by Tif Marcelo
“Anything else?”
I want to share my life. “Yep. That’s it.”
His face stills, and I wonder if he can tell I held back. Then I realize Drew was right. Jerk.
I clear my throat and try again. “I also want to be with . . . someone . . . a partner.”
Drew’s expression is neutral. Should I have said him? But where would he belong in my life, knowing he’s not here for good? My life is in this city. His life extends beyond the city limits, beyond the state.
I clear my throat. He’s closer now, so I wrap my arms around his waist. “How about you? What do you want?” I ask.
Drew’s eyes soften. “I want it all, Camille. I want the Army, the fun, the family, and the girl. Do you think that’s too much?”
I swallow a gallon of nerves. He wants the girl. Is that girl me?
He levels me with sincerity. “Granted, it’s scary as fuck, because it’s not possible to have everything. Someone’s going to be unhappy, or something won’t be fulfilled. But I’ve still got to try, you know? I can’t give up because I’m anticipating loss. I would never be able to take the risk of deployment, of leaving home. If I held back, I wouldn’t be right here. And right now, honestly? I want you.”
22
DREW
Fuck.
This can’t be happening. Camille cannot be Lucianna. Of all the jobs she could have, of all the food trucks she could run, of all the streets she could have picked, of all the spaces she could have parked in. Why, why, why?
Why her? Why True North?
While I’m saying, “I want you,” my conscience wages a battle against itself. Before now, Camille’s and my obstacles were deployment and time—not minuscule by any means. It would have meant months of not seeing one another and a concerted effort to keep in touch. It would have meant trust and eventually a decision about the future.
But all that is far less disastrous than what’s been detonated in front of me. Finding out Camille is Lucianna, the target of my father’s focus, his direct competition, eclipses the crisis of convincing Camille to trust me. Now I’ve got to take a defensive posture, too, to find a way to remove her from my father’s crosshairs.
What was simply between her and me is now all about family and loyalty.
It’s a lose-lose situation.
I open my mouth, committed to tell Camille the truth. To say how much my parents have struggled to make ends meet. That her truck is fueling my father’s fire. That the zone she picked is jutting against a business that considers her an enemy, not an ally.
But the words don’t come. I can’t say a thing, because Camille’s pulled me down gently by the neck and pressed her lips to mine.
This kiss isn’t hurried. Not like others we’ve had, when we’ve clawed at each other’s clothing, resisting the need for oxygen. This one halts time. It mutes noise. My focus narrows to where I’m intimately connected to Camille, tongue against tongue, pelvis pressed against her stomach, hands exploring her lower back where it meets the curve of her ass.
Slow as this kiss is, it sears, leaving me parched for more.
“Get a room,” someone yells from across the street. All at once the sounds of the city rush in. The cable car, the foot traffic, the car engines.
Camille smiles into my mouth. “Looks like you got what you wanted.” Her face is flushed.
I groan, taking my gaze to the ground as I willfully separate myself from her body. It’s just as well. My brain is mush. Somehow, between now and dinnertime when I meet up with my father, I’ve got to devise a plan. I’ve got to make this right somehow, or at least attempt to, before I mention it to Camille. “If you only knew how it pains me to not strip your clothes off right now.”
She bites her lip. God, I wish I could bite it for her. But there’s a fire raging at the city Planning Department, and I’ve got to put it out. Pronto.
“But . . . I need to get downtown this morning. Some work for my dad.” I stare at the space between her eyes to hide my omission. For all the times I’ve tried to coax her to get into specifics, I’m a gem for not being straight up with her. But if I can still fix this, I should, before I lose my nerve. Before the consequence rears its ugly head.
She eyes me. “What are you working on?”
“Odds and ends.”
“Oh?”
“He’s in . . . sales.” Of food, but the rest of my explanation doesn’t make it out of my mouth. Not exactly a lie, right? “I’ve got to rescind some paperwork on . . . a territory he was setting up. You know how it goes.”
“Oh yeah, I do. In my own way.”
Yes. Yes, you do. “I’m going to take a guess now that the zone we talked about is a new area you’re parked at.” She nods, so I continue. “It’s not working out?”
“Oh, it’s working out, fabulously. Sales are through the roof. Customers love me. But let’s say hopefully your dad is way more gracious than the crap I’ve been putting up with from the owner of that restaurant. True North, blech. His name is Chef Ritchie, and he’s just a . . . a . . . ugh.”
I shift my feet once, then a second time. Can she tell I’m about to lose it? “Yeah?”
“Yeah. Like fake complaints about my truck, my customers. The only thing going for us right now is that we rule social media. The person they have doing theirs is completely inept.”
I choke on air.
“You okay?” Concern floods her face.
“Yep, fine. I do have to go, before they shut down the office for lunch. Never know what the line’s going to be like.” I run my fingers through my hair. C’mon, wake up brain. Think of how to fix this. “But I can take you home. Then we can meet up tomorrow, after lunch?”
A smile breaks out on her face, and she seems satisfied with my lame-ass excuse. “Actually, I’ll stay. I want to be here when Ally gets out. Besides, I can scope out a couple of new spots to park in. Research.” She checks her phone. “I’m jam-packed the next couple of days, though. Things are picking up at work, and I’ve got to spend more time than usual cooking. How about Thursday?”
