North to You

by Tif Marcelo

  My voice betrays my cocky response and cracks like a kid going through puberty. This isn’t the first time I’ve been randomly kissed. My buddies, those assholes, are predictable as hell, and this reeks of a prank. Since I got home yesterday, it’s been all about getting me laid to fulfill some stereotypical soldier-on-leave wish list. This was coming.

  But I wasn’t prepared for this—a kiss so good my next stop might be a swim in the bay.

  At my compliment, the woman’s lips press into a line. “No . . . uh . . .”

  I peer at her then and conduct a recon of the situation. The woman’s beautiful, all eyes and heart-shaped lips, but her pale skin doesn’t match the yellow of her hair. Her eyebrows are jet black. My buddies Xander and Matt are still in line at the Spork the Pork truck, bickering over something stupid. No one has appeared with a camera for blackmail.

  “Let me guess,” I say. “You weren’t told to kiss me.”

  She shakes her head.

  “Okaaay?” I draw out my response, hoping for a better explanation. Jet lag has my brain in a fog, made worse by running a 12K to promote my new Army unit despite being on leave. And I’m anxious for the early meeting at True North Cafe, my parents’ restaurant, tomorrow.

  But the woman doesn’t answer right away. She’s scouring my face like it’s me who came on to her. So I use a cliché of the only two reasons why women throw themselves at strangers. “This was a dare, right?”

  “No . . . someone . . .” She slides behind me, pulling a dark-haired girl with her. My shirt flattens as she fists the fabric at my waist. My mind skates to her hands over my bare skin, picking up where the kiss left off. Blood rushes south, my erection back at full mast.

  Ah. Reason number two.

  The puzzle pieces click together when I register a presence over me. A Spartan—aka Blake Hall, starting pitcher and one of my childhood friends. He’s also one of the people I came here with. A laugh makes its way up my throat. There are a million and one things I can’t fix, but this I can. “I’ll take care of it. Um, what’s your name?”

  “Camille.”

  Camille. Her name, as common as it should be, is not. I’ve only known one Camille in my life, and with those lips and her frame, it could be her. But the Camille I knew moved away years ago. Ten, to be exact, and gone without a trace.

  Eyes bloodshot, Blake is apparently in midtransition to becoming the Hulk. His mouth is opened into what I know will be a cursefest. Because he is an overbearing, dirty-mouth asshole, God love him. And he’s limping. I keep my mouth from wiggling into a smile. Try to, anyway.

  His cheeks redden. “Don’t fuckin’ laugh, dude. She stepped on my foot.”

  “You deserved it,” Camille slurs from behind me. Her fingers hook to the pockets of my jeans, like she’s hanging on for dear life. Meanwhile, the tightening in my pants has escalated to a full throb, and my brain has to work even harder to think straight.

  Maybe my buddies were right: by making the Army my wife, I haven’t made time for the right people. Hot, gorgeous ones of the female variety.

  I place a hand on one of Blake’s shoulders. Keeping a straight face, I say, “Your feet are an important commodity. I get it, dude. But you must’ve deserved it, eh? Maybe you came on to her a little too strong.”

  The thing with Blake is, he’s a softie. Beneath the layers of tequila, the guy isn’t actually an asshole. And as the last song fades into the next, his eyes clear a smidge.

  I lean into his ear. “Maybe apologize to her? You kinda freaked her out.”

  Blake shakes his head. “Yeah . . . you’re right.” Standing back, he mumbles, “Camille, my bad. And sorry, Drew. I didn’t know she was with you. ’Cause you know I’m not like that.”

  “Oh, ah, well she’s not—” I say, but Camille’s arms encircle my waist. As her body presses against my back, my mind goes blank. In its place, my erection writes words, sentences, paragraphs. Creating images in my head. It even speaks for me. “It’s all good . . . copacetic.”

  The bass picks up as Drake’s “Hotline Bling” is blasted from the speakers, and Blake’s body responds in jerking movements. “Legit. Well, the ladies want me. Need me.” With one hand he holds up three fingers, and the other curves into a zero. “Three-oh days, Lieutenant Bautista. Gotta party when you can.” He moonwalks to the middle of the crowd, lifts up a fist. I raise my own in solidarity.

