opened up the back. He squinted at me.

“You sick?”

“I’m think I'm about to flirt.”

His eyes widened in alarm. Then his gaze shifted off me and over my shoulder. “Oh. Thank Christ. Thought we were about to have an awkward talk.” He reached into the SUV and hauled out a case of Pabst Blue Ribbon. “Can I stow my beer in the cooler?”

Annoyance brought me out of the stratosphere. “You know that's against the rules.”

“Screw the rules. If I take it home, Derry and Ma will drink every damn one of these before the cookout this weekend.” His lips shifted to one side, then the other. That meant he was thinking extra hard. “You can invite her,” he said.

“Huh?” I’d been busy thinking up flirtatious ways to discuss the weather. “Invite who where?”

“Let me hide the beer, and you can invite your girl to the cookout.”

Your girl. Two words that wound around me like one of the Wagner’s stray cats. I wanted to pet that idea way more than those dusty strays.

“We’ve barely started talking.” I shook my head, snatching up the handles of my plastic bags. “I would need to ask her, and that would mean a lot more talking without saying something dopey.”

Ignoring me, Terry started walking toward the Gas N Snak’s front door. I heaved up my collected groceries and followed. I hadn’t given him permission, but I was smart enough to pick my battles. There was plenty of room in the cooler, and Terry knew how to grill a perfect steak. Was Mel the sort of woman who would be into cookouts? I had a feeling the answer was “yes.”

The bell jangled in time with my nerves. Terry turned down the aisle, heading towards the staff door next to the drink cases.

“Set it away from the other cans,” I called after him in a belated effort to take charge of the situation. I turned to look at Rory, who was picking at his name tag uncertainly.

“Raymond says we’re not supposed to let the Wagners use our freezer, Cal.” 

“Well I'm the manager, and Ray isn’t coming to the cookout this weekend,” I answered.

“They’re having a cookout?” Rory’s reluctance vanished in a blink.

“Yeah. If Terry can keep Derry from drinking the beer. And you’re invited.” There. Terry wasn’t the only person who could just do shit without asking.

Rory lit up. “Seriously?”

I don’t know why, but for some reason Rory acted like this end of Drywell—the end opposite the Quad A—was where all the action was. Maybe at my wizened age of twenty-five he thought I was cool or something. Poor kid.

“It’s a done deal. Just don’t say anything to Raymond.” It would be fine. I could keep an eye on him; Grams would haunt me if I ever let a minor get drunk. A brilliant masterstroke popped into my head, and I added, “And you have to take my groceries back to the trailer.”

“I’m working,” Rory whined.

“There’s no one out there. Here. Five bucks to leave it on my table and put the cold stuff in the fridge.” I pulled out the crumpled bill left over from shopping and dropped it on the counter. I wasn’t usually casual about money, I was just desperate to get back to Mel. “Wait.”

Acting on a hunch, I pulled a foot-long Slim Jim knock-off out of the display box next to the register.

“Five bucks minus the cost of one of these,” I said, beelining for the exit. “My door’s unlocked.” The bell conveniently drowned out Rory’s teenage grumbling.

I moved towards Mel’s roadster at a plausible amble. When I saw she was putting away her lounger, I sped up to an implausible amble, arriving slightly out of breath.

“That was quick.” 

I nodded to buy a little time, and she went back to folding up the lounger. Once it was down to a flat shiny square, Mel straightened up…and her trim body went still when she saw me.

“What is that?” She eyed the meat stick I was holding out like a flower. 

This might have been a boneheaded idea. “Since Drywell rarely gets a repeat customer, I, uh, thought I’d roll out the welcome mat.” That was good. Smooth. 

She stared a few agonizing seconds more…then her shoulders hopped with a single breathy laugh. “I don’t know how you sussed out my processed meat addiction, but goddess love you.” She took the offering. “I’m starving.”

Goddess? Was she a Wiccan? That might be it. The only other goddess I knew of was…the shifters’ moon goddess. Something prickled on the back of my neck.

Mel peeled the plastic like she was skinning a snake. The oily smell of sodium and spiced meat reminded me of my own junk food dependence. I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. She took four bites, precise as Pac-Man. Then she seemed to remember I was there and looked up at me with adorably filled cheeks.

“Oopths. Rude. Want shome?” 

“Heh, yeah. I’ll take a piece.”

She broke off a section and handed it over. It was a small gesture, but her willingness to share was sweet. I bit into the mass-produced goodness and gave her a thumbs-up. Mel grinned. Sticking the remainder into her mouth like a mummified cigar, she leaned her lounger against the wheel and moved towards the trunk. Anticipating her need, I went and picked it up while she opened the hatch.

“Woah. Not much trunk space,” I commented. There was barely enough room for the folded lounger on top of the spare tire. I set it down.

“It’s not a very practical car,” Mel agreed, closing the hatch. “Thanks again.” She took four more bites, devouring the rest of meat snack. Maybe she’d grown up in one of those families that competes for food at the dinner table.

“Glad to help.” I glanced down at an unfamiliar white rectangle near the license plate. “Oh, that’s new.” The night she’d gotten gas there hadn’t been any bumper stickers at all.

STORM CHASIN’ AND HEART BREAKIN’! read the simple design in italic caps. The “T” was a cloud with a thunderbolt, the hole in the “R” was a heart, and a cartoony little tornado held up a reversed “and.”

“Very new.” Mel muttered. “I sort of gave into peer pressure. Some friends of mine are very enthusiastic, and I didn’t want to hurt their feelings.”

