Sunglasses 18: Fritters and Strangers

[ A/N - As mentioned in a prior update, Sunglasses in the Rain will be going on hiatus at the conclusion of this chapter. I need to take time for other projects and regain my perspective on this one. This is not the end, just a pause. Cal and Mel still have an amazing journey ahead! ]

Mel and Omaira demolished their massive apple fritters like animals stripping meat from a carcass.

I watched, picturing Mel in her cat form…or trying to. Shit. My brain wasn’t playing along. Frowning, I took a drink and thought about Wild, Wild World of Animals, an old nature show that Grams used to record. My imagination had zero trouble conjuring the authoritative tone of the narrator, William Conrad.

“The graphic designer eats quickly, all too aware that competition over food is fierce in the crowded coffee shop…”

A laugh tried to escape with soda still in my mouth. I made a snerking sound and bubbles rushed into my nose. Mel paused, staring up from her plate. It only emphasized how much she was hunched like an apex predator guarding a kill.

“What?” she asked, her mouth half full.

“The free roaming fritter,” intoned inner William Conrad, “stood little chance. Large and apple scented…it fell easy prey to the ravenous Mel.” 

My shoulders shook and I managed to get the soda down just in time to give the laugh an escape route. I felt a moment of pure lighthearted joy to be sharing a table with this beautiful woman and mountains of carbs. Well, one mountain, because Mel and Omaira had popped last bites into their mouths at the same instant.

Mel swallowed. “Why are you laughing?”

I gestured at her trim body, grinning like a fool. “Where does it go?”

Her cheeks flushed a little, but my gently teasing tone coaxed a smile. She shrugged. “It’s storm season. I told you I always need fuel this time of year.” She hesitated, her glasses tilting as she glanced at my plate. “Are you…finished with that?”

Helplessly impressed, I tore off one last piece and slid the rest over. “Your metabolism could kick my metabolism’s ass.”

“Bet on it.” Going back into hunch-mode, Mel had zero difficulty destroying my leftovers. Delicious as the fritters tasted, she’d probably just eaten the daily calorie count of two grown men.

As she idly picked up stray pieces of glaze, I spotted a tiny smudge of icing at the corner of her mouth. Feeling braver than usual, like my own animal instincts had been stirred up, I reached out and gently swiped it with my finger.

Her body went still. Carefully, Mel raised her head. Her expression was suddenly…locked. On me. It was dizzying. I licked the icing off while my heart thudded in my chest.

“Mmm…apples and cinnamon. And you.” 

Mel was motionless. Then, the tip her tongue emerged to lick the same spot. Slowly, sensuously, she carried it across the pillow of her upper lip.

Mingled anticipation and alarm shot through me—the alarm was realizing the smell of apples had become a new sexual trigger. Fuck.

A quiet scoff snapped us out of it.

We both turned to look at the far end of the table. Omaira had already returned her attention to her phone as if she’d never looked up.

“The start of this chase season has been…intense,” Mel said suddenly. “I think it's got some of us spooked.” We studied the other woman in silence.

I was still trying to find my feet when it came to Omaira. Ten minutes ago, with our—mostly Mel’s—fritters on a tray and a drink in my hand, it had been shockingly easy to spot her singular presence. Even with the place packed, Omaira had snagged an empty table seating eight. It was a master class in body language, the way she lounged at the head like a queen awaiting her court. 

And the queen was still waiting, because Mel had deliberately picked a chair at the other end. I had sat across from Mel, quietly concerned at the width of the “no-woman’s land” in the middle of the table. But at least we could talk semi-privately. 

“Mel…I’m sorry my being here has caused you problems with—”

Mel’s slender hand covered mine. The sensation was so nice I forgot to keep talking.

“It’s on Mai,” she assured me, tipping her head toward the empty seats separating us. “Nothing would change if we sat beside her. It would just be more nasty remarks. Or worse.” Her expression darkened. “Like that come-on bullshit.”

I winced. “That…was awkward.”

“One way to say it.” Mel’s husky voice went rough with anger as she unconsciously tightened her hand over mine. It was possessive…and quietly thrilling. “ ‘Pissing me off’ is another.”

“Is she always like this?”

Mel grimaced. “No. Seeing us together seems to have supercharged her shitty attitude. So we'll keep clear until she figures out these tactics won’t work. And she will. Eventually.” Her eyes closed. “This is what I was talking about earlier, though. The…not normalness of us.”

