North to You

by Tif Marcelo

  He laughs. “Then what’s wrong?”

  “I just . . . I don’t want you to go.”

  His face falls. “I don’t want to go either, not because of the work, but because I don’t want to leave you.”

  “Will you come back?” My voice is a child’s whine. I need reassurance. I don’t think I can go on without it.

  “That’s the plan.”

  But it’s not the extent of my questions, so I take a deep breath. “To me. Will you come back to me?”

  “Oh, Cami.” He buries his face in my neck. “You are never going to lose me. I love you. I loved you when we were kids, and it never really went away.”

  His lips crash against mine, hot, wet, needy. I part my lips and accept his tongue. As we kiss, I wiggle and grind down, wanting every cell pushed up against him.

  “I want to make love to you,” he says. The preemptive words turn up the volume of my senses and it works like a tease. I’m impatient as he makes room between us, and by the time he unwraps the condom and rolls it on him, I’m restless, biting my lip in anticipation. Finally, he lifts me so I’m on my knees. “Touch me. Guide me.”

  This act would be my decision, my plan. This would not happen by accident, would not be thrown upon me blindly. I hold his thickness underneath me and guide him to where I’ve wanted him. I manage the weight and depth, test, lift and lower. I watch his eyes shut, showing restraint and control.

  Showing me his love.

  I give in then. I lower myself, accommodating all of him, every inch of his girth. I kiss him, so full in every way. This time, I’m not afraid of it. I want him, this, us.

  I do have the heart space.

  “Go, baby, go,” he moans into my mouth. His hands find my hips and raise and lower me, awkward at first. I adjust the height of my knees, and as he leans back, I rest my hands on his shoulders. Soon I find the groove on my own. He meets me with a slight upward thrust of his hips. A humming noise escapes from my throat, matching Drew’s ragged breathing. The slap of skin quickens and intensifies, and I become combustible, as hot as an open flame.

  “Drew,” I think I say, but I’m not sure what comes out of my mouth is intelligible. I’m at full boil, top covered, with nowhere to go but up and out of the pot, until the pressure is too much. Until I tell myself that it’s okay.

  It’s okay to want this. It’s okay to let go.

  I feel myself spill over from the inside as I say Drew’s name one last time. Heart pounding, my body thrums and beats, and Drew lays back and pulls me onto his chest. He grunts, thrusting, finishing, and satisfying every part of me that wanted to see this expression, of my love completely happy. Still inside me, he kisses me sweetly, nibbling on my lower lip.

  My love.

  The words come from the air, from memories of calling him that at fourteen. But this time, it’s grown up, it’s serious. And it’s real. “Drew?”

  “Yes?”

  “I love you, too.”

  May 26

  Dear Drew,

  I guess I’ll let you to call me baby.

  I love you,

  Camille

  P.S. You so rocked dinner. Recipes, please!

  31

  DREW

  “You’re being summoned again. Whoever it is, they aren’t giving up,” Camille whispers into my neck.

  “Let it go to voice mail,” I mumble, drawing her closer into me. Still feeling the bliss and high of a full stomach and Camille in my arms, I shut my eyes against her reminder. Because is there anything better than the woman you love in that perfect spot under your arm? Nope. “Folks can wait. I’m basking in the afterglow.”

  She laughs. “Yeah, I don’t think they’re phone calls. They’re texts.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “Because the buzzing is inconsistent. It’s been going on for at least a half hour.”

  “So you’re telling me that while we were getting our groove on, you were wondering who was texting me?” Chiding, I give her the side-eye and swipe the hair away from her shoulders, exposing her arms and the profile of her breasts.

  She snuggles into my chest. “Sorry. You’re talking to someone who’s ruled by those notifications. It’s part of my life. You, on the other hand, seldom get a text. Aren’t you curious?”

  “No.” In the military, these out-of-the-ordinary texts and phone calls only bring in bad news. I don’t want to ruin this moment. When I’m out in the desert, this moment will be what I think of right before I go to bed—the first I’ll remember when I wake up. This, and those three words. “I love you,” I say.

