Sunglasses 8: Bellows from the Basement (Patreon)

~ Mel ~

We're an hour down the road before it occurs to me to turn the heat on.

“Ah! Dammit, I'm sorry.” I lean over and quickly slide the levers as far as they’ll go. 

“That’s all right.” Cal glances at me and smiles, his breath pluming out.

Aiming a profanity-laced mental tirade at myself, I silently urge the heater to start working. It makes a less-than-encouraging rattling sound. No surprise there—I haven't used it in months. Agitated, I wiggle the temperature lever.

Rude, Mel. You’re heartless and rude. 

I would have noticed! Goddess knows I'm already paying Cal an unhealthy amount of attention…but there are mitigating circumstances. I’ve been silently flipping-out ever since we got on the road.

Heartless, rude, and self-absorbed.

The words sting, but I know the negative self-talk is just guilt in another form. I glance at Cal, who’s holding his hand over a vent. I'm not trying to victim-blame, but Cal is sort of the reason I was oblivious about…Cal. Poor, freezing Cal. Another pulse of guilt runs through me.

“Anything?” I do my best to sound light, but there's strain under the words.

“I think…yeah. Heat’s coming out.”

I nod. It’s not like I won’t be able to tell when the car finally gets warm. I can sense heat and cold, I’m just not bothered by it unless things are extreme. The car should get warm, but we have to wait.

Waiting means brooding. Fuck, I shouldn’t even be brooding! I should be seething with anger over what happened at the motel…but Ángel’s bullshit seems unimportant now.

The man beside me is fracturing my world.

Ever since the conversation in Cal’s trailer, my mind hasn't stopped replaying that night. The night. The carnival in Hoisington where I’d gotten a headache and an unnervingly pleasant tingle over my entire body. A year ago, I'd convinced myself it had been some short-lived virus that caused “dazed euphoria” as a symptom. I'd been doing okay with that before Cal knocked my brain on its ass with his own bizarre story.

My lips feel dry. Maybe it’s getting warmer? Sure, that’s the reason my throat is tight and my temples are aching, not the stress. What am I going to do? 

Nothing. I’m not going to do a damn thing.

What, am I supposed to say, “Hey, I think maybe we experienced a shared hallucination. Weird, right?” Fuck, no. And I’m definitely not admitting that I feel that same tingle dance over my skin whenever I touch him…or that I've started looking for excuses to touch him. I won't feed this delusion. It's a glitch.

Like me.

“Sorry again,” I say abruptly. “I just…I wasn't thinking.” It sounds lame, but it fills the air and shuts up my internal arguing.

He chuckles. “We’re good. I can already feel my fingers.”

Fuck, my mistake had made his fingers numb? At that moment my primal self stirs from her torpor like she’s waking from a bad dream. Dazed, she lumbers around inside me in sluggish alarm, swirling my surface feelings into even more turmoil.

“What’s wrong?” I say in a shocked voice. I’m used to talking to my primal self when I’m alone, and her activity is so unexpected that I forget I am not alone. Shit!

“It's really okay,” Cal says, thinking I’m talking to him. That unaffected way he has of speaking is like a brain massage. “I was kidding. My jacket’s lined.” The man is so easy-going that both parts of me want to sidle up next to him and bask in the assurance of simple comfort.

I'd probably end up crushing him. It is the worst thought at the worst time. My other half practically bellows in the cavern of my skull, making the dashed white line of the road blur for a second. It was a joke. I was joking!

“Woah, forget about me,” Cal says with a note of concern, “are you okay?”

I blink rapidly as my primal self subsides into agitated, fitful movements. “Fine,” I ground out. “Just a little eye strain. Give me a minute.” I make a show of rolling my head and stretching my shoulders while I try to figure out what the hell is going on.

Normally, my primal side doesn't even open an eye for anything less than a churning wall cloud. She shouldn’t be waking up. This is bizarre behavior, and the implications are frightening. If I lost control under these circumstances, with Cal beside me—

Another panicked bellow rings my skull. It’s okay, I think desperately, willing this wild part of me to understand. That can’t happen. The weather’s all wrong. It won’t happen. I’m fine. Cal’s fine.

My hands are trembling as I squint through the mental thrashing, but I manage to carefully hit the blinker, downshift, and steer onto the side of the road. It's frustrating to have to pull over—especially not knowing if Ángel is following me—but I don't have a choice while my other half is this upset.

Once we've stopped, I lock both hands around the wheel and close my eyes. I'm so busy trying get myselves under control that Cal’s hand on my shoulder comes as a shock—a wonderful shock. Warmth spreads from the contact of his palm through the material of my shirt and into my body.

