Chapter 11: Surly Romance: Chapter 11

I got three hours of sleep max, but I swear I’m not cranky because I’m tired. I’m on edge and flustered and way too disappointed that mom called right when Darrel was acting out a scene from last night’s dream.

We fight like cats and dogs, but I wanted him to kiss me more than I’ve ever wanted anything. And no, not even our fight about Gabor dragged my hormones off the ‘get Darrel naked’ train.

Darrel walks close to me as we enter the restaurant. His knuckles brush mine and all the hair on the back of my neck stands to attention like he’s a fifty percent off sale at my favorite furniture store.

I barely register the scent of freshly-made tortilla chips and guac. The low ranchero music filled with plucky guitar strings. The Christmas lights strung over windows and the photos of tan men in wide-brimmed straw hats.

Darrel is there. His hand is hovering at my waist like this is a date. Like I’m not on a blind date with another man.

And I’m fine with it.

In fact, I want to snuggle closer to him and ask if he’s really been to this restaurant before or if he lied just to crash our lunch.

I’m being ridiculous.

I should be focusing on Gabor. He came all the way here to meet me, and he seems like a really cool person. Those clear brown eyes are trustworthy and totally not ax-murderer-like. I know how to recognize a psycho. I’m around Darrel all the time, after all.

Darrel’s hand shifts to my other side, nudging me away from a waitress carrying a heavy tray of tamales, salbutes, and drinks. She slants him a grateful smile and successfully deposits her load at the right table.

I turn my head slightly and realize Darrel is staring at me. Green eyes drop to mine, piercing me the way that wooden skewer is piercing perfectly fried slabs of pork. I almost stumble over my own shoes.

Darrel is a distraction. A huge, growly, sexy distraction that I want to slap and smooch in equal quantities…

Coffee. I definitely need coffee.

And a chill pill.

“This way,” the cheerful Hispanic woman glides over the floor, her long red skirt swishing beneath her.

Darrel’s steps are sharp and tense. His sullen expression and sharp, pinstripe blazer seem especially out of place in the colorful Mexican restaurant.

I’m not the only one noticing how much he sticks out, though my assessment is probably harsher than the ladies whose gazes double back when Darrel stomps past them. Twitters, whispers, and clanking glasses of mimosa declare their approval of his sexy stride.

I want to warn them. This guy is insane, ladies. Don’t waste your time unless you want King Grouch insulting you one minute and cradling your face like you’re the most precious thing in his life one second later.

“Here you are.” The server points to a table fitted with a plastic sheet. Ketchup, salsa, and three different pepper sauces stand like eager soldiers in the center.

“Gracias,” Gabor says.

Darrel nods his thanks as well. His expression lightens in what he probably thinks is a smile but is more like a brighter frown.

“Ooh! They have the Dante’s Inferno pepper,” I squeal, jumping toward the table and grabbing a bottle.

Darrel snatches it away from me.

Jerk.

“Your stomach is too weak to handle that much spice.”

I shoot him a blistering look. “It is not.”

“Remember taco night six months ago? Belle served Alistair’s secret habanero sauce and you spent the rest of the night with your face in the garbage.”

I open my mouth in shock. “Excuse me. Belle accidentally gave me a giant piece of habanero that night. She basically tried to murder me.”

He narrows his eyes and scoffs in disbelief.

Buzzkill.

I’m surprised he remembers anything about me from that night. He spent most of our dinner grunting one-word responses and pretending I wasn’t there.

Gabor smiles at me. “You can’t eat spicy food?”

“Of course I can.”

“She can’t,” Darrel says matter-of-factly.

Gabor smirks. Brown eyes twinkle in my direction. “Why do I get the feeling you wouldn’t admit your weaknesses even if your life depended on it?”

“Look at that. He’s got you pinned.” Darrel nods in approval.

My fist clenches. It’s dying to make an appointment with his square and stubble-laced jaw.

Darrel ignores my fiery look and takes a seat around the table. He drags out the chair directly next to him.

I scowl, lift my nose and prance in the opposite direction. “This chair looks so much better.” Flopping into the seat next to Gabor, I make a big show of wiggling my butt and smiling. “I like being next to you, Gabor.”

Gabor chuckles and I’m not sure if he’s laughing with me or at me.