  Man, I’ve missed that guy. I’ve missed all of it. The noise of a city that never sleeps, the predictability of knowing someone’s next move. But what Blake wants me to do, to make the most of my time on leave? It’s easier said than done. Home also equates to family drama, and my only mission on leave is to find my way back into my pop’s good graces.

  “Drew? Andrew Bautista?” Camille asks.

  Her accusatory tone swerves my train of thought. As I turn, she pulls at her hairline, at what I realize is a wig. Straight black hair tumbles below her shoulders.

  The picture on the puzzle tilts, and another vision of this woman appears. A ninth-grade girl in overalls with a skewed side ponytail. Cherry ChapStick and boots. A messenger bag covered in buttons.

  The girl I loved to kiss. The girl who was in my life one day and gone the next.

  My chest seizes like I ran through the gas chamber at training. “Holy shit. Camille Marino.” I scoop her into a hug without thinking. “I can’t believe it. You look exactly the same. And different. I mean, you’re still pretty short, and I’ve grown, but here you are.”

  I’m blabbing, but I’m having an out-of-body experience. This girl up and left in the middle of November our freshman year of high school. Three months after I’d lured her out of silence to be my partner in home ec and then as my girl, she didn’t show up to school. There were rumors, of course. They ranged from the realistic, that her parents had gotten a divorce, to the sensational, that she was abducted by aliens. And then one day the kids at school moved on like she never existed. My searches on social media always came up dry.

  But she’s here now.

  She shivers, so I start to peel off my checkered shirt. “Cold?”

  “Um, no thanks.” She hasn’t taken her eyes off my face, and a hint of a smile graces her lips. Hell yes, she’s happy to see me, too. “I’m not cold . . . I’m sorry, I’m shocked is all.”

  “Me, too. Ten years right?”

  “Yeah, about. How’ve you been?”

  “Good. Great, now that you’re here. How about you?”

  “Great!”

  Awkwardness sits between us. You would think we’d launch into a conversation after ten years of zero contact. But ten years of news is a lot to chew in thirty seconds, and my attempt to come up with something clever or interesting fails. I’m simply speechless. And only sure of one thing: this night has become a million times more interesting.

  Camille’s gaze cuts to the girl she pulled behind us, who has since begun to jump around. “I’m sorry, I’m being rude. If you couldn’t tell, this is my little sister, Ally. Ally, this is Drew.”

  “Nice to meet you, Ally.” Out of habit, I offer my hand.

  Ally might be a curly haired, younger version of Camille, but she’s taller than her sister by a good three inches. And she’s obviously had too much to drink, considering how she’s taken my hand and started pumping it up and down. “I know who you are,” she teases.

  Camille tugs her sister aside. She has an apology written on her face. “Listen, Drew, it was good to see you, but we really have to head out. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t go yet. We’ve got ten years to catch up on. And I’m only in town for a bit.” I speak in bursts and step into her path. That kiss can’t be the last of it.

  “Uh . . . look, I think I see my friend. I’ve gotta go.” She takes a step backward. “Thanks again for the bailout.”

  I watch her walk away, stunned. Did I say something
wrong? Sure we were kids, but we were something to one another. No doubt tonight’s kiss had the same old spark. With the way she fell into my arms, I know she felt it, too.

  “What was that about?” Xander Callan asks while gnawing on a skewer of meat. As my sponsor in my new unit, he’s been assigned to teach me the ropes. Ironically, it’s me who’s shown him a thing or two, since I’m the local. But he doesn’t seem to mind. He’s a public affairs officer vying for an anchor spot at the Army Network, and he’s all about getting out to talk to people.

  Matt Jensen follows behind him with a beer in one hand and a bowl in another. “Bacon-covered dates?” he offers, shoving it under my nose. “It’s hella good, except shit keeps falling into my beard.”

  “Bacon-covered dates? I didn’t think baseball players got all froufrou.” Xander grins.

