by Tif Marcelo
My throat goes dry. I open my mouth to say something, to explain why our current status, if posted on Facebook, would be “too complicated to respond to an email,” but only a breath escapes. Drew looks even better in the light of day. Dressed in slacks and a simple white button-down shirt with rolled-up sleeves, he is most definitely headed somewhere important. The front of his hair is slicked upward, and he smells delicious and clean. Dammit, I walked away from him, didn’t I?
“Hi, Ally,” he says.
“Um. Hi. Um, I’ll wait for you outside. Yeah . . .” My sister’s voice, tinged with humor, trails off. She only got the Cliffs Notes version of the other night. We went to Coit Tower. We hung out. I got home late. No, nothing happened.
I won’t hear the end of it now.
He crosses his arms and leans against the counter as if we have all the time in the world, though my first instinct is to run. Those eyes of his gleam, even behind his glasses. I can’t tell if they’re happy to see me or if they want to give me a spanking.
I shake my head. Wake up, brain.
“Wh-what are you doing here?” I manage to ask.
“Grabbing coffee. And finding you.”
I shake the carrier in my hand, feeling foolish. Like I’ve been caught with my spoon in a tub of ice cream at midnight. “I mean the shirt. Not a uniform?”
“Oh, you mean, here, in the Financial District with all of the bankers and lawyers and such. Yeah, call it a ‘take your child to work’ day.” His lips quirk up. “It’s a project I’m working on with my dad. Yada yada, long story, but that’s not what I want to talk about right now. Because you’re here and”—he shuffles to the left as three girls shove past him—“it must be fate, right? Twice in three days?”
His question catches me by surprise because I’m still digging my mind out of the gutter. Did I really leave this beautiful man in bed? What kind of sorcery have I been placed under? “Listen, about the other night.” My phone buzzes in my pocket and I shut my eyes against the distraction. “I had such a great time, I mean, really great. And I feel like we kind of picked up where we left off, but . . .”
A wave of relief changes the expression on his face. He jumps into my sentence before I can formulate my next thought. “Great . . . and we can still do that. Keep going, I mean.”
The buzzing continues, causing tension in every part of my body. This is why I can’t pursue anything remotely permanent or serious with anyone or anything else. “I’ve got to take this. Sorry.”
Ever the gentleman, Drew takes the carrier from me, making me feel worse about the words I can’t seem to get out of my mouth. It’s a text from Jaz.
Trouble at 415. Someone in our spot.
“Everything okay?” he asks.
I shake my head and jam my phone into my pocket. “No.” I grab the carrier back from him with the exit as my only thought. “It’s work. I’ve got to go.” Pushing through the cafe door, I scan the area for my sister. “Ally!”
“Cami.” I hear Drew’s voice at the exact moment I feel his hand on my shoulder. His touch brings me back down to earth. It grounds me to this moment, to our escapade, and to him.
I turn, shoulders hunched, falling into his spell. “What is it, Drew?”
His face is all hope. “One date tonight, and that’s it. A sober, legit date. Let me do this right.”
My eyes close, and I feel equal parts thrill and trepidation. Right now is not the time to be thinking about dating, about kissing this man one more time. But the guy won’t give up, and I love that. “Fine. Ten, tonight.”
“Wow, that’s late. But yes, of course. Ten. I’ll come get you.”
“Nope. I’ll meet you right here.”
“Fine. Anything.” With a quick hand he pulls the phone from my pocket and texts. “Wait for it.” The Star Wars theme song plays. And it makes me grin. Of course this is Drew’s ringtone. Pleased at my response, he takes out his phone to show me. “Now we can reach each other. Anytime.”
Anytime. All the time. Which means I can reach him day and night. My body starts to hum, remembering his lips on the soft, sensitive spot on my neck.
Where is my mind? That’s right, with Drew, it’s mush. Especially when he’s in front of me.