Balancing my chin on my fist, I turn fully to him. “This place serves amazing arroz con pollo. Oh, and for dessert, we can have flan. Let me tell you. You have not eaten until you’ve had the custard-cream flan. It’s—”

Darrel pushes his chair so hard that the legs scrape the ground. My head jerks around and my eyes fall on him. He rises smoothly, and it almost hurts my neck to maintain eye contact. This man is a giant. He just keeps going and going. Finally, he stands to his full height and steps calmly around the table.

I lean back. “What are you doing?”

Without so much as a how-do-you-do, Darrel grips the underside of my chair and yanks. My jaw drops as I’m lurched unceremoniously around the corner of the table. I lift my arms and grab his shoulders to hold my balance.

Hello, sexy muscles. Why does touching Darrel’s buff shoulders make me want to forgive him for being rude and overbearing?

I’ve been around cocky men all my life. My high school boyfriend was an idiot, and I knew it, but the kids respected him and I didn’t want to fight my own battles anymore, so I tolerated his presence.

Then I grew up and started dating more seriously. The egomaniacs seemed to multiply by the day. Especially in online-dating-land where most of the men who matched with me were pretty much all obsessed with themselves.

Darrel’s arrogance is different than anything I’m used to. It’s cold and intense, but there’s a layer of good intentions somewhere in the mix. It’s just buried so far beneath his robotic expressions and muted disdain that I want to smack him even when I’m attracted to him.

“Are you out of your mind?” I hiss, glaring at the mere audacity of his actions. “Why would you do that?”

He points above Gabor’s head where a huge industrial AC is buzzing. “There’s a drip.”

My eyes narrow in suspicion as I inspect the unit. He’s right. There’s a slow drip coming from the machine. It explains why the back of my chair is wet, but is that any excuse for him to yank me around like I’m his personal yo-yo?

“Ehem.” Gabor grabs a menu. “Why don’t we order? I’m starving.”

I connect with Darrel’s eyes he just saved you from a butt-whupping.

Darrel lifts his chin bring it on.

“The Mexican omelet sounds good,” Gabor mumbles. “What about you guys?”

Grabbing one of the plastic-covered menus, I lift it to my face. “Not sure.” All of a sudden, I’m not hungry anymore. Darrel annoyed my growling stomach into silence.

“Panades, maybe?” Gabor mumbles.

“Hm.” I make a non-committal sound in my throat. Darrel’s bicep is in line with my eyes and if I turn just so I could probably lick his skin. Which is a crazy thought and I hate that I’m excited by it.

Darrel leans back, not bothering to check the menu. He folds his arms over his chest and stares Gabor down with the intensity of a police officer in the interrogation room. “What do you do, Gabor?”

“I’m a student.”

“What are you studying?”

“Agriculture.”

“He’s going to be a farmer,” I pipe in proudly.

“Actually, I’m interested in politics but, to run for office, I need a bachelor’s degree.” Gabor flashes me a warm smile. “Agriculture was the only full-ride scholarship I could find.”

“Well, there’s no shame in that. An education is an education.” I pat Gabor’s hand.

Darrel glares at where my hand is.

“I studied Literature.” I snort. “If you can believe that. I hate reading, but my mom wanted me to be a teacher, so…”

“Did you become a teacher?”

I shrug. “No.”

The server arrives with a mug of water, a plate of tortilla chips and spicy salsa. She sets them in the middle of the table, takes our orders, and then hops away.

Gabor scoops salsa onto a chip. “My mom believes that I’ll come back to the village with the ability to grow ten-foot-tall maize. I’m afraid she’ll be disappointed when she finds out that we’re not even studying corn cropping.”

“Can’t be worse than my mom.” I eye the salsa. I can smell the pepper from here, but it looks so tasty. “She wakes up every morning and prays that I’ll give up design work and find a ‘real job’. She won’t even tell the family back in Belize what I really do.”

Gabor laughs. “I have no idea what my mom will tell her family when she finds out I want to be a politician. She thinks all politicians are evil and the most I should strive to be is village chief.”

The salsa is calling to me. I give into the temptation and scoop a huge dollop of salsa-topped nachos on my plate. One bite and my throat burns with the flames of a thousand suns.

I blink rapidly and refuse to complain. A cough rakes its angry claws against my throat and I hold that back too. There’s no way I’ll give Darrel the satisfaction of being right. I can eat spicy food, dammit!