“I’m going to be in withdrawal by then.” I kiss her lips and savor the safety in it.
“Maybe you can come visit me sometime, at work? I’m right on the Great Highway.”
“Maybe I’ll surprise you.” Guilt slices into me when she tightens her arms around my waist.
Fucking pathetic, man.
Somehow I tear myself away from Camille, climb into my car, and speed to the planning office, my heart at odds with my brain. Logic screams for me to pull over, to think of the repercussions. My heart argues if I wait too long, and the appeal passes, the chaos will be irreversible.
Rescinding the appeal will buy me some time.
Through a mental haze of pros and cons, I make it to the office and fly through the door. A receptionist sits behind a high counter, hidden behind a computer screen. The room is stark and smells like artificial lavender.
The receptionist audibly sighs, glancing sideways at the clock on the wall. She waves her hand toward my nemesis, the ticket dispenser. “Please take a ticket.”
There’s no one else in the waiting room. I point at the contraption mounted on the wall.
The receptionist nods. She sighs a second time.
Fine. I flick a number out from the slot. Thirty-two. Minutes pass while I sit on the patterned cushioned seat, knees jumping. The white noise of the soap opera on the overhead television is the only thing keeping me from screaming, because the red numbers won’t move from thirty-one. They’re stuck at thirty-one.
Impatience throws me to my feet and marches me to the counter. “Ma’am?”
The receptionist peers above her purple reading glasses. “You need to wait until your number is called.” She stands and approaches the woman at one of the rear tables, shuffling through papers and typing into her com
puter.
No, no, no. That woman could be processing last week’s paperwork. At this moment, she could be approving my dad’s appeal to move or even remove the truck completely from the street. I enter the area behind the counter, and the woman spins in alarm. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I need some help, please.”
“Sir, back off. Please.” She splays her hands near my chest, as if to push me, but doesn’t make contact with my body.
“Yes, ma’am.” I back up. “I’m trying to stop paperwork that should never have been sent here in the first place. It’s life and death.”
She groans into her chair. “Really now? Life and death?”
“Sort of my life and death, figuratively. Like my dad’s gonna kill me.”
Her lips press into a line. “I see. I wouldn’t want to be responsible for that, would I? What’s your business name?”
“True North Cafe.”
She fiddles with the mouse of her computer. Clicks it several times. “For the food truck appeal?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Huh.” More clicking. “You changed your mind?”
It’s none of her business. But she has the power to do what I ask or the absolute opposite, so I say, “We got to thinking, why can’t we all get along?”
“Well, aren’t you nice.” Her fingers fly on the keyboard. “Can I see ID, please?”
My body shudders. This is it. Then is when the hammer comes down and I’ll be found out. I slide out my leather wallet from my back pocket. After flashing it to her, she rifles through a set of folders on her desk.
Then she hands me a piece of paper. “Here’s the original paperwork back.”
“It’s done,” I say rather than ask. How did my ID pass? But I don’t double-check the woman’s accuracy. I don’t admit to a thing. Instead, with the paper gripped tightly in my hand, I step out of the office and onto the street as silent as the barracks during lights out.
Only when I’m buckled into my car do I glance at the paperwork: Appeal to Appropriate Public Parking Spaces.
The name written on the application: Richard Bautista. Flipping open my wallet, where my driver’s license is showing through the clear plastic sleeve, I realize my first name is covered. The name that’s visible through the plastic: Richard Bautista. Not Andrew Richard Bautista.
I sink into my seat and my breath leaves my body. The receptionist made a mistake.
And that quickly becomes the least of my concerns, because with this paper in my hand—I’ve chosen.
I’ve chosen a woman over the man I came home to reconcile with.
23
CAMILLE
Bay Area University, the smallest college campus in the city, is nestled in a neighborhood spanning four city blocks overlooking downtown San Francisco. I attended culinary school here years ago. It gave me the experience of white coats, a classroom of kitchen islands, and evening lectures about the science of cooking. I learned about the acids, bases, the exact temperatures to bring about precise reactions to transform the inedible into delicious.
But culinary school wasn’t for me, and after a year at BAU, I boomeranged back to the winery in the Sierra Foothills, to Nonna’s kitchen as her chef apprentice. My grandmother gave me a cook’s home-school curriculum, one-on-one instruction where I was free to make mistakes, could veer from the lesson of the day. Where I could express my creativity without fear of reprisal. I don’t have a degree to substantiate what I learned, don’t officially have the chef’s jacket the school awards to its students, but I’ve got no regrets.
I would have missed Nonna’s last few years on Earth had I stayed in the city.
But I was lucky to come here for a year, and Ally, who’s been accepted here for the fall, will get a good education thanks to our inheritance from Nonna. BAU’s known for its culinary and art schools, the best in the Bay Area.
If—when—Ally gets into the summer intensive at the Art Institute of Austin, it will be a game changer. Sure BAU will be fine, but the institute will elevate Ally’s talent, open doors to other opportunities. Like access to mentors who are the best of the best, maybe a fighting chance for grad school at the institute itself. It’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.