My sister shows then, and the serious frown on her face snaps me back to the present. After a hurried good-bye with Drew, Ally and I power walk around the corner to meet up with Jaz, who is dutifully guarding Lucianna, illegally parked in Bridge to Bridge’s loading dock.
My knuckles are white as I steer the truck through bumper-to-bumper traffic a mile up Market Street. The wheels bounce against potholes and cable car rails, but I don’t feel the jostle. I’m steaming hotter than a four-hundred-degree oven. My eyes narrow on my destination, far beyond the traffic and the streetlights, and to the parking spot that is usually mine.
Truth: despite the cutthroat competition among truckers, a mutual respect exists in this business. We food-truck entrepreneurs are good to one another. We keep in touch, and we try to give each other space.
It is that respect that prompted a text from Shawna, the owner of All the Soup, to Jaz that something was going down.
“This can’t be happening. Who the hell is that?” A litany of curses rages through my brain, but the connection from it to my tongue is severed by the sight in front of me. A food truck is parked in my usual space. Painted in a matte black, with solar panels jutting from the roof, it looks like the front of a locomotive.
Jasmine pulls her seat belt taut as she leans forward on the dashboard. Her fingers scavenge the glove compartment and pull out a small binder containing our business contact information, which includes Joe, Club 415’s owner. “How would they know to park there? Unless . . .”
She doesn’t continue but I finish for her, my words heavy. “Joe gave them permission.”
“He wouldn’t.”
Or would he? His spot is coveted. It’s a block into the Financial District and minutes away from the tourist attractions like the Museum of Modern Art, which commands about a thousand visitors a day. It’s in the hub of what keeps the city working, the central spoke of all walks of life. It’s good business to be there, and Joe can command top dollar.
That also means he didn’t have the decency to give us enough time to find another spot.
I park across the street from the ominous truck, knowing Lucianna is sticking out into traffic and I could get a ticket. But I don’t care. In less than an hour, I’m supposed to be up and running. Lucianna is filled to the brim with ingredients for today that cannot go to waste.
“Shit. Tailgate food.” I charge up to the window, eyeing the stencil of the red, blue, and orange flames scrawled on the side of the truck. The truck’s name, Hawt Wings, makes me wince, not because of what they serve, but because I don’t know any nonvegetarians who don’t love chicken wings. If this truck is any good, Joe will surely be more tempted to keep them instead of Lucianna. Club 415 has benefited from the truck’s customers and vice versa. And chicken wings to a bunch of drunk people? It’s an easy touchdown.
My intention is to knock politely. Someone banging on the minuscule Plexiglas window is as ear-piercing as nails on chalkboard, and I’m not here for a fight. This is a simple misunderstanding.
Except my arm is controlled by an unknown force, and I wallop the window with my palm.
Seconds pass, though I know someone is in there. Even the most expensive trucks tilt and sway when people stomp inside. I pound on the Plexiglas again, and the window finally slides open. A guy’s head pops out, blond hair spiked in purposeful cowlicks. The music blares in his earbuds loud enough so I can hear the words.
The guy pulls a bud out of one ear. “Yeah.” His voice is gruff, like he swallowed a frog.
“You’re in my spot.” I level him a look that shouldn’t give him an inkling I’m kidding, and yet he grins at me.
“Um, I don’t think so.” He blows a bubble, and it pops. He sucks the gum back in, smacking it.
I take a breath. Calm myself. It’s obvious this guy is getting a kick out of me slowly losing my shit. I flatten my lips, and what the hell, I bat my eyelashes, too. “Look, it’s obvious you’re new and all to the neighborhood, but see that truck over there?” I point at Lucianna. He swings his head to the left and nods. “Well, I’ve parked her here pretty much for the last month. You have to get approval to park in this specific area, and I’m the one who has it.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“I’m glad we got that straight. I’m gonna go ahead and pull in.”
“Um.” He shakes his head, smacking his gum. “I mean, I know you have to get approval. And I have that.”
“There’s no way.” Although I spoke those words in the truck—that Joe might have given our spot away—hearing it from this guy singes me.
