Chapter 14 Sebastian
SEBASTIAN
The forty-five minute drive to the hibachi restaurant was awkward.
Just after we got in the car, and I started the engine with trembling hands, Gwen asked how my day at work was. I said, “Good.” And nothing else. Not even the same question in response. Just silence. Because, apparently, I was fifteen years old and had forgotten how to talk to a pretty girl.
We were at the stop sign between the ranch and the main road, the humming radio still the only sound, when I saw her shiver in my peripheral. “Shit, are you cold?”
“Little bit.” Her tone was playful, a smirk across her cherry lips.
Which I should not have paid any mind to, because the second I took the smallest glance at those lips, my stomach flipped, blood pumped, and I knew I should’ve looked away. So I did. To the dashboard, where I spun the dial to increase the temperature and pressed the button for her heated seat.
“Whoa, whoa!” Gwen yelled.
The truck coasted forward.
I slammed the brake.
We both jarred toward the dash.
I stared ahead at the pine trees on the other side of the yellow lines.
Why? Why was I acting like I had never seen a girl in my life? My hands were shaking and my heart rate was through the roof. Had I forgotten the last year the two of us had spent as friends?
She laughed. Not a little chuckle, but a deep belly laugh that filled all the empty space in the truck’s cabin. I swear, those pine trees laughed at me too.
“Okay, it wasn’t that funny.” Spoken as if I wasn’t also warring with the smile that played at the edges of my lips.
“No.” She made out between giggles. “Not at all funny. We could’ve died.”
I lost the battle, and a laugh escaped me too. “We could’ve. That wouldn’t have been funny.”
“Not at all.” And yet, she hadn’t stopped laughing.
Neither had I.
Still holding the brake, laughing harder and harder, we held one another’s gaze.
And I remembered why I was here. I remembered why we were doing this.
Because even at the worst moments, here we were.
We laughed and looked at one another and something I’d never felt before spread through my chest. Something worth stepping out of my comfort zone for.
Giggles finally slowing, she playfully swatted my shoulder. “Come on. It’s a Friday night. The place is gonna be packed.”
I released the brake, and we were on the road again. But our little laughing fit hadn’t done enough to break the ice because a mile or two down the road, my hands were still shaking, and my heart was still fluttering. Music would help. Gwen liked music.
I spun the dial on the dash. Johnny Cash’s Walk the Line pulsed through the speakers.
Now my stomach was turning again. I fumbled for my phone in its holder on the windshield.
“Shit, you hate country. Here, you pick.” I freed it from the clips and held it out to her between sweaty fingers while the front right tire dropped into a pothole.
It left us both swaying side to side. And my phone flying in her direction.
She dodged it just before it hit her in the face.
It fell through the crack between her thigh and the door.
For half a second, I considered reaching over to grab it for her. Only to realize that would look like I was feeling her up.
Giving me a crooked smile, clearly trying not to burst into obnoxious laughter once more, Gwen stretched a hand under the seat. “You know,” she grunted, craning awkwardly to reach, “I don’t hate country.”
“I clearly remember you mentioning that you hate country on at least five occasions.”
“I hate tractor country.” Coming out from under the seat with a crunched up fast food wrapper, her nose curled in disgust. “Songs about beer and good ole’ American values.
” She added a southern twang for that last bit, still digging for my phone.
“But Johnny Cash? Dolly Parton? Tanya Tucker? Oh, and Reba McEntire. They’re classic. ”
Which I agreed with entirely. I could go on hours-long tangents about what the country music industry had become. About how far country had evolved from its roots. I didn’t even have any “tractor country” on my playlist. Habitually, I listened to Garth Brooks, Willie Nelson, and Loretta Lynn.
But did I say that? No, of course not, because I had no idea how to act like a functioning human being tonight. Instead I said, “Oh.”
A long moment of silence passed. Eventually, with a smack of her lips, Gwen said, “Yep.”
Get it together, man. What the hell are you doing?
