by Tif Marcelo
I approach the table and ready myself for the barrage of questions. Despite the faux scowl on my face, inside I’m slaphappy. Because if what my ma says is true, I’m back in this family, and my pop and I are okay.
17
CAMILLE
“How come my hand lettering always looks like a toddler’s chicken scratch?” I tilt my head, attempting to achieve a better view of what could mildly represent calligraphy. Leaning across the Formica countertop of our nine-square-foot kitchen, I catch a glimpse of Ally’s journal, with her name in perfect script. “And yours, as usual, is perfect.”
“What can I say, big sis? This is my talent.” Ally kisses her journal page, then tears it out of the notebook. She brings it to the refrigerator and slaps a magnet on it.
I toss my marker back into Ally’s cup of pencils and pens, and grin. “Brat.”
“Yeah, yeah. I know you’re gonna miss me when I go,” she answers. “If I go.”
“You mean, when you go.” Her words stab at my heart. Tomorrow’s the day when Ally finds out if she’s gotten accepted into the institute. “You’ll only be gone a summer. Three months. It’s going to go by so quickly. There are food festivals for me to work, projects for you to do.”
“Who’ll make sure you’re up early to make me breakfast on your days off?”
“I’ll be sleeping in.” I point to my face. “See this girl? This girl won’t be chasing you around town.”
“Yeah, but I’ll be in one big one all by myself.”
I ball up my notebook page and throw it at her. Protectiveness surges through me. “I swear, Al. Don’t make me worry—”
“Kidding, kidding.” Arms open, she wraps them around my upper torso. Her voice softens. “I’m all business. If—when—I’m in, I won’t mess this up, Cam. I’ll make every penny worth it.”
My phone chimes with a text, and it’s as if my heart has been injected with adrenaline. My breath hitches. I know it’s Drew before I click on the message: Just parked.
Great! I’ll be right down.
Ally bites her lip. “Is it him?”
I nod. My throat is parched. I’m suddenly nervous. It’s been almost a week since we’ve seen each other, our connection teased by texts that brought me through some challenging situations with True North. The thought of our last date still gives me a yummy thrill, and there’s a good chance we’ll be as intimate, or even more. I think I’m ready for it.
“I’ll be home late, don’t wait up,” I tell my sister.
“Oh no . . . no. I seem to remember you brought a BB gun out for display when my junior year crush came to pick me up for prom. And you get to walk out without me saying a word? No way. This is the first guy who’s picked you up. Ever. I know it’s getting serious. It’s written all over your face.” She snatches my phone, her fingers flying.
“Al!”
Here’s the thing. Ally’s arms are way longer than mine. I might be able to take longer steps, but she can successfully hold a phone far enough away from me so I can’t reach it. It’s pathetic.
“Sent,” she announces, then hands me my phone with a sweet smile.
“Promise me you won’t talk about work.”
“I know. Nothing serious or specific.” She levels me with a look. “Hello, there are no secrets with Jaz, especially around us girls. She mentioned you were playing hard to get.”
“That is so not how it is.”
“Okay, fine . . . but you can’t let your commitment issues keep you from finding love, sis.”
“First of all, this is not love. This is Drew’s and my second date—”
“You were crushes in high school. Classic romance story of a second chance at love.”
I raise a finger. “Second, what do you know about commitment issues? Third, I’m obviously a committed kind of girl. I put up with you, don’t I?”
The doorbell rings, in time for my bluster to reach its full boiling point. Ally struts backward, reaching for the gate buzzer without once peeking, and presses it.
My gaze flies to the front door. My body temperature skyrockets.
“Payback, big sis.” She turns the doorknob, and the panel opens inward as if in slow motion, exposing a surprised Drew as he is about to knock.
Scratch that—a hot Drew. A Drew wearing a short-sleeve blue polo, faded jeans, and brown suede boots.
My jaw goes slack along with the rest of my body, which has turned into jelly. I’m utterly spineless because he can’t seem to look less than perfectly gorgeous.
“Hey, beautiful.” His eyes lock on mine, then travel down the length of my body. Every cell tunes in, and as if I’m grounded by him, my anxiety calms.
My sister clears her throat. His gaze slides over to her, and I swear, it shines a little bit brighter. He is amused.
“In. Follow me.” Ally’s voice crashes to monotone, and she walks the five feet to our living room, where she points to the couch. “Sit.”
“Oh . . . okay.” Drew lowers himself, eyeing my sister warily, then settles, hands on his knees. I shrug from behind her and mouth to Drew: Sorry.
“State your name,” Ally commands.
“Seriously?” I interrupt, but she shows me her palm. The corners of her lips wiggle, and it piques my curiosity. Now I wonder what the heck she’s going to ask and, most important, how Drew’s going to answer.
“Andrew R. Bautista.”
“What’s the R for?”
“Richard.”
“Interesting. Where are you taking my sister tonight?”
Drew lifts his gaze to my eyes. “Coffee. Maybe a jaunt through Japantown.”
“That is so sweet, really. But Japantown? Isn’t that for tourists?” Ally’s tone is sarcastic.
“Yes. It’s kind of our thing.”