“Yeah. Joe called me this morning.” He reaches upward and retrieves a piece of paper.
Snatching it from his hand, I scan it. Sure enough, it’s a license dated with today’s date, with Joe’s signature on the bottom. “It’s because of those pictures,” the guy says.
“The what?”
“The pictures, you know, of you telling off that customer? A Spartan of all people?” He shakes his head. “Not good advertising, since 415’s sign is all over it, which is, you know . . . a sports bar. Joe thought the next person on his waiting list should get their turn a little early. So, have a nice day.”
The guy shuts the window before I can rebut, and I’m left with the sound of the truck’s generator. My face grows hot and my body sweats, and it’s not from the sun.
What do I do? Where do I go?
I’m screwed.
I march to the tinted windows of Club 415. The sign confirms what I know—it doesn’t open until after dinner. And yet I knock. This is all a stupid mistake.
But the truth is as clear as my reflection on the glass: Joe is the landlord, and no contract was drawn between us. We didn’t have termination clauses or rental stipulations, only a verbal agreement. Joe didn’t fool me. He told me he would always have the prerogative. He doesn’t owe me an explanation.
My hands scrunch into fists. It’s all my fault. I let a customer get to me. I acted without thinking.
Leaning my head onto the window, I shut my eyes.
“Camille.” Jasmine’s gentle grip on my shoulder pulls me back from the glass, literally pulling me off the ledge. “You’ll make this work.”
Familiar words. It’s the same thing she told me at Nonna’s funeral, after being blindsided and turned upside down by both the truth of my loss and the enormous responsibility of raising Ally. It reminds me I have some power over my future.
I nod at our reflection in the window, now a blob. “Let’s pack it in for now,” I croak out. “Time for a new plan.”
10
DREW
Camille Marino
Marino Camille
Camille Marino San Francisco
Camille San Francisco
I’m on my laptop in True North’s office, supposedly pricing out kitchen islands and a new industrial dishwasher. Instead I’m searching the Net for a hint of who Camille is. I’ve got one shot to impress this woman but don’t have a clue where to begin.
There are a million Camille Marinos in San Francisco. A quick search of photos show women with gray hair and deep wrinkles. None bear her onyx eyes and high cheekbones. None are remotely as sexy.
I get that I’m exhibiting stalker behavior now—hence the reason I’m hiding in this claustrophobic office instead of measuring spaces for equipment. Since seeing Camille, I haven’t been able to shake the woman from my brain. The feel of her silky hair, her warm fingers against my skin. Her deep breaths against my chest as she fell asleep.
Scratch that. I haven’t been able to shake her since the festival.
I’m committed to fixing things with my father while I’m here, but it’s Camille I see when the quiet moments hit me. When I close my eyes.
But you’re leaving.
My conscience is doing its thing again, guilt-tripping the hell out of me.
I know I can’t hurt this woman. But I can’t let her go either.
A knock on the door jostles me back to the present, and my body scrambles like a private who’s been caught asleep in the middle of training. I shut the computer screen. Pop’s energized, eyes bright. His tie is already off, sleeves rolled up the elbows, shirt unbuttoned. “Iho, got a minute?”
His vibe is a 180 of the last few days. The plans I submitted earlier to the city Planning Department turned him into the man I used to venerate: driven, optimistic, collaborative. Not one sarcastic remark about being away from home. There were zero complaints about my deployment.
So I jump at the chance to spend a couple of minutes together, even if I’m dog tired and would rather plan out my date with Camille. “Course.”
I strip off my own shirt and tie, down to my V-neck white T-shirt, and follow him out of the office. True North is officially a construction zone, the first of the kitchen demo done today.
We navigate through the stifling chaos. Pop estimated a three-week time frame to complete the reno and already had contractors in the last couple of days. Construction equipment is strewn about, along with wires, fixtures, yards of cable. The new design plans, which I redid on graph paper and to scale, are taped on one of the freezer doors. Arrows and lines depict the new changes.