“You mean because how Omaira grew up?”

Mel nodded. “Mai was stuck in a tiny village until her late teens. And then, less than a year later, she was modeling for large corporate clients. Try to imagine that.”

My teeth worried the inside of my cheek. Stubborn and spoiled was a rough combo, and Omaira’s background had made her both. “Okay, but what about the flirting?” I asked. “Did she really think I was going to make heart eyes at her or something?”

Mel shrugged, but there was still tension in the line of her shoulders. “Mai is used to being the most beautiful woman in the room. And so many people kiss her ass all the time that she…well, she’s at her worst at the beginning of the season. By the end Mai will be a different person.”

“She gets it out of her system?” I did my best to sound like I believed it.

“You’ll see. It's like witnessing a lanced boil.” Spoken without enthusiasm.

“Great image,” I replied with the same energy. Mel’s palm felt warm against my knuckles, and suddenly Omaira was the last person I wanted to talk about. “Not everyone thinks she’s the most beautiful.”

Mel gave an amused, tired-sounding huff. “I’m not fishing for a compliment.”

“I know. I was talking about me.”

Surprised delight pulled a shockingly loud snort from Mel. She clapped her hand over her mouth and tried to look accusing, but amusement was already making her shoulders hitch. She finally started laughing in a series of little exhales. It was almost painful how lovely she was.

“No fair,” I said softly. “You just stole ‘most beautiful’ right out from under me.”

Mel’s laughter faded. Her sun-kissed cheeks slowly colored as she lowered her hand. I loved her face. Such perfect contrasts. I wanted to touch my lips to the cheekbones that rivaled Omaira’s, but I also wanted to kiss her unpretentiously cute nose. Her soft mouth demanded full-on worship.

“God,” she whispered, “your eyes are so blue.”

“I like your eyes,” I said. “I like seeing them.”

“I like you seeing them,” she whispered. We’d fallen into the same pattern as before, just gazing at each other. “Cal…your lips are hot-as-hell.”

My heart gave a jolt, like a game character doing a double jump. Mel thought my mouth was hot? Heat gathered in my face. If this was a “made you blush” contest, we'd both just lost.

An impatient noise from the other end of the table broke into the moment. Annoyed, I checked Omaira out of the corner of my eyes. She was looking up again. When I turned my head she ducked her own, but not before I caught dark eyes glaring beneath perfectly formed brows.

“Sorry,” Mel murmured.

“It’s okay,” I said.

Omaira was exasperating…but I was also picking up on what Mel had been describing. She was intimidating sophistication on the surface, but there was also something about her that made me think of Rory. A similar, almost teenage-like bravado. Were her judgmental eyes hiding a core of insecurity?

Her eyes…

“Mel…could you answer a shifter question?”

She sat back and her hand lifted off mine, the equivalent of a castle raising its drawbridge. I suppressed a sigh. But then her voice, low and nervous, surprised me. “If I can.”

“Omaira. She doesn’t wear sunglasses. But she’s your cousin…”

“Contacts.” Mel sounded relieved. It made me wonder what intrusive question she’d been braced for. “It’s easier to tell up close. You’ll see if she ever lets you have a normal conversation.”

“Oh. That didn't occur to me. Contacts.”

Another puzzle piece that didn't seem to fit. I'd come across a mention of contacts in yesterday’s shifter research. Shifters didn't wear them—at least not usually. Something about irritation or interference during the shifting process. Did Omaira just stay in human form all the time? 

“Mai’s job is mostly photo shoots,” Mel was saying, “and she can’t wear dark lenses in all of them. By this point I think her fans love how unusual the contacts make her…” She trailed off, looking bemused. Driving synth beats were drifting up from under the table.

“That's me.” I quickly shifted in my chair to get my phone. “It’s the, uh, Knight Rider theme,” I explained awkwardly, checking the screen. “Huh. Terry’s calling.” I frowned. “I’d better take this.”

“Okay.” Mel watched me stand.

“Hopefully Rory didn't burn down the gas station.” I made it a step before remembering the table’s other occupant. A glance told me Omaira was still browsing her phone. “Are you two going to be…”

“Awkward silences run in the family,” she quipped. “I'll be fine.” As the Knight Rider theme kicked into overdrive she suddenly asked, “Is Terry the quirky one or the good ol’ boy?”

