Sunglasses 7: Packing, Peeing, and Plating (Patreon)

“Don’t do this to me, Cal.” The phone connection brought out Rory’s latent whine. “I have plans tomorrow.”

“What plans?” I frantically rooted around my dresser drawer with one hand, grabbing underwear, socks, and a few shirts. I tossed them onto the bed one by one. “Is it Call of Duty or the Dragyn Shyfter DLC?”

“It’s whatever the gaming guild picks.”

“You and Derry Wagner don't count as a guild.” Rory’s lack of response confirmed my guess. “Look, I covered for you when you did that rafting trip.”

“Yeah, but you never have anything to do.”

Fucking ouch. It stung because it was true. Hell, the fact that I had to ask Rory to take my shift proved his point—we didn’t have other staff because I always covered. “Well, I have something this time,” I said, heading for the other end of the trailer.

“What?” he asked.

Putting him on speaker, I set my phone on the kitchenette counter. “It’s private.” I started rummaging through the lower cabinet for the zip lock bags I vaguely remembered stashing there.

“Don't act all mysterious,” he complained. “That’s such a Derry move.”

I grimaced. “Harsh comparison.”

“Just tell me.” There were good odds Rory had been super whiny as a kid.

“I really can't.”

I wanted to. God, I wanted to shout, “I’m going on a road trip with a gorgeous mystery girl!” from the top of the Quad A, but everything I knew about said mystery girl hinted that Mel valued her privacy. I was determined to respect that.

“Not even for a double shift on a Friday?” Rory drew out the last word for two full seconds.

“Nope. It’s either that or”—I paused to stretch for the crumpled box at the back of the cabinet—“we close early tomorrow. That's an option. Ray will get pissed. He might even fire me. And since he’s also my landlord I guess I’ll be out on my ass.”

“That’s hella dramatic, bro.”

“I know. It's my damn turn to be dramatic.” I picked up the phone. “Now can you help me out, Rory? Please?”

The phone connection turned his sigh into white noise. “Okay.”

“Appreciate it. I’ll see you on Sunday.” I hung up and allowed myself a tiny exhale, then went back into the frenzy of packing.

Ten minutes ago, right when I was getting into Mel’s freezing car, she’d frowned. “Don’t you have to, like, lock up the store or something?”

“Ideally? Yes.” I didn't move.

Mel looked at me…then gave a sharp nod, like she’d come to a decision. Shifting into reverse, she floored it. I slapped my hands against the dash to stop it from saying hi to my face.

With surprising agility, Mel drove backward into the parking lot and took a tricky turn to stop between the pumps and the store entrance.

“Don’t want you getting in trouble,” she said quietly. The care in her tone took me by surprise and flushed me with warmth, possibly enough to stay thawed all the way to the Nebraska state line.

“Appreciate it.”

My hand was on the door handle when her fingers touched my forearm. Even through my shirt it made me a little giddy. 

“What about clothes?” She asked. “A toothbrush?”

Feeling chagrined, I nodded. “Uh, yeah. All good things to have.” I gave an apologetic smile. “Could you wait ten minutes?”

Mel frowned, her brow pinching. Before I could take it back, she asked, “Is there a place I can park that's, um, out-of-sight from the road?”

“Oh.”

She wasn’t annoyed with me, she was bothered for a different reason. I had a guess what—or who—that reason might be, but I wasn't going to say it, not when this mutual craziness of ours still felt fragile. My eagerness to stay close was reckless…but Mel might be worth the wreck.

I pointed my thumb behind us. “Keep reversing past the end of the building, then take the little road behind it. That’s where I live.”

There was only a narrow gap between the store and the single-wide trailer I called home. It dead-ended at a cement pad holding the Snak’s AC units and the windowless block of our small freezer. The makeshift space could only fit one car, but it wasn't an issue since I didn't own one. Only Raymond ever used it.

Until now.

This time Mel was polite, waiting for me to brace my arms on the dash before punching it. My head bounced on the headrest as she braked, threw it into drive, and accelerated. The roadster’s tires scraped gravel as she quickly swerved behind the Gas N Snak.