  Matt flips him off—his standard method of communication. I’ve known the guy since kindergarten, and his favorite language has always been fuck. Being a catcher for the Marin Spartans only reinforces it. “Drew, where’d you fucking find this guy again? You obviously haven’t passed him the memo that just because he’s jumped out of a plane—”

  “Ahem, in uniform and with all my gear,” Xander adds.

  “Whatever. It doesn’t mean he can’t take a lesson in what being a man really is. As in, smooth. And fucking classy.”

  “Shut up you two.” I interrupt their bickering. “A woman just dissed me.” Except it wasn’t just any woman.

  “No fucking way,” Matt teases. “Someone turned down the lieutenant himself? Sounds to me like you didn’t try hard enough.”

  His words hit me between the eyes. What was I doing letting Camille go? “Yeah, you’re right. I’m out. I’ll check you guys later.”

  I leave the two to their bickering and complaints and dart through the crowd. Finally, I spot Camille grouped with her sister and two other women under a streetlamp. Knowing I’ll only have two seconds of her time before she might hightail it out of here, I step right in front of her and BLUF, Army style: bottom line up front.

  “Stay,” I say. “Let’s hang out. I have to know what happened. To you, to us. Call it closure, but I’ve always wondered.”

  “We moved is all. And goodness, we were kids. There was barely an us.” She gazes over my shoulder, as if avoiding my eyes.

  “Really? Because I seem to remember we kissed eight times. Two of which could constitute some running of bases.”

  She bites her lip. Oh yes, she remembers, too.

  “Nine now. But who’s counting?” I take a deep breath. “So you see, I can’t let you walk away, not like this. You owe me.”

  “Owe you?”

  “Yeah, an explanation. No—a date.” I pull the final demand from the air. What the hell, might as well go for gold.

  She laughs. “You are still so forward. Does this work with other women? It didn’t work with me, and it’s not working now.”

  “I beg to differ. It did work with you. And ten years later, you’re still kissing me back. Wait, scratch that. You instigated this one.”

  One of Camille’s friends sidles up next to me. Platinum haired and obviously Camille’s battle buddy in tonight’s adventure, she blatantly checks me out. “What did my girl instigate, Mr. Hot Stuff?”

  Camille rolls her eyes. “Jasmine. I think it’s time for all of us to head out.”

  “Hi. I’m Drew.” I interrupt the secret language Camille and Jasmine are speaking with their eyes and offer my hand. “Drew Bautista.”

  “Cam Frenched him,” Ally supplies.

  “Time to go. Now,” Camille says.

  Jasmine’s eyes flash. “Sorry, the wine I had must have been hallucinogenic. Did you say Cam kissed you?”

  “Yes, exactly,” I confirm.

  “Oh shit. You are the Drew Bau-tis-ta.” Jasmine says my name one syllable at a time. “With a good, strong, firm handshake. Nice.”

  To that, Camille groans out loud.

  Somehow I have to get Camille alone. I’d even settle for a phone number at this point. “Since you guys are headed out, why don’t I walk you down? I have to catch a cab myself.”

  Camille doesn’t get to argue as Jasmine takes the lead. We end up on the corner of Haight and Ashbury, where the air is thick with marijuana and the urban smell of asphalt, sewer, and grease. When a cab finally stops, Jasmine ushers Ally and her friend into the backseat, slides in next, and promptly shuts the cab door, without Camille.

  An argument ensues between Camille and her friend through the open window. I stand back far enough so I don’t hear what they’re saying, but close enough for everyone to know she’s with me. The Panhandle isn’t the epitome of safety, especially close to midnight.

  “Hey,” Jasmine yells from the cab widow. “Better take care of my friend, Drew Bautista, or else.” She pretend-slices her neck with her index finger.

  “That’s really not necessary,” Camille protests, backing up onto the sidewalk.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I answer. And when the cab drives away, leaving Camille and me on the sidewalk, I finish my sentence. “I intend to.”

  3

  CAMILLE

  Traitor. One flirtatious look from Drew was all it took for Jaz to ditch me. She locked me out of the cab and scolded me as if I was irresponsible for leaving Drew, when it was the other way around. I was trying to be responsible by choosing Ally over my current state of duress, of my wayward feelings both current and buried deep in my Woodrow High–freshman psyche, asking one sole question:

  Is this Drew my Andrew? The Andrew?