Instantly, my primal half stills, turning watchful. Behind my lids, I know my eyes have become hers.

“Mel…what is it? What’s wrong?” he asks urgently.

A few fitful motions at the base of my soul. I sense my other self wanting to raise her neck into a showy display, but she knows he wouldn’t see it. She’s frustrated, but it’s a minor complaint compared to this new soothing feeling.

“N-nothing,” I say. “Stress headache. Happens sometimes. Just need a minute.”

“Okay…” He sounds uncertain. Then his hand starts to lift.

“Leave it,” I practically snap. “Um, please leave it. Your hand…it feels nice.”

“Sure,” his reply is gruff, but I think it’s because he’s trying not to sound gratified. That makes me happier than it should.

Of course, I think ruefully. Of course Cal is the reason she’s up early. It doesn’t make any sense, but neither do whole swaths of my life. And before my thoughts can tie themselves into knots over it, Cal starts to rub. 

My mind blanks. It’s all I can do not to release a sigh of pure contentment from this uncomplicated sensation. I wish I could feel it on my bare skin instead of through a long-sleeved shirt, but the risk is too high.

With my eyes still shut, I find myself picturing Cal. It’s stupid easy considering our time together barely totals two hours. He’s cute. I don’t normally go for cute, though any girl would swoon over his eyes, which are the faded blue of a favorite pair of jeans. His disheveled sandy-brown hair is appealing too, thick and grippable, but for some dumb reason I’m hung up on his cheeks. His cheeks. Is that even a thing? They make him boyish.

Yeah, but like a clever and funny boy. College boy. A “late-night study session in the library” boy. One I can hide in the stacks with and steal a kiss from…and then together we rock the shelves hard enough to knock down books.

I bite my lip. Okay, what fresh hell is this? My libido is normally chill. “Prim as a Puritan, age sixty,” according to Maira—who I once shoved into a pool in retaliation for the jibe. I’m not that bad. But apart from the inevitable storm season hook-ups—and regrets—I’m fine going without. All I need, once or twice a month, is a glass of wine, a warm tub, a hazy surfer guy fantasy, and my fingers. No muss no fuss.

But now my desire is awake, just like my other self, and the focal point for both is rubbing my shoulder. Cal, with his inexplicably appealing cheeks and sexy eyes, has probably never even seen the ocean, much less surfed on it. He’s a puzzle that only gets harder to solve the more I study him.

Another minute passes. Despite the inconvenient Cal-thirst, my primal half finally starts settling down. I’d like to think it was due to my deep, even breathing, but most of the credit is Cal’s. As his palm makes gentle circles, my primal self slips back into her nebulous, half-aware state, offering a grouchy rumble that turns into a guttural purr. Instead of her usual edginess, she seems kind of…blissed out.

My shoulders lower in relief and I open my eyes.

“Headache better?” Cal asks uncertainly.

Thank the goddess, I can’t see his breath anymore. Either the heater is doing its job or my flushed body is warming the air.

Not the time for jokes, I chide myself. Aloud, I strive to keep my voice even. “It’s a lot better. Sorry about being weird.”

My body feels the loss as he removes his hand, but Cal’s charmingly shy expression helps makes up for it. “I like weird people,” he answers quietly. As if to emphasize the point, he reaches up to tap the braided feather charm I’ve hung from the mirror.

Hearing him repeat my earlier words while admiring my feathers? I swear my heart stumbles into a swoon. I need to change the subject before I do something truly disastrous and kiss him. I’m already stretching the rules with Cal; a kiss would snap them. “You warm?” I stammer.

“Oh.” He blinks. “Y-es, actually. I am.”

Cal hadn’t noticed before because his attention was entirely on me. I command my heart to chill with the swooning.

“I can ditch the coat now. Thanks, Mel.” He dazzles me with a bright smile, and some of my still-simmering blood floods my cheeks.

Goddammit, heart.

Cal releases his seat belt and unzips his jacket. Just as he starts awkwardly removing it in the limited space, pickup headlights wink at me in the rearview. The approaching vehicle had been behind a farmstead’s shaggy wall of trees, and it's closing quick. I turn to Cal, whose head has vanished under the jacket while he fights an arm out of one sleeve. In other circumstances it would have been adorable. 

Before I can second-guess myself, I lean across his front to grab his seat belt. I drag it across his body, letting my knuckles brush the textured fabric of his chest—only fair after his nip-tingling stroke this afternoon—and click it home.