She shifted into park and killed the engine. Rain fell on the roof in a muffling patter that curtained us from the world. Even with the chill in the air I didn’t want to go.

To those reading this right now, I know. I know this situation makes it look like I’m ignoring a whole-ass forest of red flags. Some of you are probably shouting, “This is what victims in award-winning true crime podcasts do, Cal!” I get that. So consider this my disclaimer: don’t do risky shit with strangers, kids. Or drugs. Most drugs. Look, don’t do bad drugs with risky strangers. Okay?

But try to understand…Mel herself was always a green flag.

In all of the hasty decisions and hidden dangers you’ll be reading about, she was never one of them. Mel Wade was the calm spot in a storm of crazy. Believe me. Even after I was blindsided by “cool girl facts” I couldn't possibly have guessed about her, the essence of who Mel was—genuine, funny, and with a heart bigger than she knows—never changed.

“Ten minutes,” I promised, and stepped out into the rain. 

After locking up the Gas N Snak, I exited out the back door and waved at Mel as I walked past the hood. I hopped up the short cement steps and entered my place, a location Terry had once described as “single wide sad.” I admit the brown wood-paneled walls and barely-there kitchen didn't make a great impression, but I kept it clean and Raymond charged me almost nothing for rent.

It had now been fifteen minutes. Thanks to Rory’s reluctance and my lack of luggage, the packing still wasn't done. Worry was gnawing at my gut. Would Mel get bored and leave? Had she left already?

I finished jamming my toiletries into a zip lock and rushed into the bedroom. Opening the closet, I frantically scanned the top shelf. A duffel bag! Thank God. I was pretty sure Mel would flee if I showed up with a garbage bag of clothes.

A sudden stab of regret made me pause. As a kid I'd always wanted to travel…why the fuck was I fine with not having a toiletry bag or a suitcase?

I'm traveling now, I told myself firmly. Stop moping and start moving.

Unzipping the duffel, I splayed it on the bed like one of Grams’ spatchcocked Thanksgiving turkeys. The clothes went inside in one disorganized heap, and I wedged in the toiletry bag on top. I managed to get the zipper closed and the end result was only slightly misshapen. Slinging it, I jogged down the hall into my living room and lurched to an awkward stop.

Mel was standing inside, her back against the door and her thumbs looped into the belt rings of her capris. She shrugged. “I had to pee.” 

I blinked. “Sure. Of course.”

She raised an eyebrow. “So…there’s a bathroom? Or…”

I started. “Oh! Right. Yes.” I pointed. “Down the hall, just before my bedroom at the end.”

“Thanks.” She straightened up and walked past. It had been too cold to smell anything in her car, but now I caught the faintest scent of fabric softener and floral shampoo. Better than perfume.

While she used the bathroom, I decided to make a bag of snacks. I pulled a couple cans of soda out of the fridge and tossed in some chip bags from a giant box beside the microwave—bulk pricing for retail snacks was one of my few job perks. By the time I’d finished, Mel was back. She seemed out of place in my small, unremarkable living room.

“Your bathroom is very clean,” she said.

“You seem…annoyed by that?”

Her mouth quirked into a lopsided smile. “Can’t you give me one decent warning sign that proves I’m crazy for inviting you along?”

I held up the filled bag. “I made us snacks.”

“Dammit. That's like the opposite. Guess you have to come now.” She looked towards the door and I saw the instant she spotted my plates by her stiffened body language. “Or…maybe I just found my warning sign.”

She didn’t sound upset, but a thread of tension pulled tight inside me. Almost nothing in this trailer reflected my personality, but Mel had identified the biggest thing marking me as an oddball. I felt exposed…but not ashamed. I would never feel shame about this.

“You can't be referring to my commemorative plate collection,” I said, surprised at how casual I sounded.

“Commemorative?” Her half-smile was back.

Mel stepped forward to study the row of plates that I had carefully hung across the wall above the door. Each one depicted an attractively painted portrait in a style that could only be described as “peak late seventies.” The fact the collection even existed was ridiculous.

It was my most treasured possession.

“Who’s the guy in the huge white cowboy hat?” she asked.

I didn't need to look. “That’s J. R. Ewing. A scheming oil tycoon.” He’d been Grams’s favorite. 

