North to You

by Tif Marcelo

  She looks down. “I really appreciate everything you’ve done for me.”

  “Stop already. You don’t even have to say that.”

  She sighs and gives me this look that tells me she sees right through me. “I’m not ignorant, you know. Your spreadsheet is always up. And after yesterday . . .”

  “These last couple of days have been a setback.” I visualize myself with a dazzling smile, to reassure my sister. “That’s all.”

  “Show me then. Go out. Turn off the computer. I’ll be fine here.”

  I narrow my eyes at her in jest. “Are you sure that you and Astrid aren’t planning another getaway?”

  She waves my thought away. “That was a million years ago. Preacceptance Ally. I dunno. I think I can actually do it. That I can make a life from my art, and it’s because of you. A good night’s rest won’t hurt.”

  “Wow.” I pull the covers up and look underneath it. “Have you seen my sister, Alissa Marino?” I pull her body forward and pretend to look behind her. “I swear, someone bring her back. Because it’s too weird to have such a sincere and nonsarcastic person living with me.”

  “Whatever, I’m not that bad.” Ally laughs, pushing me away. “Cam, if you want to do what’s good for me, then go, take a breather. Because it is stressing me out, seeing you wrap yourself around your desk like a pasta shell. I promise I’ll be good.”

  My phone beeps one more time.

  Taking a deep breath, I nod. Going out might be the thing to clear my mind. A drink, a couple of laughs with Jaz, and hopefully a good night’s sleep. “Fine. I’ll go. But only because I don’t want to hear you talk in your sleep.”

  I snicker when a pillow misses me as I walk out of the bedroom.

  37

  DREW

  I lean against the sticky bar, and with a half-finished beer, stare at the backlit bottles of whiskey, gin, vodka, and tequila. They’re the only things I can focus on while being rocked from side to side. Bodies jam against the bar with everyone trying to get their drink on. With Pour packed and with only three inches of clearance existing between Xander Callan on my left and me, a bride-to-be taking shots on my right, and a couple dancing behind me even if they’re about twenty-five feet from the dance floor, it feels like the whole city has come out tonight.

  Tonight was supposed to be a pity party for me, but Blake’s somewhere out on the dance floor, and Matt’s keeping an eye on him. While Xander is always in the mood to talk shop about his public affairs job, I’m not.

  “I don’t know you that well, Bautista, but you’re sorry as fuck.” Xander swivels in his seat to face me, his tumbler of bourbon in his hand. Despite the insult, he’s got his trademark grin plastered on his face.

  I swig my beer. “Yeah? How did you come to that conclusion?”

  “Case in point. First time we went out, after Bay to Breakers? You had a stick up your ass until a girl kissed you. Which ended up working out, you lucky bastard—you got that girl—even if it was for a couple of weeks. And now here we are for round two, probably your last hurrah before you head out of here, and you still have a stick up your ass. What the hell are you waiting for?”

  “You know it’s not that simple.”

  “I get it. But whether or not you and your girl make up, are you just going to sit here? Bro, you’re deploying in two weeks to where the only music you’re gonna hear is what’s coming through the com system, and that will be your commander. There’s no dancing downrange, man. No free time. No fun. Try to make something of tonight.”

  I work to loosen my jaw and glance at Xander. The guy’s eyes are full of mirth. His hair is the regulation high and tight, his face flushed from heat and alcohol. We’ve become fast friends and I’m glad I’ll have him on the other side of the world when we deploy. It will be his second deployment, so whenever he talks about what he’s experienced, I listen closely.

  He’s right. I’ve been acting like a baby.

  So I lift the bottle to my lips and chug the rest of my beer.

  “That’s what I’m sayin’.” Xander holds out his glass and knocks it against my bottle.

  Soon, one, two, three beers are consumed, and maybe a couple of shots. Maybe more. I’m warm, my eyesight wavy along the edges. The R & B has me bumping on my stool, like I have no control of my own body, but I go with it. With my full view of the dance floor, it’s like watching a reality show in surround sound. To my left there’s a fight brewing between a couple, to my right someone’s on their phone cursing like a sailor years out at sea. And in front of me . . .

  In front of me are a slew of shadows that look like blobs. Xander is out there somewhere, I guess wasted enough to dance.

  I might be on the verge of being wasted, but not enough to do that.

