If You Never Come Back

by Sarah Smith

  He catches me before I can turn away. Busted.

  “Like what you see?”

  “Just wondering if you burst into flame the moment you step into sunlight.” I can feel myself blushing, but thankfully, my own tan skin conceals it.

  His ever-present neutral expression remains. I’d wager his genes have never been infiltrated by a person of color. His ancestors must have been stationed for generations near the Arctic Circle, surrounded by the Baltic and North Seas, no tan people like me allowed entry for generations.

  “Not all of us are lucky enough to tan at the drop of a hat like you do, Emmie. What’s your secret?”

  I ignore his sarcastic question. He’s trying to get a rise out of me. I will not give it to him.

  This is how most of our interactions go. A mix of snide comments and dismissive quips, with a sprinkle of work-related topics every once in a while. Nothing personal.

  Despite this mutual disinterest in each other’s lives, I feel like I know him well after eleven months. He reminds me of an android in a sci-fi movie. Cool and polite, but with a machinelike quality. Almost like he’s feigning human reactions for courtesy’s sake, and you can’t tell what’s really behind the wall of artificial feelings.

  A robot would be a more pleasant coworker.

  I once pasted a photo of an android on his computer with the words I’m flattered you work so hard to model your personality after mine scrawled on the bottom after a particularly infuriating day of snapping at each other. I would have loved to watch him rip it apart in anger, but I was giggling so hard I had to leave the room.

  The soft tick of the minute hand on my desk clock pulls me back to the present. Only one more hour until I can go home and shed my work armor. I glance at the lone framed photo on my desk of my younger sister, my mom, and me. Addy is a toddler; I’m just out of kindergarten. We’re soaked from running back and forth into the waves at Hapuna Beach in Hawaii. Our mom kneels behind us, hugging us in her arms. All three of us display impossibly wide grins.

  My mouth waters for Spam musubi, my favorite childhood snack. I curl my toes inside my sneakers, wishing they were sand. Nostalgia is hitting hard today. I send Mom and Addy quick “I love you” texts, then punch in a reminder on my phone to email Mom this weekend.

  Next to the frame is a hollowed-out coconut half, my favorite keepsake from the Big Island that doubles as a quirky paperweight. I run my fingers over the fuzzy fibers on the shell. Inside rests a message scrawled in my mother’s trademark cursive handwriting.

  For my beautiful anak, who’s as sweet and strong as this coconut.

  My eyes prick, but I blink away the split second of emotion. Remembering how and why she gave this to me will forever leave me choking back tears.

  “Missing Hawaii again?” Tate asks.

  Curse this heat. I want to shut my door so bad. “You could say that,” I concede.

  “Wanna talk about it?”

  “Nope.” I gaze at my computer screen and click indiscriminately on random links.

  “Come on. I’m a good listener.” He looks at me expectantly, like he thinks I’m actually going to chat with him about my childhood. Fat chance.

  “Nope.”

  The heavy sigh he releases sounds a lot like disappointment, but I have no idea why. Like I’m going to divulge personal details to the guy who spends every workday staring daggers at me in between bicker sessions. He’ll just make fun of me. Like how he smirks when I call flip-flops “slippers,” or how he frowns when I say “auntie” instead of “aunt.”

  Five o’clock hits, and Tate’s gone before I even log off my computer. I glance at his empty chair, my chest tight with the desire to have a normal work relationship with the coworker sitting closest to me. But I remind myself why it’s not possible. He’s weirdly hostile, and I’m a big fat phony. As much as I want to be normal with Tate, I don’t need it. What I do need is to be hard, focused. Even if I have to fake it.

  No tapping today. Instead Tate is loudly guzzling coffee from his thermos. I want to yell after every earsplitting slurp. Every time he brings that silver thermos to his lips, I imagine ripping it out of his grip and chucking it against the wall. But I can’t. Because this is a place of business, not a street fight.

  Why is he even drinking hot coffee? It’s ninety-nine degrees out for the twelfth straight day, one of the hottest Augusts that Omaha has seen on record.