I grinned. “The good ol’ boy.”

“See? I pay attention. Hurry back.”

Waiting a beat longer to appreciate Mel’s smile, I set a course for the front exit and tapped the accept button.

“Hello?”

“Where the hell are you?” Terry’s voice was it's usual drawl, the same cadence he might use to request a tossed beer.

“Coffee shop,” I said, buying time. What could I reveal? Mel valued her privacy, but she’d also mentioned wanting to meet my friends.

“Did you get a lift to Hoisington? I'm at the Gas N Snak and Rory is acting like you joined witness protection.”

“Uh…” Sharing the broad details of my trip had to be okay, right? I made a decision. “Actually, I'm in Pierre. Pierre, South Dakota.”

There was a pause on the other end. It was Terry equivalent of a shocked gasp. I pushed open Krimm’s door and stepped into the cold morning air.

“South Dakota know something about coffee that we don't?” he finally answered. “And unless you bought a car…”

 “No. This is—”

Terry interrupted with a whistle. A loud long note. I pulled the phone away and heard his voice as a tinny echo. “Hol-ee shit. It's the girl, isn't it? Your shifter girl in the sporty yellow car.”

Cautiously, I brought the phone back. “Uh…yeah,” I said. “That girl.” I wished I could say my girl. Show the same confidence Terry seemed to have about our status. But I was superstitious and didn't want to jinx it.

The faint hiss of long distance filled the line before Terry asked, “Are you coming back?”

It was such a preposterous question that I burst out laughing. “What the hell, man? Of course I'm coming back.” I cocked my head and watched my breath stream out. “You really think I'd pull up stakes? Just like that?”

“Everyone leaves Drywell.” Terry’s voice was a tonal shrug. “I’m playing the odds after seeing your face.”

“My face?”

“Yesterday. Mooning over your girl. Should have snapped a pic.” Terry's laugh loped out. Like its owner, it was in no great hurry to get anywhere. “Remember that time Derry finally got Dwight to sell his massive illegal fireworks stash? The look on his face when he opened the crate? Exact same face.”

“Fuck off,” I said, but now I was smiling. “I'm up here storm chasing. I'll be back tomorrow if a tornado doesn't get me.”

“Uh huh…that’s what you're chasing, all right. Tor-nay-does…” He stretched it comically long.

“We already did the ‘fuck off’ part of this conversation,” I said easily. Terry had a way of grounding me. His laid-back-yet-watchful outlook was also the main reason Derry hadn't yet blown himself up. “I'm glad you called, man.” A couple minutes with Terry had all the Omaira drama—dramaira?—suddenly feeling…manageable.

“Glad you're coming back.”

I exhaled another stream of vapor. “Bro…I would tell you if I was planning to leave for good, you know that, right?”

His amused huff was a sigh of white noise over the connection . “Yeah…I do. You spooked Rory, though. You know how he gets. Like Mrs. Hinkley’s dog.”

My laughter echoed around the parking lot. Our fourth grade teacher’s shaky little Chihuahua had probably died from nervous exhaustion a decade back. It had always looked like it was trying to kick a drug habit.  

“See?” I said. “This is why you're my best friend—not just because there’s no one else to pick in Drywell.” 

“Fuck off.”

“We already covered that part.” This time we both laughed, and I found myself sharing a truth we rarely spoke aloud. “Seriously, Terry, I'm lucky to know you. You realize you’ve kept me sane for the last couple years, right? Even when I was being a total dick after I lost Grams. You’re…you’re a true friend.”

The long distance connection crackled faintly in silence. Then Terry quietly said, “Damn, Cal.”

I didn't answer. What had compelled me to be so honest? The frigid air of South Dakota? Yeah, right.

I knew what—and who—had enabled me to open up. It was Mel. Of course it was. All the funny exchanges and nervous confessions. Every electric touch and glorious frantic kiss. The reality of Mel, the sheer force of her presence, were helping me. It was like pieces of myself that Grams’ passing had broken were being put back together.

“Well, hell.” Terry’s voice had returned to its usual volume, but I could sense my friend’s pleased surprise. “If my sorry ass is your best socializing option, I'm extra glad you're cozying up to that girl. You are isolated as shit, my man.”

“Yeah, I should work on that. Is the cook-out still happening tomorrow?”

“Last I checked my beer was still safe in your cooler, so yeah.”

