by Tif Marcelo
I palm the side table, where I usually toss my phone before bed, but instead of the slick surface of pressed wood, my fingers touch something warm. Soft. I notice everything up against me is this same temperature, the same texture of skin. My nose picks up scents that are unfamiliar—of cologne and deodorant, laundry detergent and Chinese takeout.
My eyes jolt open, and when my surroundings go from haze to real life, a grin takes over my face.
Last night wasn’t a dream.
My nose is tucked into the crook of Drew’s neck, my entire torso encased in tan arms. Still in underwear, bare legs intertwined, I’ve awakened in the legendary spot talked about in magazines and chick-lit novels. We’re both under the covers of his bed, my body flush against his. The ceiling fan above us whirrs, emanating a barely noticeable breeze, while the television, on mute, plays an infomercial for a countertop rotisserie. His studio apartment is bathed with light, its warmth calming my racing heart. And beyond the curtainless floor-to-ceiling windows are the sounds of a city waking. Everywhere around me is serene, so normal.
And yet, it’s not normal. This never happens to me. This has never happened to me.
The buzzing continues, and the faint ringtone sings that it’s Jasmine calling. Crap. What time is it?
My eyes search the floors, but my yellow phone case isn’t anywhere on the hardwood or area rugs. I hear the noise coming from under the bed. Slowly I shimmy away from Drew’s side and reach underneath, where I find my phone, facedown on the floor.
JAZ: Where the hell are you? Check in.
ME: Here, IN BED.
JAZ: WHUT.
ME: Nothing happened. I mean, almost nothing.
JAZ: ???
ME: Will fill you in later. Thanks for sending Ally off.
JAZ: All good. She’s out the door. OK, ignore me now. See you soon. TTYL!
I take in a breath. Admitting where I am to Jaz brings about the realization that, holy crap, I am in a man’s bed. I wait for the pang of regret, mixed with some of that Catholic guilt, because there’s no hiding what happened last night. I don’t do this. I don’t throw myself at guys willy-nilly, and I sure as heck don’t find myself waking up the next morning in “the spot,” cocooned by his side with my face against his chest. Even though we ended up not having sex—the spell had broken by the time we got back to his apartment—I still said yes, stayed the night as if he were a boyfriend. We still kissed and touched, and had Chinese takeout before crashing in his bed. We were like an old couple, exhausted and up well past our bedtime.
I squeeze Drew’s torso against mine, and he responds with a thankful moan. It was his idea to slow us down at Coit Tower, and while at the time I thought he was putting me off, now I’m grateful. This would have been my first one-night stand, and it was him who kept it from happening.
My stomach rumbles under the sheets. The clock says it’s six in the morning. There’s still enough time to get into my usual routine. I slide out from under the covers and slip on Drew’s checkered button-down. It smells like him, of soap, with a hint of cologne. It’s a piece of cotton fabric, but in his clothing, I’m warm once again.
His apartment is a modest space that feels cavernous with its soaring warehouse-style ceilings. It’s on the top floor of this building and on top of a steep hill. The Golden Gate Bridge is seemingly a stone’s throw away, the fog a carpet I could simply walk out to. I know it’s loud out there, with delivery trucks, produce shoppers, joggers getting their miles in before the start of their day. Breakfast joints are already serving meals, their ovens fired since four this morning. I’m usually up a little after them, writing out my to-do list well before six. By now, I would have already checked social media and blasted Lucianna’s feed.
But this morning, food first. Not for me, but for Drew.
I pad to the other side of the apartment to an industrial kitchen, all stainless steel and high-end appliances. Gas stove with blue knobs, double ovens, prep sink. How can Drew afford all of this on a soldier’s salary? My jaw drags on the floor as I take in everything I could ever wish for my own house, for the truck. Except when I check the refrigerator—a gorgeous double-door with all the bells and whistles—there is nothing in it but condiments, milk, eggs, butter, and more takeout. The pantry is empty except for flour, sugar, and the usual spice rack people buy preloaded.