My heart squeezes at his unwavering look, at his declaration there’s something of ours that’s special. That we’re special enough to have a thing.
“Huh. What else is your thing?”
He clears his throat. “Not sure what you mean?”
“What do you want from my sister? You’re leaving in three weeks, right?”
“Twenty-one days. And I want what she wants. We’re going out, getting to know each other. Again.” Drew catches my eyes and smiles.
“That’s a smokescreen. What exactly are your intentions?”
“We’re going to stop, right there.” I barge in between them, arms waving. Pulling Ally to the kitchen, I say softly but pointedly, “Drew and I are leaving. When Jaz comes back after washing the truck, please make sure she hasn’t parked on the curb. I don’t want any of the neighbors complaining.”
She shrugs.
As I walk away, I call back. “Don’t wait up. You need to be well rested for your appointment tomorrow. We’re out the door exactly at nine.” I take Drew by the hand. “Let’s go.”
Leading him out of our apartment, I grab my purse and keys. “I’m sorry about that,” I say as I close the door behind me. I pull him by the hand as my feet glide down the stone stairway, escape just steps away. But when we get to the bottom landing, Drew resists. A devilish look plays across his face, and I succumb to his pull.
“I missed you,” he says as he backs me against the stucco walls of the building foyer. Hands on my waist, he secures me in place, the act taking my breath away.
“Same here,” I admit. My hands find their way easily to his chest. Ready for his kiss, I part my lips, crawl my fingers up to his neck. Our tongues crash and tangle, wrestle and submit. His hands palm my lower back, then move to the curve of my ass.
“I hear you guys down there,” the echo of Ally’s voice curls its way down, separating Drew and me.
“Oh, little sisters,” I sigh, eyes still shut until I savor the last moment of the heat of his lips. When I open them, he’s looking at me, amused.
“Li
ke big sister, like little sister,” he says.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Relentless, stubborn, headstrong.” His smile widens. “I love it.”
I melt into the wall and breathe in the moment in this dark corner of my apartment building.
Isn’t this enough? Shouldn’t we stop right here, at this uncomplicated moment, and let that be how we remember one another? Because this is exciting. And beyond that . . .
“What’s up?” he asks, gripping my chin.
“I want us to make good memories.”
His eyes darken. “Isn’t that what we’re doing?”
“We are . . . but.” I search the recesses of my heart for the right words. “When Ally asked you about us up there, you said you wanted what I want. But do you? Because I don’t know if it’s the same thing. I’m not ready to talk specifics—”
“Here we go again about the specifics. I don’t know what’s so scary about me knowing you and you knowing me.”
I hold his hardened jaw. It softens at my touch, and knowing I have that effect, that I matter so much to him, enlivens the part of me that wants to protect him, as if he is mine to watch over. “My life isn’t perfect, and I bet your life isn’t either. But if we decide to say everything, to pull all of those things out and lay them at our feet . . . will twenty-one days be enough to discuss it?” I give him the answer as he opens his mouth, the devil on my shoulder. The easy answer. “No. It won’t.” I suck in a breath, because it’s the first time I have mentioned our future, if there would be one.
“So you’re saying all you want is a physical relationship, without any strings.”
“No. I’m saying we should let things unfold naturally. We shouldn’t rush anything because we have a time limit over us.”
The words I’m saying are so logical, so mature, but they feel like poison on my tongue. Poison for me to say, because they don’t reflect how I crave both his touch and his thoughts. Poison for him because I see how it hurts him. Despite his stoic expression, it’s as if I’ve slapped him.
Another echo, of Ally clearing her throat. Perfect timing to break the tension. Drew scoops my hands into his and takes a deep breath, exhaling through his mouth. “If it’s what you want.”
I don’t think I want this. “It is.”
Two beats pass. “Okay.”
His agreement hurts, even if it’s the answer I wanted. Feigning relief, because I have no idea what I’m feeling, I say, “You know, we should make a list of all the tourist traps we need to head to, since, you know, we live here.”
He steps backward, leading me out the front gate. The smile on his face doesn’t reach his eyes. “Game.”
Walking down the concrete steps, we’re met by the setting sun. Beyond the hill are the city lights, strung like Christmas lights along the horizon. I snap a pic of it and post it to Lucianna’s account.
@Lucianna: A fantastic #nofilter night I’m enjoying with a friend. Closed tonight but we’ll be back tomorrow night at 5. Same beautiful place.
* * *
But as I follow Drew to his car, assuring myself what I posted—that Drew is a friend and nothing more—is the truth, my conscience tells me otherwise.
18
DREW
I should count myself lucky, right? Any man would be thrilled with a no-strings-attached casual relationship, the “what happens on leave stays on leave” arrangement—but it doesn’t sit right. In fact, the idea makes my stomach turn. The fifteen-year-old Camille I knew refused to kiss me until I promised her there wasn’t anyone else.
The question thunders from my doubts: Does she have someone else?
“I’m not down with sharing you, Cami.” My gaze is firmly on her profile as she snaps in her seat belt. “I’m a one-woman man and always have been. If we do this, I need it to be you and me.”
“You think there’s someone else?”
