All Things Considered [🗸]

18. rule-breaking

WIND RUNS THROUGH MY HAIR and R&B runs through the air.

Dion's in the passenger's seat, eyes somewhere in the distance as we make our way toward the bakery, his fingers drumming over his lap.

I make a turn, eyes flicking out the window as deep, steady, rhythm takes up the car. The end of the day arrived quickly, and minutes after, Dion and I were in my car in relatively steady silence, save for my playlist.

"Didn't think you'd be into R&B."

Dion says this out of the blue, and I carefully turn toward him. I reduce the volume and eye him. "Why not?"

His shoulders fall slightly, hand massaging his jaw. "You've always given me, like, punk rock energy." His necklace is the shape of the sun this time. A beautiful circle with the rays of the sun sprouting out like a sunflower.

I turn back to the front. "Why?" I exhale a laugh. "Because I'm badass?"

"Never said that," Dion replies as we move into the parking lot of the bakery. "I just—I don't know— R&B is so calm and rhythmic and cultured. You're so..." his hands move around like he's trying to grasp the words out of the atmosphere, "Paxton."

A snort leaves my lips. "Thanks, asshole. I'm far from uncultured, but okay." Shaking my head, I turn to him. "What do you listen to, then?"

"Neo soul, alt, R&B, some rap," he says, lips pursing once he's done. "A pinch of indie here and there."

"Not a bad selection," I say, glancing at him through the rearview mirror. "Never realized that you actually had taste." A pause. "You're just so... Dion," I echo Dion's tone from a few moments ago and briefly catch his eye.

Dion side-eyes me, tugging at each sleeve of his sweater vest. "I probably deserved that," he says, unlatching his seatbelt.

"You did," I nod, unlatching mine as well. The two of us slip out of the car from the opposite ends, greeted by the faint sunlight peeking behind the clouds. 

With that, we make our way into Gran's a few feet away from each other, the familiar chimes singing as we walk through the doorway.

The place is all pastels and soft music and Dion slips right into the environment as though it is his natural habitat. He gets behind the front counter, pulling his apron on and tying it behind his waist. 

Then he's diving further into the kitchen, adjusting and pouring and turning on stoves with the ease of someone who's done this a million times before. 

I slide into one of the stools positioned in front of the front counter, where I have a clear view of the kitchen and Dion who's rushing around it with more speed and dedication than I've ever seen him give during gym class.