No plants. No pets. No personal pictures on the walls, except for a world map pinned on one wall. It dawns on me this is an executive apartment, fully furnished. The couches and the dining room set match all too well, like the decorations were right out of a showroom floor.
Then I remember. He’s not staying.
I clutch my belly, expecting despair or disappointment. It should come any second now—that telltale sign of guilt for jumping into bed with Drew so quickly, knowing this would all be temporary. The guy didn’t even have to try. It took one sublime moment at a tourist spot and I threw myself at him.
But the guilt doesn’t come. Instead, I’m flooded with nostalgia, grateful that when I finally did let go a little, it was with him.
Drew was a surprise, and became a highlight of a night that was never supposed to happen. Touching base with him and my past has shown how much I’ve grown and accomplished. Last night was a blip when our paths converged. This morning, it’s time to get back on my road. In a month, he’ll be well on his, and there’s no point in complicating things. I can’t think of anyone else, care for anything more, or worry about one more thing but myself, Ally, and our livelihood.
I smile as I help myself to the meager ingredients in his pantry. I spread them out on his unmarred stainless steel kitchen island and dump flour and sugar into clear bowls, letting myself fall into my routine. I allow the textures and the sweet smell of sugar to take me away.
My motions go on cruise control. The calculations of cups and tablespoons and pinches are programmed into the spirit of my fingers. This. This is easy and intuitive. After sliding the pan into the oven, I search for the thing that’s going to get me through this day.
Coffee.
I find a tin labeled with the haphazard scrawl of permanent marker: Kape Barako. With Google as my guide, I find out, sure enough, it’s coffee from the Philippines. I stick my nose into the tin, and it takes a half a second and I’m wide awake.
There’s no way I can’t brew this.
I’ve finished my first cup of coffee by the time I pull the pan out of the oven. Steaming cinnamon muffins pop out from the cups. My little somethings from nothing. It’s much like last night, with Drew materializing from nowhere and bringing me to this beautiful morning. I tenderly arrange them on a plate, showcase them on the dining room table. Now the apartment feels more like a home, and it smells like someone actually lives here. It’s my small bit of thanks.
I slip off his shirt and put on my clothes, which smell of Haight Street cigarette smoke. I tear off my shirt, put his back on again, tying the ends into a knot. After folding my shirt, I lay it on the table, too. Something to remember each other by.
In his bathroom, I swig and spit mouthwash, then brush my hair out with my fingers, doing my best to wash last night’s grime from my face. Home is a half hour cab ride, and I’ll be in my own space soon enough.
Drew’s chest rises and falls with each deep breath as he sleeps on his back. The blanket exposes his tapered waist and capable arms that held me all night long. The light picks up the shadows of the muscles of his pecs and the compass tattoo on his upper chest.
It’s to remind me of my own true north, he said last night.
I pick up my boots and decide to put them on outside. I pass the big map of the world. Red pushpins dot where I assume Drew’s been. There are less than a dozen pins on the map, but their presence is a clear statement. He intends to leave, and I am committed to stay.
It makes my decision to walk away easier.
But trepid
ation descends. I should wake him. I should tell him thank you. I should leave him a note.
So, I tear a paper towel from the roll and click open a pen I find on the coffee table. There might be a middle ground in all of this.
Thank you for a perfect night.
[email protected]
Camille
Stepping out into the street, I know I’m about to execute what ignorant people might say is a “walk of shame.” Still in the clothes from the night before, makeup long gone, and without the guy. But it’s a misnomer. Plus—this is all on my terms.
6
DREW
May 14
Camille,
Testing, one, two, three. Is this you? I woke up to the smell of muffins, but to an empty bed. First thing I wondered was if I dreamt you up. Don’t answer that, because I don’t want to know if I did. Let’s pretend you’re real—you left me your email because you want to keep in touch. If by chance your address is legit, and a complete stranger isn’t actually reading this . . . I want to make it clear. I do not want money sent to a foreign country. This is not a scam for supercheap body-altering meds. What I want is to see you again. For a bona fide date. Or maybe not? Maybe for another batch of muffins?