  Another slurp. My eyes bulge. There’s no way he doesn’t know how grating this is. He should think about outsourcing his slurping skills to Guantanamo Bay as a new form of enhanced interrogation. He could get anyone to submit in record time.

  Shoving in my earbuds, I crank the volume on the episode of Eat Bulaga! I’m streaming, my favorite variety show from the Philippines. The hosts’ off-key karaoke rendition of Katy Perry’s “Hot N Cold” is soothing compared to Tate’s animal noises.

  Our boss, Will, glides into my doorway. He occupies a cracker box office on my side of the hallway.

  “Emmie! Good morning!” He leans his arm against the doorframe. The weight of his pudgy dad bod pushes the flimsy door back an inch. “I can’t seem to find the folder with the photos for that new line of utility knives. I think that software upgrade messed up something on my computer.”

  I swallow a laugh. Classic Will. He’s a bright guy and a great boss who doesn’t hover. However, his tendency to lose objects, even digital files, is legendary.

  “Can you grab the knives from the warehouse and take some photos of them to go along with the descriptions you wrote?”

  The thought of going to the warehouse churns my stomach. “No problem,” I say through gritted teeth.

  Full disclosure: I’m not some jaw-dropping hottie by any stretch of anyone’s imagination. But the fifty-employee workforce here is mostly male with only five female employees. The remaining four are middle aged and married. I’m not ugly and I’m relatively young, so by default I get a fair amount of attention and stares. The warehouse is especially obvious about it.

  “Going down to the warehouse?” Tate asks. It’s the first time he’s spoken to me today.

  “Yep.”

  “How long is that going to take you?”

  “Not sure. Why?”

  “I have to set up a bunch of promo tweets for those utility knives, and the longer your warehouse fan club keeps you down there, the longer I have to wait for you to add them to the site. I can’t tweet the links unless they’re on the website, and I have a million other things to do.”

  I say nothing in response. I loathe how he’s trying to make my job about him.

  “Do I have to spell it out?” He yanks out his earbuds impatiently and closes his eyes. “I think I should go with you to make sure things get done in a timely manner.”

  “So this is purely selfish motivation?”

  “Precisely.”

  I cringe. Whenever he speaks to me, he routinely pulls out archaic words only a 1950s rural doctor would use.

  “Fine. Let’s go.”

  We trot side by side in silence down the hall to the stairs. Positioned next to each other, our appearances are a stark contrast. My olive skin is ten shades darker than his, thanks to my Filipino mother. My dad is a pale white guy, but the Asian gene is strong. His hazel eyes and light skin did little to dilute such dominant traits. My hair is technically dark brown, but it could pass for black at a distance. My eyes are such a deep shade of brown, I have to endure extra eye drops at the optometrist to fully dilate them.

  The only thing not strikingly different between us is our heights. I’m five feet eight inches, which is nothing short of a miracle considering my mom is a tiny five feet one inch. I have my dad’s European genetics and his burly six-feet-two-inch frame to thank for that.

  I estimate Tate at six feet, maybe six feet one inch if he’s standing straight. In the right pair of four-inch heels, I could stand nearly eye to eye with him. However, the fact that our office is casual dress gives me zero reason to wear a
nything other than sneakers and flats. As often as I fantasize about the opportunity to throw on my favorite killer stilettos and tell him off, it will likely never happen.

  Once in the warehouse, I track down the manager, Gus. He’s a no-nonsense baby boomer who aspires to run the warehouse with the strictness of a gulag. Raising his fuzzy gray eyebrows is his preferred way to say hello.

  Sliding into boss-bitch mode, I do my best Gus impression: I square my shoulders, frown, and keep things short and direct when I talk.

  “I need one of your guys to grab these utility knives. Will’s orders.” I hand him a printed list.

  He shoves the paper into the chest of the closest worker and barks directions. The college-aged kid shakes his head in fright before running off. The longer I stand with ramrod straight posture, the more tired I feel. Channeling Gus is exhausting. Shifting my weight between my feet, I almost bump into Tate. He backs up a few inches. It’s ridiculous that he felt the need to follow me all the way down here.

  “Watch it,” he says.

  “Then don’t stand so close.”

