by Tif Marcelo
“Morning, sexy.” I groan. “You are so good at that.”
She averts her eyes, as if shy. Oh no, I’m not going to let her get away with that. Not after a night that ended with a house turned inside out: clothes strewn, blankets askew, a kitchen that looks like a barbarian had his way with a club. I cup her chin and stare down at that perfect face as her hand slides up and down my length.
“Holy . . . shit.” I don’t know what I’m trying to communicate, except that this closeness, this intimacy, is way more than I’ve ever felt with anyone. Me in her hands, in her control, requires me to be vulnerable.
“For you, baby.” Her words are coal to an engine. Hot, intent, pure power.
“Holy fuck.” She called me baby. I swear, not out of anger, but out of a deep urge, a wild desire. I’m coming up on a divide, a time hop, from past to present, from attraction to lust. As I move in her hands, never taking my eyes off her face, young and mature all at the same time, I toe this line, and adrenaline floods my veins.
“Come for me.” Camille’s eyes glisten, fierce, enjoying the view.
The decision to leap is easy. I crash my mouth into hers. I let go completely until I’m shaking from the inside out. Panic slices through me, a sheer overwhelming thing caused by this woman. What is this I’m feeling?
Her lips disengage and I’m brought back to the present. Heart settling, I say, “Wait here.” I head to the bathroom, wet a washcloth. When I return, I wipe off her strong, beautiful fingers.
Camille’s face is damp, her breath mimicking my own, coming down from its high. But I can tell her mind is elsewhere. I sit back against the headboard and pull her so she’s sitting between my legs.
She relaxes into my shoulder, and after a moment she speaks. “We only have twenty days left.”
My heart drops. “Twenty absolutely free days, except when my family needs me. But otherwise, they’re yours, if you want them.” The boom of my words fills the room but vaporizes as soon as I take my next breath. Because that’s all they are—words—unless Camille wants them to be more. “I have to get on a plane on the twelfth of June for Iraq.”
“You say that like you want to go.”
“I do.” Her eyebrows lift at my response. “It’s hard to explain, but I’ve trained for this. Deployment is the culmination of everything I’ve learned. And though I might not know my unit well, they’re people I inherently trust. They trust me, too. And to go as a team, even if it’s to do something hard with little sleep and most likely shitty food, well, I’m proud to do it. Not just because of patriotism, though I’ve got that, too.” I shift so her legs are slung across my body. “I don’t want anyone else doing my job for my team. I would do everything in my power to go.”
A rush of air escapes my lungs. Damn, that felt good. I can count on my fingers how many times I’ve been able to explain what I do for a living to civilians. The uniform, when I wear it, can sometimes act as a barrier. For my dad, it is a wall.
Camille nods, and her eyes convey understanding. “I get it, Drew.”
“You do?”
“Yes. I have a team, too. It’s a little smaller than yours, but I would go to great lengths and depths to do what’s right for them. But aren’t you scared?”
One would think going to another country to put oneself in unknown danger is reckless. “No, and I can’t explain why.”
My fingers take in her satin skin as I crush her into me. She turns her face up and plants a kiss on my chin. Her eyes are full of questions, but she says, “We’ll make it the best remaining days we can.”
“Hell yeah, we will,” I reassure her. We both lie back down. Covers off, and with the fan rotating above us, Camille tucks into my chest. Her finger traces the outline of my tattoo. My hand lazily draws circles on her shoulders.
The moment is so perfect.
How can I not have this, or her, after I leave? Will she be open to keeping in touch? Can I call her, email her when I deploy?
She has been the only woman on my mind. To let her go cold turkey—I don’t know if I can do it.
I inhale deeply and shut my eyes. Can’t think about that right now. Day by day, minute by minute. The present is all that counts.
Focusing on Camille’s deep breaths, I relax my body, my fingers, the tension. I let my mind go . . .
Until I feel my body being shaken awake. “Drew?”