Drew
I swallow my last bite of muffin as I slip into True North Cafe, my family’s Filipino restaurant. The dining room is dimmed from a PowerPoint presentation in progress. Heads are turned to a wall that’s been stripped of a framed painting of Malacañang Palace, the White House of the Philippines, so I think I’m safe when I finally slide into a plastic seat next to my cousin Bryn. That is, until my father, Ritchie, glances at his watch.
“Nice of you to show up, Andrew,” he says.
Shit.
“Happy to be here.” I shrug off the icy welcome, keeping my own insecurity at bay. Tardiness isn’t my style, and the military didn’t have to teach me punctuality. I’ve never subscribed to island time, and five minutes early is my MO.
Except for this morning, when I swore I woke up in the wrong apartment, two hours after an alarm I thought I set.
I was lucky to get out the door with my shoes on.
My flippant answer earns a scrutinizing glare from my pop. He is the epitome of proper grooming with his combed hair, immaculate personalized chef’s jacket, and eye-watering cologne. No doubt my unshaven face and wrinkled shirt are unsatisfactory for the great Chef Ritchie Bautista.
“Jet lag, I bet. It’s hard to head west,” my uncle Ben chimes, arms crossed over his tailored suit. Sitting on a barstool next to the cashier counter, he’s giving me a low-down stare. The kind where he’s telling me to play nice and not talk back. “Welcome home, buddy.”
“Thanks, Tito.” I’m grateful for the save and say the Tagalog word for uncle with extra fluff. As my mother’s brother and the eldest on both sides of the immediate family, Ben Aquino has always been an untouchable. Thankfully he’s always had my back. Still, I’m surprised he’s here. Tito Ben is the restaurant’s one and only silent investor, and it’s not his style to get involved.
I look at Bryn to glean some answers as to why her father’s here, and more important, why I had to be here today. She is True North’s manager. But with her hair pulled tight and coiled on top of her head, she answers me with pursed lips, and her eyes scream at me to shut my ass up. To be agreeable.
“He can speak for himself. Surely they taught him to do that in the Army,” my dad says.
A rumbling begins from the pit of my belly. It’s an instinctive reaction to my father’s criticism. It never fails that when I’m with my dad, I’m never old enough, wise enough. So I fall into the role of the immature, irresponsible child he thinks I am. “Had a great time celebrating last night. You know what they say, what happens on leave . . .” I clasp my hands behind my head and wink for effect.
I know I should shut up. I should get through this restaurant meeting as swiftly as possible, but I’m still seeing spots. I was sideswiped. Duped. The victim of an almost-one-night stand who woke up to cinnamon muffins and an email address. And now I’m coming to a meeting blind. What else could go wrong? “Anyway, you guys wanna catch me up?”
Tito Ben sighs.
My father shakes his head as if giving up. He goes to his computer, perched on the hostess podium. He clicks to the next slide, labeled New Plans.
Bryn pushes a stapled copy of the printed slides to me. She circles a number on the bottom of the page and taps it twice with the pen.
I’m not a spreadsheet kind of guy, but it doesn’t take an accountant to know what I’m reading is a proposal for a whole restaurant renovation. The outlined cost is astronomical. “Whoa. Is this right? You’re redoing everything?”
My father sighs. “We must, to keep up. As it is, we don’t have the right space for the market we are trying to serve.”
“Is True North in trouble?”
I’m answered by a nod.
I bite my cheek, allowing the weight of this news to settle on my shoulders. Why don’t I know this? Oh right, because I never took his calls. I erased his messages, so pissed he gave me hell for choosing the Army over the restaurant. And my mother, probably playing the good cop, never talked about the business until I told her a spot at Fort Pershing, an Army post north of the city, opened up. Then she was all about getting me stationed closer to home, promising me peace. She insisted my entire leave time before deployment would be spent “bonding” with my father.
Now I wonder if bonding was ever on Pop’s docket.