Her brow furrowed. “No hat should be that big.”

“Powerful men require powerful hats,” I said with absolute conviction, “especially in Texas.” It was getting difficult to keep a straight face.

Mel put her hands on her hips and canted her head. “Cal, who the hell are all these people?”

A laugh gusted out of me. “You are looking at the cast of Dallas.”

“Dallas?”

“A TV show,” I answered, still smiling. “One of the greatest prime time shows ever made. That limited edition plate set was released following the end of the 1980 season.” I pointed at other portraits. “That’s Miss Ellie, the matriarch of the Ewing clan. And that's Bobby Ewing, and his wife Pamela. She’s from a rival family, and their surprise marriage kicked off the show.”

“O-kay. Huh.” Mel jerked her thumb at the wall. “So earlier, when you said you watch ‘old stuff,’ you meant this? You collect it?”

I shook my head. “I only watch the shows. The plates…they belonged to Grams.”

“Your grandmother, I remember.”

Pleasure bloomed in my chest at her easy recall. “Yeah. She loved Dallas. Every few years she would watch it from the beginning.” I hesitated. “She, uh, passed a couple of years ago.”

Mel’s sympathy was immediate, her expression tightening in a way that made me yearn to know what a hug from her would feel like. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I can see how special she was to you.”

I accepted her condolences with a nod. She knew enough to understand the plates now. There wasn’t a need to say more…but the words kept coming. 

“After she died there were a lot of bills. I sold her place to pay them and moved here…which is a bit cramped.” I tried to laugh around the lump in my throat. “In the end, all I brought with me was part of her tape and DVD collection…and those plates.” 

Mel took a step toward me before checking herself hard, leaning back like she hadn’t meant to move. Then, after a second’s hesitation, she reached out and gently touched my wrist. It was a simple offer of comfort, but the hair along my arm prickled in awareness. She audibly inhaled, like she’d felt something too.

“I’m sorry,” she repeated.

“Thanks,” I said, my voice a mixture of gratitude and self-consciousness.

She pulled her hand away slowly, as if reluctant to end the touch. Or maybe I was just projecting my own hopes.

Mel cleared her throat. “So,” she said brightly. “Which character is your favorite?”

I did my best to go along with the mood change. “Easy.” I pointed to a man whose deep tan heaped attention on his teeth, bared in a look of theatrical disdain. He wore a bolo tie and his black hair was an epic feathered mop. “Brett Gray.”

“That man’s teeth are as blinding as Junior’s hat.”

I laughed. “It’s ‘J. R.,’ not ‘Junior.’ But you aren’t wrong. Brett was J. R.’s ‘fixer.’ He started off as a bad guy, but he was so popular that the writers made him kind of a good guy by the end. He was the only shifter on the cast, and it was a big deal at the time. It did a lot for opening up more serious roles for shifters. Before him they were mostly just henchmen or did stunts.”

As Mel stared up at the plate, a stillness came over her. I felt a note of unease, like a hush had suddenly filled the room—or maybe it was me holding my breath. Rain fluttered against the roof above us.

“Is that why he was your favorite? The shifter thing?”

I frowned at her tone, genuinely confused. Then I realized what she was asking. A lot of regular humans were interested in shifters—there were even fandoms—but some individuals took it further, their fixations shading into mental illness. If I was right about Mel, she had good cause to be suspicious.

“Ah…no,” I answered truthfully. “I first saw Dallas when I was like, nine. I thought Brett was awesome because he drove this big black pick-up with chrome roll bars.” I tapped my chin. “Though sometimes he would turn into a tiger to spy on people, and that was cool. Because tigers are cool.”

Mel’s shoulders lowered, and her body eased. “Heh, that makes sense. I’ve got a thing for cool cars, myself.”

My heart sped up. This was my best chance. If I was going to ask, now was the time. I felt like a soldier about to step into no man’s land. “Mel…did you want to know because you’re a shifter?”

If it was quiet before, the silence that followed was oppressive. It telescoped out, stretching until each second felt like it was scratching me as it passed. Mel’s non-reaction, her absolute lack of motion, made her prior stillness look like a cartwheel.

