4. Queenie
CHAPTER FOUR
QUEENIE
RECOMMENDED LISTENING ‘MESSAGE IN A BOTTLE (TAYLOR’S VERSION’) BY TAYLOR SWIFT
This is the strangest night ever.
It’s the only thought in my buzzing head as I lead Noah Dumaine out of the party. Everyone’s too wasted to give me a second glance. But I second and third guess myself as I squeeze past the crowd.
Am I really going to drive off into the night with a complete stranger who I kissed fifteen minutes ago?
“I can finally feel my ears.” Noah tugs at his cute lobes. “The air feels freer too.” He even takes a deep breath. “Less full of Eau De Privileged Brat.”
And this is why I am thinking of doing it anyway. Because he says self-deprecating things like this.
We stop at the food stands at the beginning of the lot. Buy plates of vegan hot dogs, plantain fritters, crispy burgers (tofu for me, since I don’t eat meat) and bottles of beer from a stand selling it. I trust the stand more than all the fancy alcohol inside the party.
We juggle brown bags and continue toward the parking lot. He spots my car, the lone Karman Ghia, an ancient rust bucket in less-than-pristine condition, and whistles. “Nice car.”
“Do not diss Lizzie Bonnet,” I instantly snap. “She’s…temperamental.”
Noah blinks. “You named your car what?”
“I finally read Pride and Prejudice in the spring. And the main character is called Lizzie Bennett?” I point at the hood of the car. “A car hood’s also called a bonnet so –” I shrug.
He laughs, delighted. “You punned your car with Jane Austen?”
“Lizzie takes no shit from a man, requires a lot of maintenance, is independent by nature. It’s a no-brainer, my man,” I retort as I step in the passenger side. I know it’s a little silly, but I don’t care. I’m due for a little silly.
“It actually makes sense.” He folds himself in the driver’s seat. Gives me a pained look. “Can this be any tinier?”
I help him adjust it to his height with a wry grin. “I’m a tiny person.”
He three-point-turns us out of the lot, when the driver’s dash pops open, and something falls on his lap.
“Great Gatsby?” Noah squints at the title as he hands it to me.
“Yeah.” I brush my hand over the worn cover of the secondhand book. I am a sucker for old books. “I’ve never had time to read before this year with school and stuff.” I give him a small smile. “So, I’m making up for lost time.”
This is partly true. I love making my way through the classics and science-fiction, fantasies, and romcoms, devouring one story after another. But the real truth is, reading fully occupies my mind. And gives me no time to think.
I need that more than anything.
“Full of surprises.” Noah guns out of the parking lot and on the merging turnoff. We are roaring back the way we came.
I take the bottle of Herradura from the dashboard, twist it open, wipe the mouth and tip the tequila down my throat. Noah eyes me but makes no comment.
I offer him the bottle, out of a latent sense of courtesy. “You can have a tiny sip. I won’t tell.”
“No, thanks, Queenie, I’ll stick to beer.” He nods at the brown paper bag in my lap.
“Let me take a wild guess. You love beer but are not a fan of tequila,” I declare boldly. “Or whiskey.”
His eyes widen slightly, so I see myself reflected in the golden ring of light from the lampposts. “That’s slightly accurate. Half-correct, in fact.”
“Which part’s incorrect?”
“I am a fan of tequila, but I don’t drink anything strong anymore,” he answers. “And yes, I do love my beer. I can drink it forever.”
I nod, file this knowledge away. Noah Dumaine only drinks beer.
“It’s my turn to guess.” He changes gears.
I turn in my seat, his jacket brushes against my thigh and I feel… that zing. Which arced into me and cured me of my black mood.
I don’t know what to call it. It can’t be attraction. I don’t have time for attraction. Or, god forbid, a crush. The last one stung so badly, even if the crush in question doesn’t know how badly he hurt me.
“Alright.”
“You like black.” He nods at my all-black outfit. “In fact, you love black.”
“I like Amy Winehouse. RIP.” At his raised brow, I elaborate. “I like standing out. And black is sexy always.”
“Indeed,” Noah murmurs.
“What are you doing here, in town? Are you an expat or something?” I ask him point-black.
“Or something.” He changes gears competently, shifting into fourth. Lizzie purrs under his hands.
“A man with secrets, then,” I decide. I demolish more of the tequila. And eat some of the fritters straight from the bag so the salt soaks up the alcohol. “I wish these were paneer pakoras.” At his questioning glance I wave one at him. “Cottage cheese. Fried in oil. Pure heaven.”
Noah smiles. “I’ll keep that in mind.” He points at the cliffs, coming up on the next bend. “Do people have houses there?”
I nod. “Yeah, the cliffs are the most exclusive neighborhood.”
“Really? Tell me more?”
I fill him in on Barrons Bay history and its founding, dating back to the 1700s. Highlight House of Niamh, a billion-dollar fashion empire, which is still partly headquartered here.