“Turn to page five.” He clicks through to the next slide.
The page shows a before-and-after sketch of the dining room. The next is one of the kitchen. While the rest of the staff oohs and ahhs at the brand-name equipment, the planned kitchen concept and bar, I shut my eyes to the madness. Everything has been turned on its head.
“This doesn’t make any sense.” My voice rises above the rumble of chatter.
“Iho,” Pop says. Son. He says it softly, almost desperately. “Let me get through this.”
I press my fingers against my eyes. “Okay.”
Pop turns up his salesmanship, voice resonating as he paces. “True North has suffered quite a few setbacks this last year, the worst in the eight years it’s been open, and we’ve taken quite a hit. Honestly? We don’t have much time. I’ve spoken to business owners in the neighborhood and looked at the trends. Many restaurants have either downsized or taken a riskier direction. Bottom line: they changed their market. We’re one of a handful of restaurants near Ocean Beach, and the only Filipino restaurant for a good ten square miles. We have a chance to step away from the mom-and-pop concept. We need to snag tourists who are here, on this side of the city.”
“You want True North to become an upscale restaurant,” I interrupt. “You want to take your comfort food and put it on white tablecloths.”
He shakes his head. “We want to elevate the experience, exhibit Filipino food as an equal contender in the Asian food market in the city. Bryn, do you know what we sell most of?”
“Lumpia,” she answers.
“Right. The Filipino egg roll. A finger food. The second best?”
“Halo-halo.”
He nods. “The Filipino sundae, a dessert. Also a quickie. Can you take a guess, in the last month, what percentage of customers have ordered from the main entrée menu?” A pause. “Ten percent.”
I pipe up. “Which means we have to fix the menu, not take down walls or buy new furniture. We do risk assessments all the time in the Army. Do the least intervention with maximum return, rather than the other way around.”
Tito Ben nods, as if he didn’t expect me to fire back. In contrast, Pop’s face scrunches inward. I know better than to challenge my father in front of an audience. But the idea of renovating when the restaurant is failing is ludicrous.
“Let me walk you throug
h this, since you haven’t bothered to be interested in the family business the last few years.” Pop approaches me and flips the page of the pamphlet in front of me, as if I needed help to do that, too. “The trend in the city calls for quick food, limited menu, lots of great drinks, upscale atmosphere. If we want to survive, we have to invest.”
I’m not sure what’s worse, being made to feel like I’m an insensitive prick or being too cowardly to do nothing about it. I want to scream my next words, but miraculously keep my voice lowered. “Then why am I here? I don’t work here anymore. You obviously have everything planned. I assume the investment has been made, right, Tito?” I sweep a glance toward my uncle, not meaning to add him to the reasons why I’m so pissed this morning. But the fact remains that Chef Ritchie’s obsession with growing a restaurant—the thing that always came between us—has been enabled and funded all these years by my uncle.
Tito Ben’s eyes cast downward. “Iho, there’s no need for disrespect. Your mom and dad asked me to help, and of course I will. You are family. I am an investor. I trust the decisions of my clients and prefer to be uninvolved. I’d rather not even know.” He looks at my father, almost regretfully. “I’m here today simply to show support.”
“That’s good for you all then,” I say, feet shifting. Despite having contact on the ground, I feel no control over them whatsoever. Nothing feels real.
The standoff is shattered when the kitchen door swings inward. My mother, Ramona, walks in. She’s wearing the restaurant’s apron, face flushed from the heat of the kitchen. With her wafts the smell of home, of pandesal. Just the thought of her handmade dinner rolls instantly takes me off my soapbox. When she spots me, she sends me a flying kiss. I pretend to catch it out of habit.
Mom and her perfect timing.
“You’re here because I need your help.” My father’s words redirect me. “We need muscle. We have contractors lined up, but it will be cheaper if we do the odds and ends on our own. I also need someone to direct traffic. That’s where you come in, Andrew. You tell me you’re a leader, an engineer in the Army. Consider True North your personal project.”