  He shoots every single warehouse worker around us a menacing glare. Everyone who walks past us leaves a two-foot buffer of space.

  “You’re a friendly one,” I say.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Everyone’s avoiding us. You look like you’ll slit the throat of anyone who comes near. It’s quite the vibe.”

  His raises an eyebrow. So smug. “Who says it’s a vibe?” It’s like I’ve complimented him, he seems so pleased with himself.

  When he turns away, he fist-bumps Cal, the sixty-something delivery driver, as he walks by. Pleasantries and chuckles are exchanged. I have to blink twice at the scene. Cal is a sweetheart who I count as a friendly work acquaintance, pretty much the opposite of Tate. And I’ve never seen Tate chitchat with anyone at work. I didn’t know they were pals.

  A second later Brett from Service and Repairs walks up to us, infiltrating the forbidden force field.

  “Fancy seeing you here.” He shoots me a sleazy smirk and doesn’t even acknowledge Tate.

  I know little about Brett other than he’s in his late thirties, uses too much gel on his thinning dark hair, and seems to love flirting with any woman in his vicinity. I find him exceptionally slimy. Even though he’s never said anything inappropriate to me, I still get an uneasy feeling whenever he’s near.

  I scowl, recalling the advice I’ve read in countless blogs and articles on how to be a girl boss when you’re working with mostly dudes.

  Quickest way to get rid of an unwanted smiler? Scowl. It embarrasses the offender into dropping it.

  Brett doesn’t seem to know that he should feel embarrassment, because his grin doesn’t fade. “Sick of being cooped up upstairs?” He takes a step toward me.

  “Nope. Just getting some knives.” Stick to short, terse answers.

  “Knives, huh? Those are pretty dangerous. Don’t cut yourself.” He winks, but I hold my ground and cross my arms. I may be crawling out of my skin, but I sure as hell won’t show it.

  “Don’t wink at me, Brett. That’s creepy.” Call out inappropriate behavior.

  He simply laughs. Nothing short of “fuck off” would make him go away, but I can’t do that at work.

  “Hey.” Tate barks while glowering at him. “Are you done skeeving us out?”

  “Huh?” Brett glances at Tate like he’s just now noticing him.

  “Are you done skeeving us out?” Tate’s slow tone implies Brett can’t understand basic English.

  It seems to throw Brett off kilter. He stumbles back a step. “Jeez, what’s your problem?”

  Tate hovers over him. “Do you think it’s a good use of company time to bother us?”

  “Whatever, man. I’ll go. Chill out.”

  I let out a breath, relieved he’s gone, but annoyed that Tate felt the need to butt in.

  Gus’s minion hands me a small box of knives, and we walk back up to the office.

  “You’re welcome,” Tate mumbles as we reach the top of the stairs.

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “Here, let me carry that.” He tries to grab the box from me, but I yank it away. We walk down the hall back to our offices.

  “I’ve got it. What are you talking about?”

  “I got rid of Brett, didn’t I?”

  I roll my eyes and march to my office. The slap-rattle sound the knives make when I drop the box on the floor causes me to flinch.

  He sits at his desk, shaking his mouse with impatience.

  “You think I should thank you for being a jerk to Brett? You’re hilarious.” I stay standing and turn to face him.

  “It seemed like you could use some help getting rid of him.”

  I squeeze my hands into fists at his patronizing tone, then march to his doorway. “News flash: I don’t need your help. I can take care of myself.”

  “Really? Is that what you were doing down there? Sack up and report Brett to management. He’d get the message real quick then.”

  “There’s more than one way to send a message.”

  Tate has a point, but how ridiculous would I sound making a complaint about Brett’s hard-to-define creepiness? He doesn’t say anything that’s outright inappropriate and keeps his hands to himself. His off-putting vibe exists in subtleties: standing too close, the way he says certain words. It would be easy for him to say I was taking it the wrong way. Then I would look like the overly sensitive female who can’t handle working with men.

  “Whatever message you think you’re sending? It’s failing.” Tate frowns at me, and it’s pure condescension.

  “I’m not a damsel in distress. Back off.” I stomp to my desk.