“I’ll work the land when I get back home. In a couple years, I’ll tell her about my ambitions.”

Darrel swipes an upside-down glass cup, sets it right and pours water into it. “Hiding your ambitions won’t solve anything.” He plunks the cup in front of me. “You’re an adult now. You don’t have to follow what you’re told.”

Grabbing the glass, I stick my tongue into it and sigh when the water cools my singed tastebuds. So much better.

“It’s more complicated than that. My parents had to fight to keep ownership of our land, land that belonged to the Mayans for thousands of years but suddenly was ‘government property’ when the politicians wanted to sell it off. The people who are constantly screwing them over are in politics. They have too many bad experiences.”

“And yet, you want to become the very thing they hate,” Darrel challenges.

“Because nothing is going to change if we just sit back and let other people decide our lives for us,” Gabor says. His eyes spark passionately and he looks kind of cute when he’s raging against Big Brother. “We can’t just talk about it anymore. We have to do something.”

Darrel leans forward. “I agree with your end goal, just not your method. You plan on infiltrating a system that is already stacked against you. You’ll need your family’s support. It’ll take too much energy to tiptoe around them.” Darrel hands me a napkin so I can dot at the water dripping down my chin and continues, “And you might be surprised. If you explain yourself clearly and calmly, your mother might not only accept your path, but she might throw her all into getting you closer to your dreams.”

Gabor stares thoughtfully at his salsa-stained hands, his shoulders slumped. “Maybe.”

Wait. When did this turn into a therapy session?

“Hey.” I tug on Darrel’s shirt. “Don’t psychoanalyze my date.”

Darrel pushes the salsa away from me, his eyes narrowing. “Who said this was a date?”

“I did. Just now. You’re being a third wheel.”

He purses his lips, but before he can say anything, his phone rings. I glance at the screen and notice Dina’s name.

“Excuse me. I need to take this.” Darrel gives me a warning look and then walks off.

While he’s gone, the server arrives with our plates.

Gabor hands me my enchiladas. “He’s cool.”

“Who is?” I set Darrel’s tamales in front of his empty seat. For a second, I consider slathering it in pepper sauce, but I reel myself back in. Playing with people’s food is a line I won’t cross. Instead, I unroll his knife and fork for him and pour soda into his empty glass.

“Darrel.”

I stiffen. “‘Cool’ is not a word I would apply to that curmudgeon.”

“Cur—what?”

“It means fun police.”

“Ah.”

I frown at the sauce slathered on top of Darrel’s tamales. That could get messy, and it wouldn’t be a good look to see patients with a stain on his shirt. Snatching a napkin from the dispenser, I set it under his plate. “He’s, like, the antithesis of fun. If fun were a person, he’d be the evil twin.”

“I see.” Gabor bobs his head.

“A while back, I arranged this super fun prank on my best friend’s fiancé. We took over his bachelor party and did a crazy dance routine. Super hype stuff. Anyway, you’d think Darrel would bust a vein the way he charged at us, trying to get us out.”

“Mm.”

I spear one of my enchiladas and put it in Darrel’s plate because I remember that he’s a huge fan of cheese. “And a couple months before that, Kenya invited me to this pool party with her and her soon-to-be daughter Belle. And Darrel was there. He refused to get in the water. He said chlorine is bad for the brain.”

“Oh.”

“Trust me. He’s… a horror show.”

“I see.”

“The thing is, he’s extra cold with me. Which totally baffles me because he’s so chill with everyone else. You should see him with his niece Belle. He’ll wear a feather boa and drink tea with her and he’ll smile too. But with me?” I scrunch my nose. “Total hater.”

“Mm.” Gabor’s eyes sparkle. “You know… you haven’t stopped talking about Darrel since he left.”

Self-conscious, I cover my mouth with a salsa-coated hand. “Sorry. He’s just annoying. It gets to me.”

“It’s fine.” He smiles. “And you’re cute when you rant.”

I smile back. “Not used to anyone calling me cute.”

“Why? It’s what you are.”

“You’re not so bad yourself.” I mean, he’s definitely a lot smilier than I’m used to, but he’s not bad-looking.

Gabor’s eyes crinkle. “If you weren’t already taken, Sunny Quetzal, I think there might have been something here.”

