by Tif Marcelo
“What makes you such an optimist, huh?” She sits up, taking the covers with her. “It’s like nothing can get you down.”
“Not true, not by a mile. But I know what you’re made of. You’ve got grit. I know it. Your sister knows it. Your grandma knew it. All I’m doing is reminding you. You’ve inspired me the whole time I’ve been home.”
I caress her exposed shoulder, and her head leans to the side, cheek brushing against my knuckles. “You have so much faith in things that are totally out of our control.”
“It’s not that. It’s you who I have faith in.”
Her arms encircle my neck, and I’m brought down so our cheeks are flush. Hot tears stain my face. “I love you.”
“I love you, too.” Inside me, a wave ascends before an impending crash I see well before I open my mouth. My stomach drops, and what’s left over is air. A heart sickness, a feeling I know I deserve. Tears rise, though they don’t fall. What I don’t deserve is to mourn for what I’m about to say. “I’m sorry, Cami.”
She looks up, confused. “Hey, it’s not like it’s your fault.”
“Yes, it is.”
Her head shakes, but her eyes narrow. Her hands slip away. Though still right next to me, her spirit is already hovering, waiting to run. “I . . . I don’t get it.”
“I’m the guy. The guy in the blog post.”
“What?”
My admission is like bile rising in my esophagus. “True North is my parents’ restaurant. Since I’ve been home for leave, I’ve been helping with the remodel. And Kaya Banks went to your truck because of me. It was my suggestion to call a blogger to cover the restaurant, but I . . . I didn’t know she would write about Lucianna, though. I swear I didn’t.”
“And all the complaints?” Her voice is threadbare, sheer, and brittle. “And Blake?”
“The complaints weren’t me—that was my dad. The social media posts were my little cousin. I tried . . . I made them stop when I realized that Lucianna was you. And Blake. Dammit. I didn’t have anything to do—”
Her fingers fly to her lips. The disgust in her eyes silences me, bringing my gaze to the floor.
I’m scum, the worst kind. “I’m sorry I lied. So many times I tried to tell you, but I couldn’t. There wasn’t a perfect time. I didn’t want it—us—to end. I was just so grateful to have found you before . . . before I left.”
A million beats pass. A rustle of sheets ensues, followed by the sound of footsteps. By the time I lift my eyes, she’s already gathered her things. “You knew all this time we’ve been together?”
I can only nod. “After our second night together, when I saw your truck in front of your building.” I can pull out every excuse. I can say she hasn’t told me everything about her life either. That twelve hours ago I had no idea she was so deep underwater. But what would that prove? It doesn’t take away that I had control of my own intentions, of my own mouth. “Please, Cami.”
“Don’t call me Cami. You don’t get to do that. Not ever.” She shakes her head, tears streaming down her face. I’m frozen in place. I know if I take a step forward, she’ll run. If I stand still, she’ll go, too.
“Camille, I love you.”
“And don’t you dare say that. Because love isn’t dishonest. Love wouldn’t have lied.” She barks out a laugh. “I don’t know how I didn’t put it together. Your middle name is Richard. As in, Chef Ritchie. Your tattoo—true north. Well, your internal compass is truly fucked up. How could I have thought I could wait for you, probably even follow—whatever. Thanks, Drew. For a nice dinner, for a fun couple of weeks. Have a nice life.”
I watch her slip her dress over her head, step into her shoes, and snatch her bag from the dining room table. Camille says nothing as she yanks the door open and flies out. She doesn’t look back.
I have no choice but to let her go.
May 27
Camille,
I’m sorry. Please forgive me.
Love,
Drew
May 27
Dear Camille,
Tell me what to do to make this better.
I’m sorry.
I love you.
Drew
34
CAMILLE
It rains the next morning. Rain that comes in sheets, slaps against Lucianna’s Plexiglas and siding, and seeps into the open awning. Rain that causes puddles to accumulate on the counter and drip to the floor of the rig. Rain that makes it harder to sell anything, despite our generous daily special of half-price panini.
I can’t even pay to give my food away.
And I blame it all on Drew.
It’s Drew’s fault we have no customers. Why Jaz is on her phone replying to our social media notifications that have yet to slow down. Why Ally is on the ground using every rag we have on the truck to wipe up. And why . . . why we are out here in the rain, when on any other given day, when my business isn’t being clobbered online, we could take the day off.
Why I am every bit like the sky out there, over the ocean. Furious. Desperate. Torn up.
“We gave it our best shot for the day. Let’s call it and be back the usual time tomorrow.” I take off my apron. The truck has been open for two hours after a morning of bombarding our social media feed with posts like:
@Lucianna: Check us out for yourself! A full truck means a full belly. 11–3 at the usual spot, on the Great Highway.
* * *
@Lucianna: We don’t serve quantity, but QUALITY. Best panini in SF. Come get it.
* * *
@Lucianna: It’s not a day without a panini by Ocean Beach.
* * *
And so on and so forth.
Still, not one customer.
Jaz looks up from her phone. “You sure you want to leave?”