  “What was that for?” She looks up at me with smiling eyes.

  “Just because.” I kiss her forehead. “Because I can and I want to.”

  A beat. “I love you, too, Drew.”

  She.

  Loves.

  Me.

  My earlier worries about exposing the truth have vanished. Love is a big deal. Saying it means there’s hope. That what we have is resilient, impenetrable.

  Once my endorphins fade—that’s when I’ll tackle all of it. My texts, my admission. The deployment. Our plan to keep ourselves connected and strong through the separation. It’s going to be tough, but it will be all right.

  Camille kisses my chin. “Sometimes I think I’m way too plugged in anyway. How about we try not to look at our phones until morning?”

  I run a finger down her jawline and tilt her face upward. Her lips are pink, soft and swollen, supple against mine. “Sounds like a plan.”

  A grin widens on her face. “But do you know what sounds so good right now?”

  “Me on top of you and making you scream.”

  Red flushes across the bridge of her nose, but she keeps a straight face. “Close. Chocolate.”

  I clutch my heart, not completely out of humor. “Man, is that a blow to the balls or what?”

  “It is a scientific fact that chocolate provides the same satisfaction as sex.”

  “Sometimes you have to question the basis of these experiments.” I flip Camille so she’s under me. As I hover, I spread her legs with my knee, then with my hand, guide one leg around my waist. My fingers slide down the silk of the skin toward the back of her thigh, where she’s hot and needy.

  “I could be convinced.” Her voice comes out thready and weak in response to my exploring fingers. “I could reexamine the research.”

  I watch her face as it changes from anticipation to exhilaration to ecstasy, and the knowledge it’s me giving her this pleasure might be enough. Her moan, the way she bites her bottom lip. At this rate, I won’t have to be inside her to find release. But I don’t want to stop what I’m doing. Her satisfaction, her happiness, is everything.

  This time, it’s Camille who reaches behind her. She pulls open the side table drawer, pulling out a foil packet.

  She sits up and pushes me to my knees. Her face is level with my cock, and she rolls the condom on my shaft, never taking her eyes off me. She leans back on her elbows, as if at my disposal, ramping up my lust from max to overdrive. “Come here, sexy. Prove that scientific data wrong.”

  May 26

  Dear Camille,

  Chocolate doesn’t touch you.

  Love,

  Drew

  P.S. I love you, too.

  32

  CAMILLE

  I’ve set the table for a midnight snack. The dinner candles have burned down halfway; wax dots the tablecloth. With the lights off, and the windows bare, the panoramic view of San Francisco becomes an extension of Drew’s apartment. It’s as if the streetlights below and the stars above were lit just for me.

  That inspired me to leave the warmth of Drew’s side and turn the burned brownies into cake balls. It was easy, really. Cream cheese acts like glue, and with brownie crumbs, I molded tiny balls of chocolat
e. Dipped them in melted chocolate chips and chilled them in the freezer, and voilà. A laughingly easy dessert, and the final touch to a perfect night.

  I pull open the freezer and press a finger against the chocolate, and sure enough, it’s set. Yum.

  As I plate the cake balls and clean up the last of the kitchen, Drew stirs from a dead-to-the-world sleep. He sits up in a panic, but when he catches a glimpse of me at the counter, he grins, lying back on his pillows.

  “We need to make a rule,” he says. “Wake me before you get out of bed. Warn me I won’t see you when I open my eyes.” The glow from his phone illuminates his face briefly, then he scrolls and types, scrolls and types.

  “Not my fault you sleep like a rock.” I want to feel his skin under my fingers. My intention is to slip in next to him, on his side of the bed, so he’ll be forced to hug our bodies close.

  His side of the bed?

  I think back to the other two times I’ve spent the night, and yes—Drew always slept on the right side of the bed. Which makes this somewhat of a pattern. A pattern I can get used to. My voice softens, and I add, “But, okay, I will.”