“Mm?” My voice is hoarse and I peel my heavy eyelids open. The room is bathed with light.
“I can’t find my phone. It’s morning, Drew. Morning!” Camille’s voice is shrill.
Propping myself up on my elbows, I say, “The microwave has the time.” My mumble is incoherent.
Camille reaches over me to my side table, grabbing my phone. Her eyes grow huge. “Crap. Crap, crap, crap.” She leaps out of bed, taking a blanket with her. “Where the hell are my clothes? Wait. My phone. Where’s my phone?” The blanket becomes the Bermuda Triangle, catching everything around her as she spins.
I laugh. She’s still so cute, even when she’s pissed. “It’s okay.”
“It’s not okay. Ally, remember? She’s got an appointment. Where the fuck is my shit?”
I step out of bed, lift the covers, and look under the cushions of the couch nearby. She does a double take then drapes her arm over her face. “Geez, Drew. Put on something, will you?” She throws me my underwear.
“What?” I open my arms, daring her. “You didn’t mind last night.”
“Ugh.” She scurries to the other side of the kitchen counter, where it all began. When a taste of what she made became the catalyst, the downward slope. “This is not good. Not good. Ally is probably freaking out. And holy hell, I spent the night. I spent the night and my sister will know.”
Crap, her panic is escalating. I step into a pair of jeans. “Hey. What can I help with?”
“I’ve got to get Ally. She has an appointment, and I promised I would take her. I need a cab.”
She slips on her shoes. I go to her after I throw on a T-shirt. She is seriously upset, the lines on her face deep in worry. “Camille, wait. I’ll take you home.”
The crease between her eyebrows flattens, settling over her face. “Okay.”
“You do know that you can always ask me for help, right?”
“I don’t usually ask for help.”
“Well, now you can. I’m here, and I’m yours.” Not sure if that was the right thing to say, I kiss her. “Let’s go.”
Our drive is quiet, except for Camille’s GPS-like shortcut directions to the Mission District. With my windows down, sunroof open, the sun is comforting. Outside, the city bustles with Monday morning traffic.
The leather squeaks as Camille twists to face me. The vibe in the car has done a quick 180. Her gaze is questioning.
“What’s up?” I ask.
“I never did say what I did for a living.”
“You said you’re an entrepreneur, in marketing and sales.”
“Yes, but specifically.”
“I’m confused.” The tone in her voice cues an alarm in my head, but I pound down my worry. What she does for a living is a nonissue. “Holy shit. Are you a superhero? Is that why you’ve denied me top-secret clearance?”
That earns me a push on the shoulder and a crack of laughter. “No, but not many people know what I do. I mean, they know what I do, but they don’t know it’s me behind it. Unbelievably sometimes. In fact, these days I’m not sure how I’m keeping it all a secret. Especially after that thing that practically went viral.”
I laugh. “Slow down, woman. Whatever you do for a living—” But I’m stopped midsentence as we turn the corner. The air’s punched out of me when I see a familiar vehicle parked next to Camille’s building. And while I was always best at puzzles, kicked ass in charades and Pictionary, it took me too long to fit the facts together this time.
Until now, when I drive up to it and she announces, “I’m in the food industry. The mobile food industry.”
I swallow what feels like rocks in my throat. I stare at the vehicle two feet from the hood of my car. A truck that’s red, white, and green. “It’s a food truck.”
“Yep. That’s me. Lucianna.”
Part 4
POUR INTO PANS
It’s got to be risen and rested before it goes in.
—Paul Hollywood
21
CAMILLE
“Lucianna,” Drew says as he leans halfway out of his car door. “Lucianna is you?”
“Camille Lucianna Marino.” I try to say my name with Nonna’s same pride and tone, the declaration as her namesake. But the words fall flat. The magic of the night is gone, drained by priorities that have risen to the surface in the short drive home. Seeing the truck reminds me that there are more pressing things in my life, and the decision to keep it simple with Drew is for the best. “Lucianna is my middle name, and my grandmother’s first. I named it after her because she taught me everything I know.”