“What? Taken? Who’s taken? Me?” I throw my head back and laugh. “No. You have the wrong idea. Please ignore Darrel and his childish behavior. He and I are not together.”

“Not yet.”

“Not ever.” I punctuate my words with a firm nod, even as my stomach quivers.

Gabor’s brown eyes bore through my skull like he’s picking up my thoughts and inspecting each one. “A part of me wants to believe you, but I’m not in the habit of lying to myself. Or starting fights I won’t win.” He wipes his mouth with a napkin and bends forward. “Not only does he like you. But you, Sunny Quetzal, like him a whole lot too.”

Gabor’s lucky I’m not drinking anything at the moment because I would have done a spit take and stained his face with cola. As it stands, I’m trying not to sputter too hard over my enchiladas.

“Me? Like Hastings? Like romantic feelings?” I hook a thumb over my shoulder as if it’s the most preposterous thing I’ve ever heard.

Sure, lusty feelings are somewhere in my loins. I mean, come on? Look at that man. Green eyes like a Caribbean Sea tempest, muscles carved from granite, intimidating even in a stodgy business suit.

He’s the hottest man I’ve ever seen. Who’d be immune to all that?

What Gabor doesn’t understand is being attracted to someone and having feelings for that person are two completely different ball games. Sure, I want to get Darrel to open up and have more fun. And yeah, the fact that he’s singled me out as the one who exclusively receives his scowls and glowers gets under my skin. And maybe I want to know more about what makes him tick, why he adopted the boys and how he’s been holding up after losing his sister in that accident.

But that doesn’t mean…

Gabor gives me a secret smirk and grabs his fork. He eats peacefully while I sputter and cough for another minute.

He’s wrong.

He’s bonkers.

There’s no way I, Sunny Quetzal, would fall for a square like Darrel Hastings.

I’m okay. I’m good.

I hear footsteps thudding closer to us. Darrel returns to the table. He’s carrying two to-go containers in one hand, his cell phone in the other, and has an aggravating frown on his face.

“Dina gave you an earful for playing hooky, didn’t she?” My smile is serene because I like all thoughts of Darrel Hastings getting his butt handed to him. Or maybe you just like all thoughts of Darrel Hastings.

Ugh. My brain has been infected with a virus thanks to Gabor. Now I’m looking at everything through a ‘do I like Darrel?’ lens.

“I paid the bill.” He slides his tamales into the container. “I have to head back to the center, but I’ll give you a ride first.”

“I can find my own way home.” I bat my eyes at Gabor. “Gabor and I have a lot to discuss in private.” My voice is syrupy sweet because I can tell that I’m getting on Darrel’s nerves. Good. He should know better than to insert himself where he doesn’t belong.

Darrel hands me a container. “Go home. You’ve been working all night.”

“I’m aware of what I was doing all night, Darrel.”

His left eye twitches. He stops, sucks in a deep breath, and then swoops into my chair. Big hands claw the handles and he stops a millimeter away from my face, causing a whole, yummy body-shiver.

“Do you want me to throw you over my shoulder again, Sunny Quetzal?”

My heartbeat is thumping so hard I can’t even hear the ranchero music over my own pulse.

Darrel straightens, turns to Gabor and dips his head. “It was nice meeting you.”

“You too.” Gabor waves me away, his face stuffed with food. “Go on, Sunny. I have to head back to campus anyway.”

“Now?”

“When I’m finished with this.”

“I’ll stay with you.” I can feel Darrel’s stare hardening on my back but so what? He doesn’t control me.

“It’s fine. Really. It sounds like you’ve been stretching yourself thin. Catch up on your sleep.”

“I don’t know…”

“Honestly, I’ll use the time to study. I don’t want to lose my scholarship because I was out chatting when I should have been in the books.”

“Alright.” I give in. Only because I want to protect his future. “But call me when you’ve finished your exams. I’ll give you a proper tour of the city. And we can do this again.” I shoot a dark look Darrel’s way. “Without the interruptions.”

“Sure.” Gabor smiles.

Darrel scowls, but at least he doesn’t say anything stupid. I scoop my enchiladas into a container and turn to him. His green eyes slam into mine and I swear I jolt like I’ve been hit with an extra charge of electricity.