“Hey, I can’t—”

“Hang on.” I shift into gear and ease off the clutch. As soon as we leave the gravel on the shoulder, I shift again and start accelerating. The speedometer gets above sixty and keeps climbing. I get it into fourth. My breathing eases as the engine settles into a confident rumble.

“Uh, Mel…” 

I reach over and grab the end of a dangling sleeve. “Pull.”

Cal tugs his arm free and finally gets the jacket off. When his head reappears, his hair is tousled, upping his boyish quality to “obnoxiously appetizing.” Father Tempest, shift the wind to my back, I think, gritting my teeth. He shouldn’t be here, but I don’t want him to be anywhere else.

Out of the corner of my eye, I watch Cal toss his jacket into the back seat. I can't quite make out his bemused expression, but I know the gears are turning.

“So,” he says after a moment, “that was interesting.”

“I was anxious to get moving,” I say. “I’m kind of…travel jittery. I always feel like I'm late.” I glance at him. His eyebrows raise.

“So it's not because of the headlights behind us?” he asks.

I don’t say anything. That’s the problem with the clever ones. You don’t respond to questions and they still find answers.

“How fast are we going?” he says.

I check. “Ninety.” Not far off my average intercept speed when I’m storm chasing. 

“Jesus.”

Behind us, the headlights flash as the other driver turns onto a farm road. I feel my entire body loosen and ease my foot off the gas. I don’t worry about my speed when I’m on the hunt—police have better things to do when a supercell is overhead—but I really don’t want a ticket.

“Mel, can I ask something?” Cal’s voice has lowered, competing with the engine. It’s going to be a serious question. There are half-a-dozen contenders, and I dread every one.

“You’ve been asking me lots of stuff.”

I can feel those blue eyes on me, but I keep mine on the highway. For a fleeting second I wish I could see Cal without the tint of my glasses. Maybe I wouldn't find his gaze as captivating without the barrier. As if. More like I just want a stolen second with nothing between us. But there's no way it can happen.

Cal clears his throat. Here we go, I think. He’s going to ask about Ángel.

“Will you tell me about your car?”

My lips part in surprise. The startled release of tension transforms that odd energy on my skin into something almost intoxicating.

“Um…sure.” A relieved laugh that’s too girlish for comfort. “It’s a 1981 VAM Rally GT.” 

“Vam?” Cal asks.

I squint to recall. “Vehículos Automotores Mexicanos. Mexican car company. They folded decades ago.” I give the wheel a loving brush with my thumb. Is it safe to say more? Before I can decide, the words slip out anyway. “It was my dad’s.” Shut up, Mel.

Cal reaches out to touch the glossy wood veneer of the glove compartment. It’s brown styling is aggressively dated…but that’s one of the things I love about it. “This was your dad’s car? That’s awesome.”

“Well, my biological father’s.” Stop talking. “Actually, it was my grandfather who bought it new, but I never met him. He gave it to my bio-dad when he turned eighteen. I…inherited it years before I could drive.” Goddess’s tears! Shut the hell up!

“Inherited it?” Cal asks. “How did—” He suddenly shakes his head and looks away. “No, never mind. I'm being nosy. Sorry. Everyone who grows up in a hamlet learns how to gossip before they can speak.” He laughs. “I just think it’s a cool car.”

“Four-speed manual,” I reply automatically. “I’ve gotten it up to one-fifteen before, but that was with a monster tailwind. Every year it needs body work from the hail and debris damage, and the engine is…picky. I’m probably putting my mechanic’s kid through preschool.”

Cal laughs again. He has a nice laugh. I grip the steering wheel and wet my lips for the umpteenth time. My insides are trembling from the gravity of this moment, the paths that unwind from here. After sensing my discomfort, Cal steered the conversation away from my past, a considerate way of letting me know that he won’t pry. We can drive on, and that will be that.

Anything I share now is strictly my choice. 

“I never met any of them,” I say. “Not my father, or my grandparents on my father's side.” It's out, and the white lines of the road keep flashing past the hood, unchanged. The world doesn't end. I press my luck. “I got the Rally when I was fourteen. I was still living in Seattle with my mom.”

“Seattle? That's a long way from Mexico.”

I nod. “It’s fifteen-hundred miles from Seattle to Puerto Vallarta. I looked it up the day this car was dropped off.”

“Puerto Vallarta.” He rolls the unfamiliar pronunciation around, trying to match mine. He doesn't, but I like that he tries. “That’s where your dad is from?”

“For most of his life. He was originally from Bolivia. I found that out much later.” This part isn't a secret, I remind myself firmly.