The car’s dome light shuts off and I can’t see her expression. “Isn’t there? You don’t want to talk specifics. Nothing about work, play, hobbies. Your sister is highly protective, which means you never take a guy home. Which could mean you’re dating someone else. Maybe being intimate?” The words are acid coming up my throat.
“Whoa. Drew.”
But like a horse at full gallop, there’s no stopping me. “I get we’ve only got three weeks, but I have no intention of treating you like some fling. I respect you and what we have. Even with the timeline . . . anyway, there’s no one else in my bed. And I would like it, very much, if it’s the same with you. If there’s another man, or woman, tell me now. We can go our separate ways, no hard feelings.”
The front of my collar pulls forward, and a seat belt click later, Camille’s lips are on mine. My train of thought grinds to a full stop, and with this reset, I can breathe.
“Are you done talking now?” she says, her mouth millimeters from mine. She has straddled me, and her eyes bore into mine, commanding a response. So I nod. “You’re right. My sister is protective because I haven’t brought anyone home. But I’m not dating other people, and I haven’t been doing the backseat grind with anyone else.”
Ah, shit. I insulted her. “I didn’t mean . . . there’s nothing wrong if that is what you want. But it’s not what I want. For myself.”
“I don’t want it for me either. What I want is time, which we don’t have. But it doesn’t mean I don’t want things to evolve between us. I mean, here I am, sitting on your lap, aren’t I?”
I can’t resist her. Can’t refuse the lips in front of me or her weight on my erection. I growl in spite of myself. Cupping the back of her head, I bring her to me. Nibble on her bottom lip, swipe my tongue across her teeth. She grinds down onto me, causing my heart to beat like a bass drum. And her words become enough. There’s something about her that makes me want to squeal like a little boy and take her into my bed as a man.
I’ve got no chill with this woman.
She laughs into my mouth, seemingly pleased. Her cheeks are flushed. “So we’re okay, then? I can keep doing this?”
“Yeah. We can totally keep doing this,” I say, body coiled into her. If I don’t get her out of this car and somewhere where we can be alone, I might explode. “Wanna get outta here? We can go back to my place. Or are you hungry?” Duh. What if she’s starving? I take both of her hands in mine, rub my thumbs against her palms. “I’m sorry, I’m being rude. I’ve been wanting to do that—to see you—for like forever.”
“It’s only been six days.” Her voice is flirtatious.
“A lot can happen in a week.”
“Goodness, I’ll have to agree with that.” To my dismay, she climbs off me and gets back into the passenger seat. “Actually, now that I’ve taken a breath . . . are you in the mood for a homemade meal? Is your kitchen free?”
“Um, yeah, it is.” I start the car, my mind on full speed leading my imagination back to my bed, under the covers with her. Except putting her to work doesn’t seem relaxing at all. “But there’s no need to cook. Have you ever had Filipino food? There’s a great restaurant I know. It’s kind of closed, but I’ve got it good with the chef. We can eat out, or I can order in.”
As we approach Mission Dolores, pedestrian traffic becomes like waves of water across the street. I slow to cruising speed and she rolls down the window and sticks her hand out. “Of course I’ve had Filipino food. Food is my life.” She winks. “I cook when I’ve got a lot on my mind. Is that weird?”
“Yeah, it’s weird, but definitely okay.” I pause as a horde of folks crosses in front of me. “Lots on your mind? Is everything okay?”
“Yeah . . .”
Her voice trails, so I don’t push it. “Well, my pantry’s as empty as when you left it, though. We’d have to hit a grocery store on the way home.”
“I know exactly where to go. Turn right at the next street.”
Yes, this is all familiar. I grew up in these kinds of stores, where my mother picked up neon candies, chopsticks, and exotic fruits. Apparently, Camille has been brought up the same way. She tests the ripeness of the jackfruit, picks up a package of spring roll wrappers, and fills a basket with vegetables, some I’ve forgotten the names of. The fact that she can tell the difference is sexy as hell. Watching her weave her way around the chaos of this store, without a look of disgust over the weird things in jars, elevates her even more in my eyes. Our worlds aren’t so far apart if she can respect the food my ma and pop make a living with. “Spring rolls, huh? This is looking pretty serious.”
“Since you mentioned Filipino, I thought I’d show you my version of a spring roll.” She brings a melon to her nose, a smile behind her eyes. “Inspiration is everywhere in this city, and when I cook, I like to throw in a twist.”
I spot the holy grail of mind screws at the next produce aisle and pull her along. “Oh hell, speaking of twists. You have to come here. I haven’t had these in ages.”
“Grapes?” She answers, staring at what I picked up.
“Better. Cotton candy grapes. Open up.”
She scans my face then opens her mouth. Staring into my eyes, she sticks out her tongue. I gently drop a grape, unable to resist touching her bottom lip with my finger, and I let it linger. She exhales a small, hot breath, setting me aflame. I remind myself we’re still miles from home.
After one chew, her face registers the shock of the unexpected. She moans. “That does tastes like cotton candy.”
“Done deal, we’re buying them.” I drop a bag of grapes into the basket, then take it from her. “Dang, this thing is heavy.”
“We’re making more than one dish.”