Noah drives across the horse-shoe shaped delta and the cliffs that give Barrons Bay, Connecticut its name.
“I don’t understand how this is a beach town when half the owners are Manhattan billionaires but--” My words trail off, as he brakes smoothly to a stop. “Are we at Mo’s Drive-In?”
We are. We’re at the abandoned, out-of-commission, drive-in theater located on the other side of Lake Quigley near the Bay. So, the scent of tangy ocean primes the air. The beach is just a few yards away with a heady smell of summer heat and the sound of roaring waves.
Noah nods at the Mo’s Drive-In sign rotting on the screen’s masthead. “I take long drives, sometimes, to clear my head and when my mates are being too rowdy with the drinking. That’s how I came upon this place and…I kind of figured out how to run the projector.” He drums his fingers against the steering wheel.
My jaw drops. Noah knows how to fix broken electronic machines too. Is there nothing the man’s not good at? Who is he and what the fuck is he doing here? And what is he doing with me?
Sure, he doesn’t know how infamous I am but who goes to so much effort for a literal stranger?
Maybe you’re worth it , a small voice whispers inside me.
“Is this really a date then? We have dinner and then go to a movie?” I half-joke to cover my intense awkwardness.
“It’s whatever you want to call it, Queenie.” This time, he touches my arm, so it’s meant to be reassuring. But it only makes me aware of how large his palm is, when it covers my elbow easily. Heat zings into me, zapping my insides.
“You call the shots.” His words are too sincere to be an act .
There is no shot.
I want to say it. I want to say the words and stop Noah cold. I know he will respect my boundaries and not say another word on the subject. I might not know anything about the man apart from his taste in alcohol, but I know he will respect me. This is not a conclusion, this is fact.
He exudes safety and intelligence, even if he is not telling me the truth about himself.
I hand him the beer bag. “This all depends on one thing.”
“Oh yeah.” His palm slides against mine in the bag exchange. “What’s that?”
My stomach sinks. I lean forward, without meaning to. My traitorous gaze slides down his PGSOFS face, rests on his pink, kissable lips.
He suddenly splits into two Noahs.
I blink and he becomes single again. “I…”
“You…” He breathes.
I want to kiss him again. Maybe it’s the alcohol or this strange night or how I already know what he tastes like, I want to brush my lips against his. Instead, I ask him, “Are you available? For dinner and a movie?” I point at the seat I occupy. “Is there anyone else who should be here?”
Hopefully he is single. I never bothered to ask him his status before…but going to a secondary location changes the rules, doesn’t it?
Damn it, this is confusing. I am technically in the clear because I don’t know any of this yet. So, when I kissed him, I was kissing who I thought was a single stranger.
It’s Schrodinger’s Kiss till I asked the question.
I want to chug more of the tequila and have it burn through my doubts and reservations.
Pure intent slides into his eyes turning them devil-black. His nose gleams in the moonlight. “There’s no one else, Queenie Madhavan. There’s no one but you.”
My vision wavers again. “You’re so dramatic.” I have to put this out there.
“I’ll stop.”
I shake my head. “No, don’t stop.”
With that answer, I allow myself to be swept away by this strange night. And this strange but safe man.
We sit on the hood of my car after allowing it to cool down and scarf down the food and beer. He makes no comment about my vegetarian choices, just tries all the food and approves the fritters.
I ask Noah about weight watching and he just stuffs half a burger in his mouth. Clearly, the man loves his carbs. I don’t know why I like that, but I do.
The alcohol, the cool summer night, and the company lulls me into feeling…floaty. I am not Queenie Madhavan, tonight. I’m just a girl on a date with a boy she just met. An Aussie boy.
It freaks me out because I’m not freaked out by this notion.
“Why do you make that face?” Noah intrudes on my inner thoughts with the question.
I take a sip of the beer, and he splits into two Noahs again. I blink and he coalesces back into one person. I’ve consumed a lot of carbs soaked in salt. I should not be this level of buzzed. Right? I mean, I only had like one little whiskey flask and polished off the bottle of Herradura and one beer, while Noah almost demolished the six beers. Plus, I’m in the age group which is biologically meant to hold their drink. So…it’s just nerves, I rationalize.
I am not drunk.
“What face?” I ask him warily.
“That one. Every time you take a sip of the beer.” He wrinkles his nose and scrunches his cheeks. “You make the face.”
“I tolerate beer,” I confess. “But give me something Irish or Mexican anytime.”
“So, you spend a lot of time drinking then?”
I shake my head immediately. “God, no. I am not a teetotaler or a party animal. I was too busy juggling pre-med courses with my TA position and applying for grants on the side for med school in September.” The words slip out involuntarily.
“Where do you study?”
“Thorndon,” I answer softly. “I had a full scholarship.”
“Damn. You’re smart, desi girl!” Noah toasts me with his beer mug. And drains it again. “Like, heaps smart if you were doing all that.”