I'm rationalizing, but it's true. I’ve said nothing “sacred,” or offered any trivia that would make the elders of the Circle break their hips crawling over each other to scream for my head. I haven't broken any rules, only…expectations. Is it so awful to share a few pieces of my past with a guy I’m just a tiny bit into?

”You never had any kind of communication with him?” Cal asks.

“What? Oh…um, no. I grew up thinking he had abandoned us. So…I got to learn that he knew about me, that my mom knew how to contact him, and that he was dead. All on the same day.”

“God, that’s rough.”

“And the Rally GT was the final kick to the stomach.” I brush the dash almost skittishly. My fingers are twitching from the adrenalin of sharing things I’ve always kept close, memories clutched like broken shards of a prized doll. 

“It was?”

“Leaving it to me meant that my dad cared. This car was his favorite thing in the world.”

Fragments of that awful day pelt me like stinging hail. I see the bright yellow car on its trailer, glimpsed from my bedroom window on the second floor of the townhouse. I remember the stilted introduction to Nicolás Aguilar, his slicked-down hair such a contrast to his nephew Ángel, who I wouldn't meet for years. I recall confusion on the face of my stepdad and anger radiating off Mom.

A lump rises in my throat. I won’t cry about this. Not over scars this old. Why does telling Cal make these wounds feel new?

“It must have seemed like your world blew up,” he says now, rescuing me from the past. The sympathy and gravity of his tone is an anchor, holding me steady. 

He understands, I think with faint surprise. Knowing that Cal—at least on some level—comprehends the pain that had upended the life of that adolescent girl, compels me to say more. “Before that day I trusted my mom. I haven't trusted anyone since.”

Cal goes quiet, sitting with with my words. I imagine him running his fingers over them like polished stones. I wait, watching the approach of a towering skeletal caterpillar spanning a distant field, each “leg” ending in a wheel. Irrigation equipment. It whishes past.

“So were your parents…divorced?” he asks softly.

An ugly scoff escapes. Not attractive, but I can’t help it. “My parents were together for exactly seven days.” I hesitate. Do I tell the depressing truth? Fuck it. “I’m a Spring Break mistake, Cal.”

He folds his arms, lapsing back into silence to digest this last bitter morsel. I begin to worry what’s going through his head, and give in to the impulse to fill the quiet.

“Sometimes I think she named me Melanie to appease my mildly racist grandparents,” I joke, but my voice is strained. “You know, like having the whitest white girl name makes it okay I’m half mestizo.” I’m not even sure if I believe that, but its hard to figure out my real feelings about Mom through the curtain of angry silence that’s hung between us for almost a decade. 

More time passes with no response. It's agonizing. Cal shifts uncomfortably, like he’s trying to deal with an internal debate of his own.

My brave front falls apart. “Say something,” I plead, not caring if I sound pathetic. “Anything.” His non-reaction hurts worse than any words.

“I don’t like your mom,” he blurts. “Sorry. I…I don’t think that’s fair. I don’t know her or anything, but I got really angry just now. At her. For hurting you. I guess that’s part of my own damage when it comes to mothers.”

My heart gives a bittersweet twist, mixing affection at his protectiveness with empathy for the pain I hear in his voice. I want to ask about those past pieces of him, but Cal speaks first.

“Do you hate her?”

“No,” I say. I’m shocked it’s so easy. I glance at him, unable to suppress my mystified expression. “I used to, I think, but…no. My childhood was complicated, and you’re right. It wouldn’t be fair.”

Cal nods, and I relish my keen eyes for being able to spot his faint smile in the dark. “That was why I tried to keep my mouth shut.”

I give an amused huff. “Do you know…you’re the first person to ask me that?” I tell him. “It’s funny. I’ve never even asked myself.”

“Did it help?”

“Yes,” I say after a long moment. “It did.” I gather my courage. “I’m really glad you came with me tonight.”

It was the right thing to say; I can practically hear happiness fill Cal from his toes up, like water filling a glass. “I’m glad you let me,” he answers. “But I do think you’re wrong about one thing.”

My stomach goes tight. “What?”

Cal shifts in his seat, facing me more fully. “There is no way on God’s green earth that you are a mistake, Melanie Wade.”

My heart starts thudding so hard I feel it in my ears. Deep inside, my primal self snuggles further into a cozy rest. There has never been a single thing about my other half that could ever be described as cozy. But one compliment from the most unexpected passenger I’ve ever driven has done the impossible. I can’t unpack that. I won’t. Time to stop thinking for a while.

“How about some tunes?” I suggest. I hear the shake in my voice. Does he?