Nodding, I begin the shutdown procedures: turning off the burners, switching off the register. Today was a major disappointment, but I keep my nose in the air, pin my shoulders back. Despite my lack of sleep, hours of crying, and replaying the last two weeks in my mind—Why me? How could I not know?—I pretend everything is peachy, despite my current audience, who knows exactly what transpired last night.
Denial seems to be the most efficient way to deal.
“It’s my turn to take down the awning,” Ally offers. Jaz and I position ourselves under the awning as my sister climbs the stepladder outside. Once the awning is collapsed, the rig is plunged into darkness. That is, until Ally bursts through the door.
She slams the door shut, and it makes me wince. “Al, really? The door is self-closing. Last thing we need is something else to fix.”
Beads of rain roll off her fleece sweatshirt, and after a quick shake, she says, “Someone wants to talk to you, Cam.” Then, to my deadpan stare, she adds, “It’s Drew.”
My legs tremble. The next second, I curse them for betraying me. Last night could not be solved by a couple of apologetic emails and a trip through the rain. I’m not sure what will make it okay. “Tell him I’m not here.”
She rolls her eyes upward. “Um . . . I’m sure he’s been looking in the window and—”
“Al. I’m not here.”
“Fine,” she says, shoulders hunched. Sticking her head out the window, she repeats my message verbatim to Drew. I still stretch my hearing, curious what he’ll say, then admonish myself. I shouldn’t care what Drew thinks.
After seconds of nothing but the sound of rain, I head to the front of the truck, to the passenger seat. It’s over. For now. The plush seat is a welcome refuge for my tired body, kind of a hug. Shutting my eyes, I lean my head back.
But as soon as I’ve willed my heart to slow, flashbacks of last night flip through my brain like an old-fashioned viewfinder.
Drew and I made love last night. That’s what he called it. Make love. And what I felt . . . what I feel now . . . is lov
e. I’m 100 percent sure, but God, why him? Why would he lie? This changes everything. Knowing his connection with True North, there’s no way I could stomach parking here every day. Especially after Drew leaves. This spot would always serve as a reminder of both the good and the bad.
Pounding jolts my body upright, and my eyes fly open. Drew is slapping the passenger-side window. “Camille,” he yells, though it’s muffled and garbled. He’s soaking wet, his shirt like a second skin, but he doesn’t move. “Please. I need to explain.”
I shake my head. He looks like how I feel, face full of water, wretched and mournful. My instinct to forgive him wars against the knowledge of what he did to me. I gave him both my love and myself, finally. And he hurt me. Slayed me.
“I love you, Cami.” His voice chokes through. Louder, he says again, “Please. I need to tell you why.”
“No. It doesn’t matter why,” I say back. “Go home, Drew.”
“No, I won’t. I’m staying right here.”
Stupid, stubborn man. I want to hate him so badly, to scream and kick and blame him. But I can’t. My fight cannot be with him. It’s for my livelihood, this truck, and my family. Always them first. My thinking otherwise was foolhardy and naive, and spending more time mourning Drew and what we could have had won’t turn around this setback.
So I get up from the chair, refusing to look at him for another second. My clogs squeak through the damp rig floor as I make my way to the back. “Jaz, do you mind driving us out of here?”
My best friend nods, because that’s what best friends do, despite the disapproval on her face. She gets into the driver’s seat, and my sister, after a quick hug from me, takes my place in the passenger seat. I buckle myself into the passenger seat in the rig. The engine turns, bringing life to a truck that’s been like a graveyard today, and it lurches as the emergency brake is lifted, nudging my spirit forward.
I’m not going to give up. Not yet. Not until the last customer’s up and gone, or there’s nothing left in the kitchen to cook.
As we drive away, I take one look backward, through the Plexiglas window.
Drew’s still standing there.
35
DREW
My body doesn’t move until Lucianna’s red lights disappear over the horizon, and I’m left with nothing but emptiness. I don’t feel the lead-heavy raindrops falling from the sky. Never mind we’re in a drought and the entire state is cheering the weather. For me, this is what I deserve—a pummeling.
That’s when my body doubles over. Hands on knees, bent over at the waist. Soaked and shivering and I don’t give a fuck.
What to do?
What do I do?
What did I do?
Shoes appear next to my feet. And while the rain continues to fall, there’s a reprieve, my body sheltered somehow.
“Let’s go in, pogi,” Bryn says, her voice gentle and soft. An open hand appears in my view, and I straighten, taking it. Above me is an umbrella, and Bryn, hair plastered against her wet face, pants soaked up to her knees, gives me a sad smile.
She squeezes my hand in comfort, though hers is tiny in mine. How many times has she done this for me? Come out for me, coaxed me back, taken me home when I scraped my knees, fell out of a tree? Sister from another mother, who covered for me when I snuck out and got drunk at fifteen.
“I really fucked up,” I admit.
She nods without judgment. “Let’s go inside and we can talk about it.”
I follow her like a little boy, lost and awkward, as if on giraffe legs. The course was so clear once, coming back on leave. Now, approaching True North with its brand-new sign and newly potted plants at the front door, it’s twisted as hell. Without Camille, I don’t know which way to go.