“Okay. If I’m back in time…I might bring someone.” Just the idea of introducing Mel filled me with a kind of pleasant weightlessness.

“Would love to meet the chick capable of making someone choose to go to South Dakota.” There was a crackle of static and a muffled shout.

“What was that?”

“Rory.” Even as Terry said it, I could just make out incoherent male whining in the background. “Little dude’s about to have a meltdown. Something about a restock sheet?”

I rolled my eyes, but the extravagant gesture was cut short as I noticed a brown station wagon pulling into Krimm’s. Distracted, I said, “Just tell him to make a note about what we're low on. I don't expect him to do inventory.” I wasn't sure why the dust-colored wagon stood out when others were coming and going.

“I'll pass it on,” Terry said. “Then I gotta run across the street because I think I see my dumbass brother taping fireworks to his go-kart.”

I snorted. “Say hi to Derry if he still has functioning ears by the time you get there.”

Ending the call, I pocketed my phone. My eyes were still being drawn to the station wagon. I watched it park in one of the few open spaces and tried to figure out what was snagging my attention. 

Two people got out, a woman in a thin white sweater and a young man in gray. Something about them gave me a scratchy feeling. Made me want to ask if we’d met before.

I cleared away from the door as the pair approached, but kept glancing at them while pretending to check my email. By now, anything out of the ordinary had me primed to note sunglasses. Only the woman’s shades—red frames that gave her a pop of color—were dark. The younger guy wore prescription lenses. He was tall, built like a narrow grain silo and sporting an unruly mop on his head. She was curvy, average height, and had hair cascading down her back. Their hair was the exact same: thick reddish-brown.

The man stopped and stared. His thick glasses and magnified brown eyes gave him an owlish aspect that was a little unnerving. I realized his T-shirt and cargo pants were the same precise shade of gray, like he was about to take a pest exterminator’s exam. 

The woman only noticed he’d stopped to gawk after she was halfway through Krimm’s front door. “Bobby?”

He turned his head slightly to reply over his shoulder. “Bet this is Cal,” he said. 

It was like being shoved. I took a step back, shocked at hearing my name uttered by a strange dude in the middle of a strange town two states from home.

“We don't know anyone named Cal.” The woman took a fortifying breath and moved out of the open door. A flash of sky winked across dark lenses as she looked me up and down. Her mouth worked, seemingly caught between multiple dialogue options. Then her glasses flashed again as she turned to her companion. “You’re being rude.”

He scoffed. “I am not. You interrupted me before I could introduce myself. You just made me be rude. Watch.” His full attention went back to me, practically spearing me with his gaze. “Hello,” he said evenly.

“Uh, hi.” I resisted the urge to hold up a hand. I was so off-balance it might have devolved into another embarrassing jazz waggle.

“Hi,” he echoed. “There. Done.” Pause. “So are you Cal?” 

Seconds stretched uncomfortably. “Goddess fortify,” the woman muttered. “Two ‘hi’s’ are not a real introduction, Bobby—”

“It’s Robert, and one was a full ‘hello.’ ”

“I’m sorry,” she said to me, raising her hands in the universal sign of “I swear we’re not about to murder you.” She glanced at the young man. “My brother heard a description from our friends that he thinks matches yours.”

“Um,” I managed.

“It does match him,” her brother insisted, glowering at his sister in the universal sign of “duh.” He gestured impatiently. “Adriana said he had ‘vivid blue eyes’ and ‘messy beach-sand hair.’

Messy? My hair was, okay, longish. But full-on messy? Did Mel think it was messy? I abruptly countered, “It’s windy outside.”

The young man nodded. “Blowing Northwesterly at twenty to twenty-five miles per hour, with gusts of up to thirty-five miles per hour”—he checked his watch—“for the next forty-five minutes.”

I looked at him.

He looked back.

His sister buried her face in one hand and sighed.

“I…am Cal,” I finally admitted, hating how bewildered it came out. I quickly wracked my brain for what Mel had been telling me about her friends, and was gratified when two names jumped out. “You…are Bobby and Lauren?”

“Robert,” he corrected irritably.

“Lori,” she corrected politely, then squinted at me. “You really are Cal? The one here with Mel?”

Just as a gust of cold wind threw my apparently messy hair into more chaos, I answered with a hesitant smile. “That's me. Nice to meet you.”