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“I’m sure this kind of music died during the ice age.”
“What kind of music do you like?”
When Marcus presses a hand to the roof, and his knees up against the dash so he can pull his phone from his back pocket, I let out a sputter of laughter.
He just glares at me and connects his phone to the radio. He scrolls through his playlist before he picks a song.
There’s a lot of noise before piano notes fill the car. I turn up the volume, wanting to clearly hear the words. I haven’t listened to the song before, and even though it sounds harsh, the words fill me with sadness. I keep my eyes on the road while the song tells me everything I needed to know. Marcus lost someone, and it’s eating him up inside.
When the next song starts, I turn the sound down, and ask, “Who sings it?”
“Five finger death punch.”
I stop the car in front of IHOP. “I hope you’re hungry.”
After we’ve been seated and our orders have been taken, I give my phone to Marcus.
“Can you send me your playlist?”
He gives me an uncertain look before he takes my phone. I watch him program his number in my phone, then he calls himself so he’ll have mine. After he’s done, he doesn’t give back my phone. As he scrolls through my contacts, the frown on his forehead deepens.
“You only have eight contacts,” he says.
“And?”
We’re interrupted by the waitress as she places our food on the table. She lingers as she smiles at Marcus.
“Do you need anything else?”
When Marcus ignores her, I quickly answer, “No, thank you.”
He waits for her to leave before he says, “Why only eight numbers?”
I cut into my stack of pancakes and take a bite. Marcus stares at me while I chew. I swallow hard on the bite. It’s definitely not easy eating with him glaring at me.
“Those are the only eight who matter to me.”
When he cocks an eyebrow at me, I ask, “Out of all your contacts, who do you actually talk to?”
Not answering me immediately, he shoves a forkful of pancakes into his mouth. Now it’s my turn to stare at him as he eats. It’s not because I want to make him feel uncomfortable, but because of his stubbled jaw. I never knew it could be a turn-on watching someone eat.
When he takes another bite, I force my attention back to my own plate. Our breakfast is spent in silence, and only once I’ve paid, and we’re walking towards the car, does he answer me.
“Five.”
We get in the car, before I ask, “So why have all the other numbers if you’re not going to use them?”
This time he doesn’t answer me at all. I drive the short distance to my favorite fabric store, and when I park the car, Marcus looks a little confused.
“Come on. I’ll be quick.”
I’m surprised when he follows me inside. As I walk down the aisle, I run my fingers over the different rolls of fabric. Marcus just watches me as I pick what I want. After I’ve asked the clerk what length I need, I turn back to Marcus.
“So what? You like to make clothes?” He doesn’t look impressed. Hell, not that I expected him to, but I’m still surprised that he’s so blatantly indifferent about my passion.
“You don’t have to make it sound like I shovel shit for a hobby. I study fashion design.”
He smirks at me, and it’s only then I realize that he’s falling back into his habit of pretending to be a dick.