Faces greet us when we step in. We’re a week from the grand reopening and a staff meeting was planned for today. When I walked into the dining room earlier and saw Lucianna’s awning drop, I blew out the door for a word with Camille. She needed to hear my explanation. She had to know why I kept the truth from her.
My gaze plummets to my feet. All of these people—they were all watching, witnesses to my dumbass decision, and now a mirror to my shame.
Bryn takes me to the bar, where I drop my elbows onto the slick wood. Now that it’s installed, I have to agree, it’s perfect in here. With the water outside and this wood inside, the soaring ceilings and the metal tables and chandeliers, the bar is the fourth corner of balance.
A glass of mango juice appears in front of me, and the sweet smell of its nectar lifts my gaze to my mother.
“I’m wet. I should go home,” I say. I’ve got nothing. My brain lacks sleep, my body needs sustenance. My heart is broken.
“Okay, iho. But, please, drink something first.”
Nodding so I can get this over with, I bring the glass to my lips. My nose revels in the scent before my tongue registers it, and when the juice slips down my throat, filling my growling belly, I’m reminded. Reminded of the cotton candy grapes I fed to Camille, the brownies she made into cake balls.
“I was choosing her, you know, even if it didn’t seem like it. I love you and Pop, but when I was keeping it from all of you, it was for Camille. But she’ll never know it.”
My mother sighs. “Let’s talk about it with your papa. We can fix this together.”
I shake my head vehemently. “No. He’ll make it worse. He’s so focused on this”—my head tips to the compass on the wall—“I don’t want him to associate Camille with the truck. Promise me you won’t tell him.”
“He might surprise you.”
“That’s the thing. I don’t need any more surprises.”
A flash of red in my periphery turns my attention outside. My father’s car slips into the parking space, windshield wipers on maximum. The door opens, and an umbrella pops out, shielding my pop’s body as he climbs out.
I can’t do this now. I can’t face him, even if he has no idea what’s going on.
After downing the last of the juice, I slide the glass over to my ma. “I’m going.”
“Anak—”
“No, Ma, please. I’ll be back to finish up work later. But I’ve got things to figure out. And I can’t do it here.”
36
CAMILLE
The glare of the computer screen on my desk brings tears to my eyes. As if I have more inside me with how much I’ve cried since I ended things with Drew. But these tears are the light-induced variety, because I’ve spent the last day and a half attempting to find the needle in the haystack. Combing through my receipts, looking through my spreadsheets a line at a time, and trying to find the answer to fix Lucianna’s predicament has taken every bit of my effort.
My conclusion: there’s no place to park that can raise the profit margins on this spreadsheet. As much as I cannot stand where we’re currently parked, leaving the Great Highway might worsen the situation. Right now, customers know where we are. Summertime is around the corner, and Ocean Beach is a key destination. To get customers to trust us again, we can’t do anything drastic.
But dammit, it hurts. It hurts to know Drew will be so physically close, that he put me in this situation. That maybe he didn’t love me like I thought he did. Though he sounded so sincere. Every part of him was believable.
And there’s my first payment, due in a week. No matter how I skew and estimate the numbers on the screen, I come up with the absolute same answer . . .
I can’t even say it.
My head hurts. I know I’m exhausted. From running a business on my own. From being the only adult in this apartment. From not having anyone to turn to.
Oh, Nonna. I need you.
Turning away from the screen, I listen for Ally’s faint snores. Our bedrooms are right next to one another, with paper-thin walls and creaky floors. Anyone else would be bothered by this lack of privacy, but I’m not. The songs
she sings to herself as she studies keeps me company and the swish of pastel against paper is my version of white noise.
My phone pings on the desktop. It’s Jaz: Don’t stay home tonight. Come out with me.
“If I hear that stupid chirping one more time,” Ally croaks from her bedroom.
“Oops. Sorry for waking you.” I turn down my phone volume.
“I know what you can do to make it up to me—go out already.”
“That’s funny, because somebody shouldn’t be in my business in the first place.” Shaking my head, I make sure to bleed an extra ounce of sarcasm into my voice.
“Ahem, I am your sister.”
“Exactly. And younger, mind you.”
Her sheets rustle. “Even better. I have the wisdom of youth, and I am obligated to say you should go out tonight.”
I snort, then stand and walk over to the doorjamb of Ally’s room. Her body is tucked under her quilt, curved into a bean shape. Her hair is loose and wild. The room is dark, except for the bright streetlights outside her window. The Mission is south of downtown by about four miles, but far enough away so the sky is a little brighter, clear enough to see the stars and the crescent moon. “You and Jaz really have to stop ganging up on me.”
“Can I say something?” Ally sits up in bed, an elbow supporting her. Her legs slink under the blanket so it flattens to make room. For me, I assume.
I don’t like this. This softness she is showing—it’s rare. It’s serious. Ally’s loving expressions have been contained in her art, so this openness is unnerving.
I perch myself at the edge of her mattress.
“I’m sorry,” she says.
“What? Why are you sorry?”
“The truck. Drew.” She grips my elbow to shut me up before I can interrupt. “You’ve always taken care of me, and I . . . I wish you didn’t have to.”
“What the heck are you talking about? You’re my sister. We’re kind of stuck with one another.” I smile.