“I’m sorry,” I stammered. “I didn't think it was offensive to ask.”

I’d guessed she might not be comfortable answering, but not to this degree. It felt like I’d trespassed into a deeply personal place. So of course I began to ramble and flounder like a bull in the Gas N Snak.

“It’s just…the sunglasses. And you don’t seem to get cold, and once I think I heard you say ‘goddess.’ ” More seconds sliced by. “And I’m so fine with it. Really. But not too fine! I’m not a creep. Which is…what a creep would say.” I finally wrestled my mouth shut and smacked a hand over my overheating face. “Oh…goddess.”

I stood in the rubble of my wordslide, my eyes closed, waiting to hear the door open and shut. When it didn't, I risked a peek. Mel had come back to life. She was even worrying her bottom lip nervously. Finally, her eyebrows drew together.

“You swear you’re not a creep?”

“Yes.”

No answer. It was like Mel could sense I needed to say more.

“I…did have an experience last year,” I admitted. “But I don’t think it was like some weird awakening.” God, I hoped it wasn’t. I swallowed. “It was this…crazy-strong reaction to a lion shifter couple. I had never seen shifters before, and last year there was this carnival in Hoisington—”

“Stop,” Mel interrupted, her lips parting in shock. “Are you talking about The Amazing Lion Tamers?” 

“I…yeah.” Okay, what the hell? “You know about them?”

She nodded. “Sure,” she said. Her tone was careful. “I’ve seen them.”

My eyes went wide. “What? When?” I was lucky to get two words out; I felt stupefied.

“The start of last chase season. Hoisington was close to a developing supercell. My friends and I went there for fun while we waited for it to develop.”

“Was it on a Wednesday?” I ask.

She shrugged a shoulder. “Don't remember. But the carnival arrived and set-up that day.”

“That was Wednesday,” I confirmed softly. “We were at the same show.”

“I just went with the group.” It almost sounded like an apology. “It wasn't my idea.”

“Did you…” My breath had gone short, the words falling out like I’d climbed a mountain. “Feel something? That night you were there? Like…an energy?”

Her throat worked. “Energy?”

“Yeah…just a…a thing. Like on your skin?” 

She looked at me wordlessly. I wanted flick my forehead. Great description, Keller. 

All at once Mel folded her arms and stared down at the floor. “Well, yeah. I felt energy.” She chuckled, but it was strangely lifeless. “You saw the show, right? Those guys were incredible.”

I took in her pose—self-contained and tense—and some vulnerable part of me reacted the same way, closing up and pulling back into the safety of my heart. “Yeah,” I said quietly. I had no reason to feel sad, but I did. “They were amazing. As advertised.” I stared down at the tired carpet under my toes.

“You’re not a creep, Cal.” Mel said abruptly. “No one would think that. You aren't some ‘tail chaser’ just because you were rocked by a spectacular performance. I mean, I was completely blown away, and…” She took a deep breath, and her voice dropped almost to nothing. “You called it. I'm a shifter.”

I lifted my head, but my startled joy curdled into concern. Mel’s complexion was leeched of color and her mouth was a tight line. Her arms were folded so close to her body that she looked like she was freezing.

That simple admission had cost her, and I didn’t understand why. Now, instead of being hugged, I wanted to take her in my arms and give one with every fiber of my being. But I wasn't sure how she would take that. I had to settle for a weak verbal substitute.

“Thank you,” I said sincerely. “Thank you for trusting me with that.” Sensing unspoken words behind the few she’d given—a lot of them—I instinctively added, “I won’t share anything you tell me. I swear.”

Slowly, Mel unfolded her arms. She rested a hand on her hip. “It’s whatever, right? Not like the glasses don’t make it obvious.”

“I’m still grateful.” I smiled at her, and it seemed to trigger a hesitant smile in return. She gave another breath of laughter, and this time it sounded genuine.

“Sure.” Mel ran a few slender fingers through her hair. The color in her cheeks was back…and looking a little like a blush. Me and my wishful thinking. “So are we getting this show on the road or what?”

“After you.”

On the way out, I remembered to grab my gray fleece-lined jacket from the hook beside the door.