“It’s cute.”

“It’s Century Schoolbook.”

I scratched my head. “Um…it’s what now?”

“Century Schoolbook. The preferred font of legal documents.” Her distaste was obvious. “Plus the kerning is all over the place.”

“The kerning,” I repeated blankly.

“And these graphics…” She pointed. “That storm cloud is an over-scaled raster, while the heart is a crisp vector.” She tilted her head. “I'll grant that the tornado is pretty cute…but the rest is unforgivable. It hurts to have this on my baby.” Raising her face to the sky, Mel groaned.

I chuckled. “I can tell.”

She swung her head to regard me through dusky lenses. “I swear I’m not insane. I do graphic design and motion design for a living.”

My entire body hummed. It felt like electricity zipping up and down my limbs. All of this information was hitting with the same power as a sugar rush. I wasn’t sure of the exact moment when every “cool girl fact” about Mel Wade became the equivalent of a bite of cake, but I was hungry for more. The toughest part was deciding what to ask about first.

“I know what graphic design is, but not the other one.”

“Motion design is hipster-speak for ‘graphics that move.’ ” She smirked. “In other words: animation. I work mainly on commercials.”

“TV commercials? Man…sounds way cooler than cleaning hot dog rollers.”

She laughed. “Honestly, I love it.” The truth of it was reflected in her bright expression. I bet her eyes were sparkling right now. For the thousandth time, I wondered what color those eyes were.

“I’d love to see one of your commercials.”

“You probably have.” She set her hand on her hip. “I do a lot of stuff for Midwest markets, and a few national spots.”

Embarrassment twinged. “Well…probably not. I don’t see many commercials.”

Mel frowned. “I know this place isn’t much, but you’re not honestly going to tell me you don’t have TV.”

“We have television, thank you very much. Most folks have satellites. I’m just…weird.” My smile felt glued-on as I said it. 

Mel’s eyebrows rose, and so did my slumping hopes. She looked intrigued, not wary like I’d been anticipating. “Do I get to hear how you’re weird?” she asked.

“I watch old stuff,” I blurted. There went the tips of my ears again, smoldering away. “I should probably try to sound cool and say ‘vintage,’ but really it’s just old. I…it’s because of Grams,” I said. “That’s my grandmother. It’s, uh, strange, I know.” Shaking my head, I choked off the words. I needed to pump the brakes hard. I wasn’t used to talking about Grams.

Seeming to pick up on my discomfort, Mel didn’t press. After a few seconds, she spoke softly. “I’m no stranger to ‘strange.’ And I like weird people, Cal.”

Now my cheeks heated. Pretty much everything heated. Had I imagined the flirtatious huskiness in the way she’d said my name? Still recovering my balance, I tried to recall what the hell we’d been talking about. Work! That was it. I pointed at the offending bumper sticker to draw her gaze from my flushed face.

“Do you want some help taking that off? I have Krud Killer. It would remove the residue.”

Mel sighed. “I wish…but you’ve never met Adriana and Luiz.” Her Spanish pronunciation sounded flawless to my ignorant ears. “It would be like kicking two color-matched Brazilian puppies.” She considered. “But maybe once the season’s over.”

The word “season” confirmed my guess. “So you’re a storm chaser like them.” I stuck my hands in my pockets and grinned at her. 

It made sense. Why else would she end up in Drywell more than once? Between April and June, storm chasers descended on the Midwest, driving up and down the country looking for “supercell” storms and the holy grail: a tornado. Some drove thousands of miles in just a few weeks.

Mel didn’t respond right away. She seemed as sheepish about storm chasing as I was about watching old TV shows. Finally she shrugged, putting so much energy into it that it became a more elaborate gesture. She spun like a dancer, her Chucks scraping on the asphalt. “Guilty,” she said once her back was to me, like she didn’t want to admit it to my face.

“Are you doing a tornado impression?”

A snort of laughter. Mel glanced at me over her shoulder, her lips quirked in amusement. Then she kept turning, another effortless pivot until she was facing back my way.

Just then, as if the weather wanted to play along, the steady breeze turned fierce. I stumbled to one side, rocked by the surprise gust. Mel simply turned her body to slice through it, her index finger lightly pressing the bridge of her glasses to hold them in place. Her feet remained planted as her feather charm danced and jumped.

Something about it unlocked a memory I hadn’t thought of in years.

Every Christmas Eve, Grams would put on this old movie from the seventies. The Nutcracker. I was a little kid, so it was kind of boring…but there was a part near the end where one of the dancers, a woman in a gossamer gown, moved in a way that would put me into a trance. I didn’t know why, I only knew that I didn’t want her to stop. I was so mesmerized that I sometimes dreamt of her, too young to understand I was in the grip of my first childhood crush.

The woman in front of me had just moved like that ballerina did, with otherworldly precision and control. Crazy…I hadn’t thought about that dancer in years. Why was I thinking about her now?

Mel dropped her hand as the wind died away, looking at me with a faint line on her forehead. “What does that look mean?”

I opened my mouth to share something way too personal, but was saved by two interruptions. First, my ears picked up the distant buzz that announced the approach of a go kart. Derry was about to pay us a visit. I mentally cursed. The second distraction occurred a second later, when a dusty black truck suddenly swerved into the gas station lot instead of roaring by.

Apart from a long antenna waving around the rear bumper, there was nothing remarkable about it. The truck looked like every other raised pick-up with big tires.

So why was my “dickhead alert” going off?