The evolved concept would mean more work but would also incorporate the best of True North’s location. We met with a commercial contractor and architect to revamp the plans this afternoon. Tomorrow we’ll consult with the building inspector to hash out the regulatory piece of the reno.
The only thing remaining from the old restaurant is True North’s trademark clock: a compass that looks exactly like the tattoo on my chest.
Pop passes by and pats the new plans like a good-luck charm. He gives me a thumbs-up, and my insides soar. I don’t remember the last time he reacted that way to anything I did. When I got my promotion to first lieutenant last year, I didn’t even get a card.
“You pick,” Pop says abruptly to a wall that’s been painted three slightly different versions of brown. He shoves the paper swatches into my hands.
Correction: dark khaki, salted caramel, and shadowed beach.
“I don’t think you can lose with any of these. But the darker the better, if you ask me. Everything will stand out from it. The view and the white dishes, napkins, and chef’s jackets. Or, if you wanted a softer effect, more for the younger family crowd, then shadowed beach might be a little better. Then again . . .” I’m rambling and I know it. My focus is on my father’s face, on what I think he’s leaning toward.
Pop’s poker face is the best in the family, and he stares at the painted swatches, stoic and silent. “You’re right. Salted caramel. Let the contractor know?”
“Of course.”
“I can’t think of anything else we need to do today.”
“We got a lot done,” I say.
Then silence.
Crickets, hell, cicadas. These are what conversations with my father have transformed into. It’s pathetic. A cascade of topics run through my head, and I sort through them like flash cards. I can ask what he thinks the opening menu will be, if he’s decided to serve signature drinks. But the moment is overwrought with too many important things left unsaid, and the rest is simply superficial.
He turns to me with an unreadable expression. “You haven’t been home for dinner since you got here.”
My heart staggers to a halt. “It’s jet lag. I’ve been exhausted.”
“Your mama wants you over. She’s missed you.”
Clearing my throat, I drop my gaze to the ground. It wasn�
�t my mother’s invitation I was waiting on. It was his. “I’ve missed her, too, and, um, yeah. Dinner sounds good.” A pause. “But not tonight. I’ve got . . . I’ve got a date.”
“A date?”
“Yep.” I shove my hands into my pockets.
“Well, now.” A hand lands on my shoulder. Pop’s voice booms, causing me to take a step back. His expression is one of pride, and I exhale in spite of myself. “That is great news. Then you should head on out of here. I’ll tell your mom you’ll be over tomorrow.”
“Okay.” I smile hesitantly.
“And oh, here you go.” He holds out his hand as if to shake mine. When I reciprocate, he plasters money into my palm.
This is getting ridiculous. “I can pay for my own date.” I hold out the money, but he doesn’t take it. He walks away, first patting the drafted plans on the refrigerator door as he passes it.
“Take her someplace nice. Pamper her. Give her a beautiful view.”
“Are you really giving me dating advice now?” Testing, I chide him. Amazingly, he doesn’t level me with an icy word or look. He nods from the doorway into the dining room.
“Trust me. View. Pamper. Glad to have you back, Andrew.”
11
CAMILLE
With little time to get ready, I roll my hair into a messy bun and brush on a mineral foundation to make me look less like a zombie. The bags under my eyes can’t be helped, because what I really need is sleep. A week’s worth, after all the driving Jaz and I did today, looking for the right parking spot, which ended in a major fail. My biggest fear was realized—there are too many food trucks concentrated downtown to stand out. Leaving downtown, on the other hand, might be one of the worst decisions I could make.
I mull over my day as I apply the darkest lip gloss I have, throw on leggings and boots, and ease on Drew’s checkered button-down shirt over a tank.
In his shirt, I’m brought back to Coit Tower, to our desperate hands and blistering kisses. My temperature rises as the anticipation of being alone with him simmers inside of me. Yes, things are a crapshoot right now. Somehow I’m supposed to attract my regulars to a new location, or build new clientele. But tonight I’m going to find this thing called fun Jaz and Ally are always harping on about.
