TEN Sebastian #2
“I’m sorry.” Quincy reaches over, a hand on my forearm. It’s a good thing I’m sticking to well under the speed limit. I almost jerk the wheel sharply to the right at the contact. “I’m sure that wasn’t easy.”
“I’ve seen shit. I know you have too. But finding teddy bears washed up on the banks of the river?
Whole houses moving miles downstream? That shit fucking rocks your world.
” I take a second to push the images out of my mind.
It’s not something I want to linger on. “People assume we become desensitized to destruction because we cover it so frequently. Maybe some meteorologists and reporters do, but it’s hard as hell for me.
Every time I share a death toll number from an earthquake or a mudslide or a tornado that plows through the Great Plains in the middle of the night, it makes me sick.
One person. Thirty people. Doesn’t matter. It all hurts.”
“I haven’t been around much postdisaster relief efforts.
I’m not sure I’d be able to handle it. Sometimes it feels like I care about things too much.
Like I’m too soft for all of this.” She pulls her palm off my arm, gesturing at the windshield.
“But it’s important to tell these stories, isn’t it?
So people remember why we do what we do. ”
“Yeah.” My throat is scratchy when I swallow. “What about you? What’s the worst natural disaster you’ve seen?”
“A Category 3 hurricane two summers ago. An entire mobile home park was wiped out.”
“Jesus.” I stare out at the road, worn out in a way that could have me sleeping for fifteen hours.
I’m easing down from the adrenaline of the storm, and it’s the best kind of tired.
Heavy eyes, exhausted limbs. “Every time I get back from a natural disaster event—whether it’s a blizzard, forest fires, dust storms—”
“Haboobs.”
“Haboobs.” I smile. “I feel grateful, you know?”
“Is that why today was a good day?”
“Among other reasons.” I point at the large sign ahead of us. “Ta-da. We’re here.”
“Waffle House?” Quincy laughs. Twirls the damp ends of her hair around her finger before letting them go. “Are you serious?”
“Please tell me you believe in the Waffle House Index, Pres.”
“Of course I do. If it’s good enough for the head of FEMA to use in a disaster, it’s good enough for me.”
“Attagirl,” I say, throwing open my door with renewed purpose when she tucks her chin to her chest to hide the blush on her cheeks. “Looks like we’re in a level green. Check out the plate of food the server just brought out.”
“Isn’t it wild that a restaurant chain is tied to risk management?” She hops out of the car and slams the door shut. “I guess it’s good news for the community. A closed Waffle House means severe damage, which doesn’t benefit anyone.”
“Especially when I’m hungry. The only things I’ve had to eat today are a package of sunflower seeds and a protein bar on the drive down.”
“Do I look like a wet rat?” Quincy steps in front of me and grimaces. My eyes rake down her body, from the shirt hugging the swell of her breasts and the rain boots that come halfway up her calves. “I should’ve grabbed a change of clothes from my car before we left.”
“Let me see.”
I put my palms on her jaw and study face. I turn her chin to the left then the right, humming. Her lipstick is faded. Her hair is three shades darker and soaking wet, and what must be bone-deep exhaustion is obvious on her cheeks and in the little creases around her eyes.
I feel it too. In my shoulders. In the blister throbbing on my pinkie toe. It’s tucked away in my chest with the blissful murmur of contentment, and I know when I put my head on my pillow tonight, I’m going to fall asleep happy.
Attacked by rats, probably, but goddamn happy.
Her inhale is sharp when I drag my thumb across her cheek, using the last drops of rainwater sticking to her skin to wet my fingers.
She doesn’t let out the breath, holding it in while she watches me wipe away the mascara from under her right eye with a quick swipe.
When she finally relaxes, her exhale is a warm puff of air.
I’ve gladly committed a lot of sins in my life, but I’d be the biggest fucking saint if it meant I could do that again.
“Nah.” I dance my fingers across her jaw. I dip them lower, ghosting down the line of her neck before pulling away completely. Today has made me reckless. Entirely out of my mind. “You look like a drowned raccoon.”
“Asshole.” Her hand lands on the sweatshirt I put on before we started our drive. She twists the material tight in her fist then gives me a shove that barely moves me an inch. “You’re buying after that comment.”
“I was hoping we’d do an awkward dance for the check. It’s fun.”
“You don’t pay on the first date?” Horror etches across her face when she realizes what she said. “I didn’t … this isn’t—forget I—”
“Do you want it to be a date, Quinny baby?” I grin. “We can make it a date. I’ll buy you some flowers. What are your favorites? Roses? Nah. Too easy. What about hibiscuses?”