“You said you worked in marketing,” he repeats.
“Yeah, I did, didn’t I?” I grin. “Honestly, being a mobile restaurateur is half food, half marketing. I don’t plan one thing without the other. But we can talk more about that later. Ready for the whirlwind that is my sister?” I get out of the car and start up the cement steps to my building, a picturesque purple Edwardian. Despite my anxiety knowing I’ve come home late, seeing my cute, historic apartment makes me smile. I love living in an eclectic part of town. And as a bonus, my neighbors don’t mind if I have to park my truck here once in a while.
I turn when I don’t hear Drew’s footsteps behind me. He hasn’t moved from the side of the car. His jaw is fixed and his hands brace the door. “You okay?” I call back.
He answers with a stiff nod. A beat later his eyes meet mine, and his posture softens. “Yeah. Course.”
I take a breath and press the top of a line of six chipped buttons. The doorbell can’t be heard from out here, but I wince anyway. Ally is probably out of her mind. I should have been here at least a half hour ago.
I should have come home last night.
“We’ve got fifteen minutes! You’ll have to take me in the truck. We missed the M two minutes ago!” Ally bursts out, a comet of mismatched and ripped clothing, a fedora on her head, and smelling like strawberries. So incongruent, so her. She grabs my wrist and flings me around. She slows two steps down, then says, “You have a lot of explaining to do, young lady.”
“I . . . um. Well, um.” I grimace and watch as her death stare sweeps from me to Drew. Crimson flourishes from the bridge of Ally’s nose. Oh, she’s pissed. And probably reconciling that I have never had a sleepover with a guy, that she knows of anyway. This is uncharted waters for the both of us.
She places a hand on her hip. “What’s up with all the ums? What does um mean?”
“Uh . . . um.” Drew stutters, flustered, too. I stifle a laugh. Afraid of my sister, is he?
“Um means we’re sorry. I mean, I’m sorry, but we’re here now and we can talk about this later.” We’ve got to get her to her meeting, though I would have eaten the nub of a banana to find out what Drew would have said. I walk to the back of the car and pull open the door. “We’ve got fourteen minutes now, and Drew’s nice enough to take us. Get in.” I wait until she is completely inside before I flash Drew a look in warning. Don’t say a word.
Drew nods, though his eyebrows are hunched low. His smile doesn’t quite make it to his eyes. This is so unlike his usual self. I start to ask him what’s wrong, but I bite my cheek. With my sister in the car, the conversation will have to wait.
As we get on our way and merge onto the freeway, Ally’s hands slip between the front seats. Her body follows. “Are you friends with benefits now?”
“Ally! Sit back, please.” I give her the eye. The one that says, Quit it before I put you in a headlock. My face burns, not only because this is a topic I refuse to discuss with my sister, but because I seem to be that transparent.
“Just calling it like I see it, sis.”
“First of all, it’s none of your business. And second, Drew’s here because—”
“I wanted to come help her with the truck. I was actually thinking it needed a paint job.” He winks at Ally through the rearview mirror.
I’m not sure what’s more shocking, that Drew has a clue about what needs to be done for Lucianna or that my sister is melting like chocolate over slow heat, starting at her eyes and moving down to her toes. I squelch the sarcastic remark burning in my throat. The less attention I bring to the subject, the better.
“Turn right at Divisadero,” I announce, refocusing this wayward conversation. “It’ll be the second building from the left. You ready, Al?”
Ally snaps to. Her pupils widen into saucers, and she’s practicing her yoga mountain pose, though she’s sitting. Neck straight, shoulders back. She practically oms at her exhale. A determination settles on her face, and she nods.