You like him too.

No I don’t.

I don’t.

I won’t.

There is no way I would be foolish enough to give my heart to Darrel Hastings when it’s so clear he can’t make up his mind about whether he wants to kiss me or ruin me. That push-and-pull might be hot now, but it can’t sustain a relationship.

Not that I want a relationship…

You like him a whole lot.

I cringe.

“See yah, Sunny.” Gabor waves the way I used to when my parents were picking me up from day care. Like he wishes I could stay, but he knows I have to go home.

I dig my teeth into my bottom lip. I really hope he’s pushing me to leave because of his exams and not because of his silly assumptions about me and Darrel.

“Ready?” Darrel asks.

I nod.

Darrel grabs my take-out container and slips it into a plastic bag. He does that ‘hand on the small of my back thing’ again, and it makes me feel small and protected and I hate him. Why is he acting like a jealous boyfriend? Why do I find it amusing rather than repulsive?

I climb into the car and frown when Darrel starts driving. Scolding words roll to the tip of my tongue, but he gets a call from a client that completely changes his expression and I lose my chance.

“Alexandra, thank you for calling me.” Darrel pauses and adjusts his ear buds. “I know. It’s okay to feel these things. What’s not okay is acting on them.” His facial muscles become more and more tense as he listens to whatever his client is saying.

I study him, trying to figure out what’s going on.

Darrel stares straight ahead. “It might feel that way, but remember it’s not your fault. Your subcortical limbic system is different from other people. That’s why you’re taking medication—” He pauses. Sucks in another sharp breath. “Alexandra, remember we can use that language to acknowledge what we’re feeling, but we can’t dwell on it.”

I lean forward, wondering how I can help him.

His fingers tighten on the steering wheel. “Alexandra, even if the make-up of your brain is different, it still doesn’t own you. You still have power. You are in control of the control center. Take deep breaths. Are you breathing?”

Through the earbuds, I can faintly hear someone struggling for breath. My heart beats faster and faster. What if this girl does something to hurt herself or others?

“Alexandra, answer me,” Darrel says firmly.

A squeaking sound seeps from his earbuds. My anxiety flies through the roof. How is Darrel so calm right now? I’m freaking out and I’m not even the one responsible for keeping this chick safe.

“Alexandra, is there something you could do to quiet your thoughts until help arrives? Something like coloring or… yes, I know you don’t think it’ll work but… no, Alexandra. Don’t climb over your balcony.”

An idea pops to mind. I flick on the radio, connect it to my phone and start playing un upbeat Belizean song. It’s by Stig the Artist, one of the biggest dancehall singers in the country. The song is about picking yourself up from the ground and moving forward.

Darrel flicks a panicked look at me. I gesture to the car’s dashboard where the song title and artist is displayed. Darrel searches my eyes for a second before he shifts his chin down in a subtle nod.

“Alexandra, I’d like you to listen to this song. Focus on the song, okay?” Darrel drags out his earbuds and presses the speaker icon on his phone.

A girl’s thick breathing fills the car. “W-what kind of music is that? I’ve never heard it before.”

“That’s a song from…” Darrel’s eyes shoot to mine as if he’s stumped.

“Belize,” I whisper.

“Belize,” Darrel tells her.

“Where is that?” Her tone holds a hint of wonder. Like a kid finding out about Narnia. I hope she doesn’t think Belize is some country in the back of a wardrobe.

“You see how big the world is, Alexandra? There’s so much of it that’s waiting for you. So much that you haven’t experienced yet.”

I cup my mouth and whisper, “Ask her if she likes the song.”

Darrel clears his throat. His calm and refined voice can barely be heard over the music so I turn down Stig the Artist a bit.

“Alexandra, do you like the song?”

“Um… yes.”

I grin. She’s got good taste.

“Tell her I’ll send her a playlist later,” I whisper.

Darrel slants me a scolding look.

I nudge his arm. “Tell her.”

“Alexandra,” Darrel licks his lips, “I have my friend with me. She says she’ll send you the playlist later.” The phone goes silent. Darrel presses. “My friend is from Belize. She has a lot of stories she can share with you, but you have to get away from that balcony first, okay?”

A commotion erupts in the background. Someone around Alexandra bawls out and a grunt echoes over the line.