“I’m not in school anymore,” I tell him softly. “I…I dropped out in January.”
I still remember the kindly eyes of the counsellor who patted my cold, clammy hand. A little break will do you good, Queenie. You’re being too hard on yourself. You need rest.
Her words were meant to be comforting. But they made me feel the same thing everyone else’s did. Like I was the problem.
I wait for his inevitable follow up-question. If you’re so smart that you got a full-ride scholarship in a prestigious university, why did you drop out, Queenie?
But Noah surprises me once again. “So,” he begins earnestly. “Were you the hot, nerdy TA who has a secret thing for jocks? Hopefully while wearing glasses and one of those plaid mini-skirts?” His pitch-black eyes are so playful, non-threatening.
I am mock-indignant. “That is so clichéd. Not to mention borderline offensive.”
“You know, you accuse me of being clichéd.” He bites into a fritter. “But literally the first thing you said to me, after post-kiss consent, was talk shit about Australian cricket.”
“I—” I immediately begin to defend myself, but I can’t. Dammit. He is right. “I did do that, didn’t I?”
His smile is pure devilry. “Yes, you did. And I immediately became crazy about you.” He says crazy in a way that makes me feel hot and cold at the same time. It has to be all the black I’m wearing.
I’m not attracted to this man. I cannot be.
I throw a fresh tissue at him. “You did not. God, you’re so dramatic.”
His laugh, rich and male, splits the night air. “It’s easy to be dramatic with you, Queenie.”
My lips twitch in a smile. Involuntary. Spontaneous. “Do you charm everyone with your quick tongue, or it’s reserved for special occasions?”
Noah takes a sip of his beer and licks the foam off his lip with his pink and foamy tongue. He doesn’t stop staring at me when he answers my cheeky question. “My tongue’s not for everyone.”
Heat spreads everywhere through me. As I reluctantly, unwillingly, think of his tongue and what all it could do.
I will not blush.
It is in that moment I realize intense eye contact with Noah Dumaine is the sexiest form of foreplay invented.
I slide my eyes away on the pretext of gathering all the food debris. We dispose it off in the recycling bins. And I’m once again struck by the strange sense of safety and danger. This night is weird. Spending any more time with him is probably inviting trouble.
Right?
As we walk back to the car I ask him, “So, what do we do now?”
He quirks a brow. “What do you want to do?” He is suggestive and cute.
I am burning up. “I don’t mean…” I flail my hand, while color rushes up my cheeks. “That!”
“You’re heaps cute when you’re blushing. Relax, I’m pulling your leg, Queenie.” Noah laughs again and brushes his shoulder against my arm. “We’ll do whatever you want to do. Full stop.”
The alcohol fizzes through my insides at the way he stresses ‘full stop’. This is the longest I’ve spent in a long time not hating myself, hating the world, or both. And he’s giving me the choice. If I say yes, then it means I am now an active participate in this event.
It is ridiculous to call this a date because I mean…I kissed him before we even exchanged hellos, and he just started flirting with me because I kissed him… but calling it a date means I want this too.
Except, how can I? When everything else in my life is basically on fire at the moment? How can I want to steal a moment of time that feels so…safe and warm and good.
“Didn’t you promise me dinner and a movie?” I ask him slowly.
He nods. “Indeed, I did.”
I wave at the white screen. “Well, then?”
But then Noah smiles and points to the hood of the car. “Settle down. I’ll be back in a jiff.”
“No serial killer masks and axes, right?”
He holds his hand, palm closed. “None. Scout’s honor.”
“That’s not the Scout’s salute,” I shout after him, but he’s gone.
For a moment I wonder about his motives for hanging out with me. Probably, he is a PGSOFS looking for a good time for the night because he is bored or whatever.
And that’s…fine. It’s fine by me.
I settle on the hood of the car, then think better of it. I stand down, legs crossed at the ankles. Then I run back to the dashboard and get the little bottle of rum I’d stored there two months ago, when I was caught in a spring hailstorm and on the verge of hypothermia. Lizzie’s heater is…temperamental. I would never drink and drive but just splashing some on the throat and palms is enough to unfreeze the bones for a few minutes.
The screen lights up with a blaring of trumpets to signify a 20 th Century Fox Production.
Noah lopes back to me. “Missed me?” He settles on the hood of the car, swinging his legs on the fender. He hands me a popcorn bag filled with fragrant kernels. But I wrinkle my nose. “This can’t be safe or healthy.”
“It’s just for atmosphere, woman. I’m trying to set the mood here.”
“Sorry. Thank you so much, Noah. It’s lovely and thoughtful.” I gingerly accept the bag and place it next to me. Then I climb to the hood of my car and sit with my legs folded under me, because I don’t trust myself to not slide down. Suddenly the rum hits me like a truck.
I should not have had so much to drink!