  Now that the barrier has been taken away, our admission of love finally out there, a vibe is pushing me forward. To talk about everything, to let go of all of the little secrets I’ve kept. And to try to understand his life plan.

  I’m also curious who has been texting him all night. Now that my cards are all out on the table, I’m moved with feelings of protectiveness I’ve only felt for Ally and Jaz. I’m involved now. I’m in and committed, whatever that might entail.

  “You know what I think?” I ask.

  “What?” he responds with a faraway tone.

  “I think you should take me to work on Monday. I wanna see your desk. Then I want to see you behind it. You and your uniform.” My imagination runs the course of stripping said uniform off Drew’s hard body.

  I expect another sarcastic remark, but as I approach him, he sits up, feet flat on the floor as if he’s ready to pounce. “What’s wrong,” I say rather than ask. Whatever it is, the sleepy face he had moments earlier has been replaced by shock.

  “Bryn sent me a text.”

  “Oh?”

  “It’s a link. I clicked on it and well . . .” He turns the screen to me.

  It takes a few seconds to adjust the brightness of the screen and zoom into the small script of what looks like a blog post.

  Unaccommodating and overrated . . .

  Not worth the trek . . .

  “What the hell?” The words choke out of me. I paw around for my phone since it has a bigger screen. Finding it on the dining room table, I log in to my social media feed, which has blown up. Notifications are in the hundreds, all redirecting to the blog post.

  “Cami.” Drew’s voice is a whisper, and his hand braces the small of my back.

  “Shh.” I know this link will lead to something either spectacularly awesome or enduringly devastating. Drew’s tone is indicative it might be the latter, raising my hackles.

  The anticipation of being knocked off my emotional horse makes me walk away from him. I want space and solitude, to endure it alone, don’t want anyone else to witness it. There’s nothing worse than a pitying look or touch, or a word of advice when it won’t help.

  Drew doesn’t come after me as I settle on the floor with my back against one of the windows, legs straight in front of me. He sits on the bed, rests his elbows on his knees, hands clasped under his chin, while I finally touch the blue highlighted link. It leads me to the Eat It, San Francisco blog, decorated in pinks and peaches, with a picture of the Golden Gate in the background. Seeing Kaya Banks’s arrogant smile in her picture on the upper right makes my stomach turn.

  May 26

  Do you want the good news or the bad news first?

  I know, it’s a double-edged sword, straight out of a cliché of a novel or sitcom. But hear me out, hang in there with me, as I break down my day yesterday. It might change your foodie life.

  The good news?

  True North Cafe is the shit. The Next Big Thing. You’re thinking, what the hell is True North? Isn’t it that old, dying restaurant next to the beach? I’m here to tell you, San Francisco, that I got the inside scoop on the place. Better yet, the inside look, and you’ll be amazed at the new space they’re cooking up. High ceilings, bright decor, with their standout Filipino food. They have upped their game to meet the masses of you foodies out there, you crazy, magnificent kids. Especially those of you who love to see your food cooked right there in front of you. Without the beach sand hitting you in the face because it’s safely indoors, and warm, and beautiful.

  Bonus! It’s all due to a newcomer to the block, who is about as delicious as True North’s pork siomai—that’s dumplings for those yet to be graced by this foodie magic. Keep up with my feed, and I’ll post a pic of the sexy mind behind the new look. For now, here’s a teaser of the front of the restaurant:

  An uploaded picture of Kaya and the front windows of True North are behind her. She’s wearing a white bow in her hair. I still, the pieces of the puzzle coming together, and despite the dread that has descended around me, I swipe my finger once for the screen to scroll up.

  The crap news?

  Your beloved Lucianna is not cutting it.

  San Francisco, you kept telling me to pay them a visit. You told me my three MUNI stop exchanges would be worth it. You said they didn’t end up in the middle of the miserable beach suburb because they’d finally run their course. So I took a chance, seeing that they are right next to True North, which I have to admit was a bold move.