I cleared my throat, eyes on the two yellow lines descending the tarmac. “What do you listen to anyway?” Somehow, I mustered a smirk. “Aside from Surprise Rainbow Kittens.”
She scoffed. “Get it right, pal. Rainbow Kitten Surprise.”
“Of course.” Now the words were flowing. “Rainbow Kitten Surprise. Sorry.”
“To answer your question, everything.” Gaze out the passenger window, her breath turned the glass white.
“I love jazz. Not elevator music, but soulful jazz. Miles Davis, Louis Armstrong, Charlie Parker. I like a lot of newer stuff too. Underground indie artists. But I’ve also got a big thing for metal. ”
There was no stopping my snort. “Metal?”
Smile so sweet, so soft, she nodded. “Black Sabbath. Iron Maiden. Metallica, Pantera, Korn. Which is terribly ironic, considering that if I ever met any of those musicians in real life, I would probably fight them in the street for being the type of men they are.” I huffed, and she continued.
“My mom listened to them when I was growing up. I listen to a lot of smaller punk bands now. They’re usually better people.
Melodramatic, maybe, but they write good lyrics. And I like the screaming.”
“You know, I can’t say that surprises me.”
“No?” She arched a brow. “I seem like the angry type?”
Yes. I know you’re angry. That’s what I like about you.
But that seemed like the wrong thing to say. It didn’t feel like there was a right thing to say. So I opened my mouth, waiting for the right words to spill out, only to choke on the silence.
Gwen chuckled again, fiddling some more under the seat. “Okay, I think your phone is lost in the ether. And by ether, I mean months old, molding garbage.”
“Yeah, probably. I’ll get it later. Sorry I almost hit you in the face with it.”
“As long as you’ve got wet wipes in here, I’ll forgive you.” She held up her finger, covered in some mysterious clear liquid. “Please tell me you have wet wipes.”
“Glove compartment.”
We arrived at the hibachi steakhouse just after 7.
The line was out the door. Our wait was going to be three hours.
I told the hostess that it was no problem and reached for my phone to call Lizzie.
Standing there in the entryway of the restaurant, shoulder to shoulder with everyone in a fifty-mile radius who had heard about the new spot and was excited to spend Friday night here, I patted my pockets.
But my phone was still somewhere in the ether of the passenger seat.
With a deep exhale, I turned to Gwen “Would I be able to borrow your phone?”
“You would.” She reached into her pocket and held it out to me. “Or we could just go get takeout somewhere. Eat in the car?”
“No. This was supposed to be nice.” I frowned. “All that time you spent with Liz this afternoon, the least I can do is get you a nice dinner.”
“Take out sounds nice to me.”
My frown deepened.
Damn it, I should’ve just called this what it was. A date. That’s what I’d wanted this to be from the beginning. Hell, for months. Maybe since the moment I’d met her. I wanted to get to know her, really know her, while we ate delicious food and people watched and shared a bottle of wine.
“I mean, unless you have an issue with eating in your car,” Gwen said. “Can’t really blame you. All the mud on your floorboards, it is a work of art, but I think a little dash of rice and beans from that Mexican place down the street would really be the cherry on top. Like the final brushstroke.”
I glared. “I’ve seen the inside of your car. You’ve got no right to judge.”
“Okay, I have coffee cups and hoodies all over the place. You’ve got a half inch of literal dirt down there. And decaying food, Sebastian. It’s practically compost. If I dropped some flower seeds, it’d be a garden in a week.”
“It’s an eighth of an inch max.”
“Wow.” She pressed a hand over her chest, nodding slowly. “A man who accurately depicts an inch. That’s humble of you.”
My eyes were still narrowed, but I couldn’t help the half smile across my lips. “Fine. We’ll get Mexican. But I don’t eat it often, so I can’t guarantee what the aroma on the drive home is going to be.”
“You sure know how to charm a lady,” she said, gesturing to the door.
Under my breath, I muttered, “Says the one who emasculates men for sport.”