  While waiting for a cab and feigning nonchalance at the presence of my high school crush on this dark street corner, my memories fuel a low, steady fire I thought I’d squelched. Drew was lanky back then, and we stood at the same height of five feet two inches. He wore large hoodies and low-slung jeans. No glasses, with long hair all around, straight with a swoop down to his eyebrows.

  Whereas, this man is . . . adult. Very much so, towering next to me in a cloaked silence, with a broad chest, sharp jawline, and roped forearms. With a face and body that at any time would have turned my head had he walked by me on the street. But his eyes, they are the same—kind and honest. And his kiss. The kiss was absolutely Andrew, heating my insides and leaving me molten.

  Oh my sweet biscuits, I stuck my tongue in his mouth.

  And I want to do it again, even if logic is 100 percent against it. My prep has now been pushed forward to early tomorrow. I’ve allowed my best friend to take charge of my belligerent sister. And most important, the closure Drew wants, which will require me to rehash the last ten years, is a sore, sad subject.

  I could have insisted on getting into the cab. Could have jumped into the front seat, but I didn’t.

  Truth is, curiosity has me wound tight in Drew’s apron strings.

  I check my phone out of habit. Eleven thirty. A slew of notifications have come through from my last post, which I intend to answer sometime tonight. And one text from Jaz. You know we’re fine. Don’t worry about Ally.

  A cab rounds the corner and Drew steps off the sidewalk and waves it down. He opens the door. “Ma’am.” It’s the first thing he’s said since the first cab left, and the tenor of his voice drills deep into me. It’s a man’s voice—deeper and most definitely sexier.

  “Thank you,” I say, then slip into the stale-smoke smell and cracked black vinyl seat, making room for him. But Drew doesn’t get in. He shuts the door of the cab.

  What the hell?

  I roll down the window and Drew speaks before I can ask a question. “I meant it when I said I wanted to catch up, but I’m not going to force you. That part of me hasn’t changed.”

  The breath leaves my body, and my answer comes from my younger self, whose stomach has flipped and twisted and filled with excitement. Drew, despite his mischievous streak, was al
ways one thing when we were kids—respectful.

  “No.”

  His eyebrows fly upward, and his eyes gleam. “No?”

  “I mean, get in already.” I fight my lips from giving Drew the satisfaction of knowing that despite my reservations, I want to catch up with him, too. I slide to the left and Drew climbs in, making the cab smell one million times better.

  Cool Water—that was his cologne of choice back then. Now? It’s aftershave and soap and, simply, him. Yum.

  “I don’t know about you, but there’s no way I can hit the rack now. Up for a quick stop, for something different?” he whispers, knowing its effect on me. Dares were Drew’s method to get me to do something reckless, like when we cut English class to grab Slurpees at 7-Eleven to prove Ms. Miller was utterly clueless. He was right, of course—we were never marked absent. “Let’s be tourists. Pretend it’s our first time in the city.”

  A thrill shudders through me. “Okay.”

  “Great.” Leaning forward in his seat, Drew stares into the rearview mirror until the driver acknowledges him. “Sir, what tourist trap did you take the most visitors to today?”

  The cabbie rubs the white whiskers on his chin. “Coit Tower.”

  He turns to me for approval. “Yeah?”

  I bite my lip, feeling myself dissolve like sugar in water. I’m done for. “Fine . . .”

  He pumps his arm as if the 49ers have scored a touchdown. “Hear that, Mr.”—he peers at the cabbie’s name posted on the dashboard—“Lee? To Coit Tower and beyond.”

  Drew’s enthusiasm tugs at my heartstrings, and I laugh.

  “Ah, that laugh. I was hoping I’d hear it again. Now, to make you snort.”

  “What are you talking about?” My cheeks burn. Because denial is sometimes the best answer.

  “You know, that snort laugh you do? When you can’t catch your breath and nothing comes out of your nose but this whistling?” He attempts a horrific noise, inhaling through his mouth and nose at the same time. But he ends up choking on his own spit.

  I cross my arms as something bubbles up through me. Keep it together, Camille! But Drew is horizontal in the cab, looking ridiculous.