  That would be the only props I would give.

  Because they had no food. Worse—when I asked them to make something, anything, I was completely denied, turned down.

  What kind of a food truck doesn’t have food, I ask?

  The kind that doesn’t have the guts, doesn’t have the planning, doesn’t have the zest to make it in the middle of the city. Thereby, the kind that is now subsisting in the suburbs.

  Unaccommodating and overrated.

  Not worth the trek.

  No selfie this time, because DISAPPOINTMENT.

  In a couple of days, hopefully I’ll have some actual food pics to post. Until then—

  Kaya

  The post has over a hundred comments. It has been reblogged more than a dozen times. My vision blurs, and I head back to my social media feed, where I click and follow all of the posts that have tagged me. Soon there are dozens of tabs open on my phone, of some people disagreeing, others jumping on the bandwagon, slamming my food, and others curious about this guy at True North.

  “I’m ruined.” My voice is a croak, like I’ve been drinking all night.

  “I’m sorry,” Drew whispers from the sidelines.

  “What is it they say? Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me? It’s all a lie, because this fucking hurts.” I stand and scan the room for my clothes, scattered everywhere. While my guard was down, while I slept, my entire world crumbled once again. “I’ve gotta get out of here.”

  His hand is on my elbow as I’m bending for my bra. “I’m here. I’m right here.”

  My body fights, rebels against him at first. It’s an automatic reaction.

  “Stop,” he says. It’s a plea, his fingers letting go a little, and this gesture of him not forcing, but asking, halts me.

  “I can’t. I can’t stop. Don’t you see? I’m not allowed to stop because everything depends on me.”

  His arms wrap around me, a soft anchor for my tears, the inaudible complaints I’ve saved up. His chest supports me even as I collapse into him. “Not anymore, Cami. Not anymore.”

  I’m at a loss for thoughts, for words. What seemed insurmountable once—having that stupid picture go viral, moving the truck to a new spot, having enough
to get Ally out the door—all of it was actually minuscule. Because back then, I worked from baseline. My success was extra, bonus. This review has taken me to the negative. It now requires me to put out a fire I don’t know how to squelch.

  And whether I believe Drew can really help me, I give in, because I have no idea what else to do.

  33

  DREW

  I held Camille all night long. Nothing more, nothing less than my arms around her, spooning her as she cried. I listened as she told me everything. She unburdened the load that she refused to admit before. She used her truck for collateral for a loan, and the deadline for her first payment is less than ten days away. That Kaya’s blog post could be the straw to break her business’s back. Finally, as the dark sky turned pink, she succumbed to slumber, tucked into my chest, in my supposed protection.

  I didn’t sleep, wracked with guilt and already in mourning. I replayed the blog post in my head, the part about True North and its impending success. That was the point of getting Kaya Banks out there—to get the restaurant on the radar of people who’ll travel and spend the cash. I can deploy without worry for my family, pursue my dreams, and feel like I’ve done my part.

  But at what expense? Of Camille losing everything? Of me losing her?

  Selfishly, I wanted one last night. Naiveté had won out over logic twelve hours ago, but now I know that whether or not I tell her, I’ve lost her already.

  Parched, I slide away from under the covers and walk to the kitchen. After pouring myself a glass of water, I dig into the refrigerator and pull out OJ, pour a glass, and put it on the bedside table. Camille’s eyes flutter open. Sitting at the edge of the bed, I push a stray hair behind her ear. She is a beautiful sight. I could wake up to this every day of my life.

  I wish.

  My voice croaks a greeting. “Morning, beautiful.”

  “I don’t feel beautiful.” Her eyes are bloodshot, but it doesn’t take away from the softness of her face. “I feel pretty awful.”

  “I know.” There’s no sugarcoating it. I hand her the OJ. “But there’re ways to go about it. Make a plan to attack. This all sucks, but you have the ability to move forward.”