I shoot Darrel a frantic look. “What is that?” I smack his hand and keep smacking as the noise gets louder. “What’s happening?”

“Dina called Alexandra’s parents,” he says quietly. Anyone looking at his cold expression would think he was totally unruffled, but I notice the tremble in his fingers and the way he gulps. “They’re closer to her than I am. They could get there before me and help her take her medication.”

There’s more rustling. More weeping. More shuffling.

Someone picks up the phone because it crackles and knocks against something hard.

“H-hello?” a new voice says.

“Mrs. Aldridge, I’m still here,” Darrel responds.

“I…” It’s the only word Mrs. Aldridge gets out before she breaks down and bawls.

My heart squeezes to the point of cutting off blood circulation. I feel something course down my cheek and realize it’s a tear. Another one follows it.

This poor family. Mental health isn’t something that’s discussed often in my house or even in my community. I used to think that ignoring our mental issues made us stronger than other folks. Made us a little more invincible. See? We’re not crybabies. We don’t break down. We’re stronger than everyone.

But how destructive is a culture that sweeps weakness and imperfection under the rug when every human is flawed, broken and capable of being worn out? How many breakdowns have people had because they were struggling to reach that impossible standard of ‘having life all figured out’?

“M-Mr. Hastings, I…” She sniffs, “thank you for what you did today.”

“Mrs. Aldridge, how long has Alexandra not been taking her meds?” Darrel’s tone isn’t accusatory, but it is firm and authoritative. He’s not growly Darrel or grouchy Darrel or fun-sucking Darrel. He’s a man with the responsibility of keeping fragile minds and overwrought families together.

“I don’t know. I—we thought she was taking her meds, but I guess she was throwing them away when we weren’t looking.”

Darrel slows the car in front of my apartment, but I’m so emotionally invested that I don’t leave. He doesn’t chase me either. I’m not sure if it’s because he doesn’t mind my presence or if he’s forgotten that I’m even there.

“She’s been acting fine lately. I… I never imagined she was having those thoughts again.”

Darrel squints at the sunlight.

“I don’t know what we would have done if she hadn’t reached out to you. I owe you my life for saving my baby girl.”

He shakes his head. “All I want is for Alexandra to be safe.”

I look at him, at the set of his jaw and the determination in his emerald green eyes and I know he means it. Darrel Hastings is somber, sullen and surly, but he truly cares. He doesn’t express that care in the loud, bubbly way that I do, but it’s no less present.

“I’m glad she still remembered the center’s number and we were able to help her this time,” Darrel continues, running a hand through his hair. “But today’s incident is indicating a much bigger problem. She needs to see a professional as soon as—”

“Can’t you fit her in?” Mrs. Aldridge begs.

Darrel rubs the bridge of his nose. “Mrs. Aldridge, I have other patients—”

“As dire as this one?”

“You had Alexandra seeing another therapist, remember?”

“You’re not holding that against us, are you?”

“Of course not. But my clients haven’t seen me in a few days. I can’t…”

“She didn’t call that other therapist. She called you. It means she trusts you. More than anyone else. I won’t be able to breathe until she sees you again.”

He checks his watch. Taps his fingers on the steering wheel. Lets out a breath. “Alright. Bring her around six.”

“Thank you. Thank you!”

Darrel hangs up and squeezes his eyes shut.

“Will you need help picking up the boys from school?” I ask.

He startles as if he hadn’t realized I was still in the car.

“I’ll get the kids,” I declare. I’m not asking this time.

He nods and sinks into his seat. He looks anxious. Shaken. Slightly nauseous.

A line carved by worry and exhaustion creases on his forehead. I have the privilege of seeing beyond the ‘always has an answer’ Darrel Hastings to the man who gets pale and shaken and relieved when a disaster is subverted.

“You okay?” I whisper, genuinely concerned.

He reaches out and grabs my hand. “Thank you, Sunny.”

“For getting the kids?”

“For suggesting the song, for being here with me. For everything.”

My mouth gets weirdly dry and I can’t seem to catch my breath.

I feel something stirring in me. The same affection I felt when I hugged Bailey after he was bullied. Except it’s stronger with Darrel. It’s scarier. It’s the feeling that my heart is no longer in my possession. It’s across the car, doing fancy pirouettes in the palm of Darrel Hastings’ big and burly hands.