“No. Nope. This is the furthest thing from a date. It’s an end-of-the-world meal. A celebration for making it through a disaster. That’s it.”
“Sounds fun.” We walk toward the restaurant, and I hold the door open for her. “Tell me, Monroe. If we were the last two people on earth, how much attention would you give me?”
“None, and you’d probably perish. You can’t survive without someone kissing your ass.”
“Then you’d be alone forever. I know you’d miss me.”
“You’d find a way to bother me from the afterlife.”
“Obviously I would. You can’t get rid of me that easily.”
The hostess seats us in a booth in the back by a large window.
There’s only one other person here, a man in a trucker hat sitting at the counter with empty plates spread out in front of him.
I’m hoping he’s waiting out the storm. Maybe he’s looking for an excuse to hang around, because his eyes jump from the newspaper he’s holding to the chef standing over the waffle machine.
There’s a hint of a smile as he watches her.
The shake of his head and a hand on his jaw, holding back.
What a story that would be.
I relax when I smell bacon.
Syrup and hash browns, too, and I’m glad I have some company.
Our server comes over and takes our order. We both pour a full cup of coffee despite the moon starting to peek out from behind a cluster of clouds, and Quincy adds cream and a spoonful of sugar to her mug.
“Wow.” She sighs around the word after taking a long sip. “That’s delicious.”
“I don’t normally do caffeine this late but today calls for it.” I cover my yawn with the back of my hand. “Thanks for filming me, by the way. I know you had your own things going on, and I appreciate the assist.”
“I’m adding it to my résumé.” She folds both hands around her mug. Another sigh loosens from her chest when she leans back. “I can’t believe you saved that woman. I can’t believe it’s on video. Is your phone blowing up?”
“Don’t know. Haven’t bothered to look at my notifications. Cooper said it’s making the rounds online, but it doesn’t matter to me. I’d do it again if I needed to. I hope you don’t think I did that for—”
“For attention? I don’t. Not at all. That was life-and-death. And a good thing you did.”
The compliment means a lot coming from her, and I smile at the server who brings our food over. “Thank you.”
“This looks delicious. I just wish it wasn’t freezing in here.” Quincy draws her arms across her chest and shivers. “That’s what I get for not changing out of my wet clothes.”
I drop my elbow on the table and grin. “Drowned raccoon, remember? Here.” I pull my sweatshirt over the back of my head and hand it to her.
It’s an old thing, hardly more than a scrap of fabric at this point with a torn right sleeve and missing drawstrings, but it gets the job done.
It’s a hell of a lot better than the wet outfit she’s in, and I don’t like seeing her cold. “Take this.”
“It’s okay. I’ll be fine.”
“Come on.” I lean forward, thighs bumping the table. I drop the hoodie in her lap and sit back down. “It’s not going to bite.”
“Are you sure about that?” Quincy asks.
“Only one way to find out.”
She doesn’t put the sweatshirt on, but she does spread the material over her legs.
She tucks the sleeves under her thighs and lets out a content sigh that’s infinitely better than chattering teeth.
I fight back another smile when she rubs her hand across the tattered cotton. When she curls her fingers in the hood.
“Thank you,” she finally says.
“Happy to help.”
Our conversation lulls while we dig into our meal.
There’s mumbled appreciation for the melted butter.
Knuckles nudging the bottle of syrup across the table and the second round of waffles we both order.
The hash browns Quincy adds, asking for ketchup then sheepishly telling me she loves adding the condiment on almost everything. When I polish off my food, I groan.
“I haven’t had a day this long in a while.” Quincy reaches for her coffee. “It always takes me a storm or two to get back in the groove.”
“I understand what you mean. When you do get adjusted to your new normal for the next five months, it’s good for the soul, you know?”
I rub my hand over my chest, knowing today was beyond good for my soul.
It’s too scary to tell her the days I spend in the studio in New York make me think I’m claustrophobic.
The evenings where I’m crammed inside and wishing for fresh air, small towns, and sweet tea in a mason jar on Cooper’s porch with my boys.
Instead, I decide on the elephant in the room.
The other part I’m not going to mention to her.
Not yet.
I like this bubble we’ve found ourselves in too much to burst it by saying we’re going after the same job. It will dredge up old animosity, and I want to stay in this moment for as long as I can. It’s too nice to want to bolt away.