  When I glance up, he’s staring at me. There are a few seconds where I think he’s going to say something, but the hard look in his eyes fades. He turns to his computer instead, the sound of his fingers banging on his keyboard filling the room.

  Pulling the camera from my desk drawer, I snap photos while I listen to another episode of Eat Bulaga! But even a wasabi-flavored bun-eating contest to dance music doesn’t ease the frustration coursing through me. I’m strong, I’m capable, and I don’t need Tate’s help to fend off anyone, not even creepy Brett.

  Click here to continue reading Faker.

  Simmer Down

  Ocean air has a funny effect on me. Maybe it’s the salt.

  I inhale while driving along the lone main road in southern Maui. The briny moisture hits my nostrils, coating the back of my throat and lungs. I wince at the slight burn. A handful of breaths and I wonder just how close I am to reaching my daily allotment of sodium. Leave it to a food truck owner to view everything around me—including oxygen—in terms of food.

  But that’s how all-consuming food truck life is. It’s my work, my thoughts, the air I breathe. It seeps into everything. I’ve only been doing this a year, but that’s one of the first things I’ve learned.

  I shove aside the thoughts of saline air. Instead I run through my mental checklist like I do every morning while navigating the slow-moving traffic to my parking spot near Makena Beach, one of the most popular tourist spots on Maui.

  Chicken adobo wings are chilling in the fridge. Check.

  So are the papaya salad and fruit salad. Check.

  Pansit is freshly made as of this morning and ready to dish up. Check.

  A fresh batch of vegetable oil sits in the fryer, ready to heat. Check.

  Waiting for the oil to warm should give me just enough time to prep everything for the day. Check.

  For a split second I’m smiling, satisfied at the menu I’ve put together for today with a shoestring budget and limited supplies. Everything’s ready to go. The garnishes, the utensils, the napkins, the whiteboard with today’s menu written on it. Check, check, check, and . . . damn it.

  I groan while gripping the steering wheel. I forgot the menu board at the commercial kitchen where I prep the food every morning. Agai
n. I sigh, my cheeks on fire when I think about what an amateur mistake I just made. That means I’ll have to recite the daily specials and prices in addition to the standard menu items to every customer who comes to the window to order, an annoying and unprofessional act.

  I shake my head, disappointed that I’ve tainted the workday before it’s even started. It’s only marginally worse than my typical mess-up with the menu board. I wince when I remember how I almost always forget to display it until after sliding open the window, which signals that I’m open for business. And when I remember it, I spin around, usually knock over a rogue sauce bottle or metal bowl, scurry out of the truck, prop it up at the front, and run back inside. That’s when I typically trip up the stairs while customers gawk. It’s like the cherry on top of a hot mess sundae, a dead giveaway that despite all my planning and all my checklists, despite my year of hard work, long hours, and on-the-job learning, I don’t belong in this food truck world.

  I slouch in the driver’s seat as I begin to deflate. No other food truck I’ve been around seems to struggle with the basics like I do. A whole new checklist slides to the front of my mind. My very own life checklist that I never, ever thought I’d have.

  I’m twenty-nine years old and struggling to make a living in the most popular tourist destination in the Pacific Ocean. Check.

  I started a food truck business with zero food truck experience. Check.

  I mistakenly thought that all my years working in high-end restaurants would be all the prep I needed to run a food truck. Check.

  I share a condo in Kihei with my mom—a condo that was meant to be my parents’ retirement haven. Check.

  A familiar sinking feeling hits, one I haven’t felt in weeks. It’s a heavy dose of doubt mixed with good old-fashioned insecurity, reminding me just how out of my element I am.

  Another lesson I’ve learned? Life doesn’t always care what you have planned. Sometimes it pulls the rug out from under you and takes one of your parents with it, leaving you and your only living parent under a mountain of medical debt, your savings ravaged, and with zero viable options on how to dig your way out. So you and your mom pick up where she and your dad left off. You take the used food truck your dad bought because it was his and your mom’s dream to run their own food truck in Maui during their retirement. You put the only professional skills you honed—your cooking and restaurant skills—into fulfilling your dad’s last wish. You put your heart and soul into that food truck, cross your fingers, and hope for the best.