“Hey, looking good over there, Jaz!” I yell, seeing her coming up the sidewalk from her apartment down the street. San Francisco might house over eight hundred thousand residents, but as a walkable city, it keeps its neighborhoods close and tight-knit. With her hair up in a crisp bun, in leggings and workout gear, Jaz waves when she sees me and jogs over.
“Hey, you. What’s up?” She draws me in for a hug with concern on her face. “Everything okay?”
“Ally’s got a follow-up interview at BAU for the summer institute in Austin.”
“Holy crap. No way.” She looks at her watch. “Let’s talk on the go. I’m subbing to teach Pilates. Walk with me?”
“Yeah, sure.” I follow her lead as we weave through a pedestrian walkway. Jaz is the epitome of hustle, working part time with me, teaching fitness classes, and waiting tables all while saving cash so she can take that grand European vacation she’s dreamt of since she was a kid. She’s also a speed walker, and keeping up while cutting through campus takes the wind out of me. “Ally’s probably in, Jaz. We’ll find out today.”
“That’s fantastic. Of course, we know she will be.” Knowing how Ally’s acceptance will affect my cash-flow needs, she says, “That means you gotta cook your heart out.”
“Yep. But I think we need a plan B. The results of the appeal should come soon, I think. And I have a feeling that Chef Ritchie went for the full request to kick us out.”
“Do you have a place in mind?”
“I was actually thinking . . . here.” We reach Breathe Yoga and Pilates studio and stop at the front. Though I’ve never stepped into the place, both my sister and my best friend call Breathe their second home. The place is hot; apparently, classes sell out. It’s also the busiest area adjacent to the BAU campus, with a large pedestrian walkway. “Do you think the studio or the school will let us?”
Jaz looks beyond me, toward the street. “Campus police don’t ignore parking infractions around here. They’re on foot and bicycles ticketing anyone and everyone. But two blocks down could be an option.”
I know the area well. “Next to that old theater?”
“Yep. But let me do some research.” Jaz looks at her watch. “Ugh. I wish I could skip this and hang out. Keep me posted on Ally?”
“Yeah, sure.” And because I can’t stand it anymore, I admit, “I spent the night with him.”
Jaz’s eyes go round and she pulls me to the nearest bench to sit. “Aaand.”
“And, no, we didn’t have sex.” I laugh at her dour expression. “But I told him about Lucianna.”
“That’s good, Cam. Aw, my little girl is growing up.”
“Shut up.”
“Seriously, that means you really like him.”
“I think I do, Jaz.” I breathe out. Let go. “I feel like he understands me, and he knows exactly what to say. He’s got a solution for everything.”
“So what’s next?”
“I guess that means we get to know each other more.” I shake my head. “At the same time, you and I need to get our ducks in a row in case we’re told to get the truck back on the road.”
“Well.” Jaz looks around. “If we get this place, we’ll do well. I found out the Spartans are temporarily moving their practices to the BAU stadium, so that will bring a different crowd, too.”
“Ugh. Spartans.”
She winces. “But they love to eat. And . . . some of them are really cute.”
“What the hell are you talking about, woman?” I say, back straight in the chair. “You, with a Spartan? What happened to Carson?”
“Eh, it was one date. And I dunno, this time, with this new guy,
it feels different. Risky, but maybe worth it.”
“Wow. I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say that before. Who is this guy?”
“Is it cool if I keep it to myself for now?” Buzzing interrupts us, and Jaz looks down at her phone. She sighs. “Time’s up.”
“You’re a tease.” I lean in to hug her. “But, okay. School ’em, girl. Text me later.”
After Jaz leaves, I turn on my camera phone and snap a picture, tilted, so the campus and street are within the viewfinder. How about it, BAU? Would you want to see us here? I type, and post on Twitter.
I know—it’s a tease. To leave the Great Highway would be risky. We finally got our customers to travel across town for us. But Chef Ritchie’s face looms in my brain. The cops have come out twice in one week, and I’m over 100 percent sure True North was the instigator.
Establishing a plan B sounds more enticing now than ever.
I find an empty spot on the grass and sit against a tree, stretching my legs out so they’re facing the doors of the art building. The sun is glorious and warm, and I allow the heat to still the anxiety in my belly. The clock on the library tells me Ally’s been in there at least an hour.
Notifications buzz in.
@Citycenterfoodie: Oh, hell yeah @Lucianna! I would heartily support this move.
* * *
@Fillmybelly: Noooo! Love having you at walking distance from my house. *Sad face*
* * *
@TrueNorth: Don’t you worry @Fillmybelly, True North will be here for you! Opening in two weeks. #TrueNorthOpening
* * *
“Ugh. Ugh. You are so annoying,” I say aloud, wishing I had the power to erase posts by True North. First the cops, and now barging into my mentions. There should be rules for it, a courtesy. Well, two can play this game.
@Lucianna: @Fillmybelly The thing about us is, we have wheels. And we’ve grown to love Ocean Beach. Nice try, @TrueNorth.