The car screeches to a halt. Drew scores us a parking space steps from the front of the art building and we all get out. Ally has slung her messenger bag over her shoulder and exudes serenity. This look is familiar, because I’ve felt this kind of peace, too, when I’m in my clogs and apron, working in a warm kitchen. And at this moment, I am so proud and happy.
I also know she’s going to kick butt.
“Got everything you need, sis?” I adjust her fedora, tilt it slightly to the right.
“Y-yeah,” she says, her voice shaking.
“You’re sure you don’t want me to come with you?”
“No. I’m an adult, remember?” she teases. “I have a list of questions to ask. I’ll get all the details.”
I kiss her on the cheek. “All right. Good luck. Love you.”
“Love you, too.”
Seeing Ally walk away is like feeling the wind against my cheek—it’s joy mixed with hope—and I’m not so sure, truly, if I’m ready to send her off. But she’ll go, if not this summer, then one day. She will make her dreams come true. But can I help her do it?
“She’s going to do great.” Drew’s hand is warm on my shoulder.
“I don’t have any doubt she will. This was the only thing she focused on her senior year, this one summer session. She’s ready. But the question is, am I?”
“What do you mean?”
“My nonna helped me financially. That’s another reason I named the truck Lucianna—it’s because she believed in my dream. Helping Ally with her dream is important to me.”
He’s silent for a bit, then says, “You’ll do it. There’s loans, financial aid. You’ll make it happen.” His voice is confident, so self-assured that I turn, locking my eyes on him.
“It’s not that easy. Ally and I—we’re alone. Just us. So it all comes down to me, for the support, for everything. And what if I’m not doing the right thing? What if it’s not enough?” I regret my tone immediately. I’ve only just let Drew into my life. He doesn’t know the struggles we’ve had, and I know he’s only trying to help. “I’m sorry. This intensive is a big deal, and I want Ally to be okay, whether or not she goes, whether or not I can send her.”
“Don’t be sorry.” His lips quirk up, and he rests his hands on my hips. “I’m okay with you telling me how you feel. I’m also good with you putting me in my place when I’m being a dumbass. But as a third-party observer, here are my two cents: you and Ally have a good thing going. And whatever happens, if she goes or if you can get her there, it’s all just logistics and details. Because you two will make your dreams happen anyway.”
Drew takes a step closer, so we’re toe to toe. My chest swells, much like it used to seeing him across the dark gym at homecoming. Except now it’s fantastically bright and he’s here, for me. And I rea
lize we’ve done this relationship, or whatever it is, backward and inside out. We started in his bed and now we’re catching up, and it’s both frightening and a relief.
Yes, I can confide in Drew. I trust him, but then what? How many people do I have to say good-bye to, where I remain to pick up my own pieces? The people I love sprout wings and end up flying away, and it’s beyond my control. While I don’t want to be the anchor, or anyone’s excuse, I can’t subject myself to this over and over again.
I explain my feelings in the best way possible. “I’m not sure how this works, Drew. This whole letting go. Jasmine, Ally, and you—you all tell me I need to do it, but I can’t.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because I’m scared of the unknown. For all the good things that have happened in my life, I’m scared for the other shoe to drop. Because inevitably it will.”
“That’s a happy thought,” he says wryly.
“I’m being a realist. Not everything happens perfectly all the time.”
“Yeah, but if you’re too cautious, then you’re always holding back. And after so many times of holding back, let’s say, five percent of yourself, you end up missing out on a majority of your life.” Drew’s eyes roll upward, as if he’s looking for the answer in the clouds. “Let’s practice a little at this letting go. Question: What do you want?”
The question stumps me, because it is as deep a chasm as it is narrow and stifling. “No one’s asked me that in a long time. Do I have a limit?”
“Just the sky.”
“You’re asking for trouble now.”
“Try me, Marino.”
I bite my cheek. Nonna used to have me practice in front of a mirror, to look at myself and declare my dreams. Say it and it will come true. “I want to cook every day. I want Ally to be anything she wants. I don’t want to have to think about money.”