  But I’m buzzed enough that I can mute everything and envision Camille. Her lips, her tongue, her silky skin and legs for miles, even if she is a petite five foot two. The blobs start to take shape into bodies as my imagination roams my memories. Under the covers, her legs around mine, our bodies pressed until our clothing disintegrates.

  An image in front of me comes into focus. The outline of hips, black hair draped across exposed shoulders. Red lips. Smoky eyes.

  My pants tighten in response. “Cami?”

  “Drew.”

  Am I that exhausted, that much of a lightweight? My eyes are focused on her lips, now parted, begging to be ravaged.

  “Drew,” she says again. “Your friend . . . Blake . . . mosh pit.”

  Thoughts and memories flash through my brain, disheveled and out of order. Okay, Bautista, focus on the woman’s mouth and listen hard. Except, is this really Camille? Here? “What?”

  She harrumphs and her face contorts. Grabbing me by the arm, she leads me to the middle of the dance floor. I look at the hands clutching my elbow. And yeah. She’s real. She’s real because I feel her. Reaching out, I loosen her grip with my hand and entwine my fingers in hers.

  My heart dives down to the sticky dance floor when she snatches it away.

  That’s right. She hates me.

  She points over the crowd, to the small mosh pit brewing. “Blake’s in there!” she yells.

  I raise my eyes as the crowd goes from a gentle rocking to a violent crashing of bodies. A perimeter forms around a brave—and quite possibly stupid—few.

  One of them is Blake.

  Blake, who I bet has drunk more than half his weight in beer tonight. I sober at the sight. “Don’t go anywhere, please?” I say to Camille. Pushing past bodies, my next thought is to find my buddies.

  Xander and Matt are quick to spot me and take my side. We all know—we talked about it before we came here tonight—that above and beyond tonight’s partying, we have to watch out for Blake. I approach the eye of the storm, the middle of the mosh pit, where three guys rush out and crash into each other and retreat. Sure enough, Blake is wild-eyed and wasted, body in tune with the music rather than his brain. Judging by the vacant look in my friend’s eyes and the grunts that ensue each time the guys tackle each other like linebackers, I realize this won’t end until somebody breaks this up. Or worse, when someone gets hurt.

  Still, I watch. I don’t react as seconds pass, because the moshing remains consistent. But an errant nudge from Blake against a guy on the perimeter sends a fist flying in the air, which Blake amazingly dodges.

  I catch Matt’s eyes. We are in agreement. This can’t wait.

  In a momentary lull, when Blake pauses at the periphery of the circle a foot away from me, I wrap my arms around him. Xander and Matt approach from the opposite side. Cornered, Blake bucks and curses, intent on getting back out to the pit like he doesn’t see or hear us, like a zombie drawn to the sound of noise.

  The crowd parts as Blake bounces against people and tables like a pinball, sweat glistening on his face. I ram my chest against his momentum, toward th
e front door, and it takes the full strength of the three of us to get him out of Pour safely.

  “I was fine in there, dude, I was fine.” He stumbles around, arms flailing, words slurring. His legs tangle beneath him and he falls, crashing down on his side. Pour’s bouncer stands, bringing his phone to his ear.

  “We’re good, man.” I hold a hand out to the bouncer. The last thing we need is trouble, the cops. To the other guys, I say, “Help me.”

  Finally, we coax, assist, practically carry Blake to the street corner, out of range of the bouncer. But Camille is still inside. “Give me ten?” I say.

  “We got you, buddy.” Xander nods. “Get your girl.”

  He doesn’t have to tell me twice. I double-time it back to the entrance. I stand in line, calming my raging feelings by shifting my weight from one foot to the other. Once again, everything feels like water, slipping through my fingers.

  While my ID is being checked, Camille’s voice filters through the doorway. I see her and Jasmine walking out.

  I duck under the ropes. “Camille!”

  She turns, then whispers something to her friend. She walks toward me, alone.

  God, I’ve missed her. It’s only been two days, but it feels like months since I’ve seen her. She’s wearing the same boots from our reunion at the Bay to Breakers Festival, reminding me of how far we’d come and how quickly things fell apart.

  Her expression is impassive. “Your friend okay?”

  “Yeah. I’m glad you got me . . . how did . . .”

  “I guess Jaz and Blake have—had—a thing. I saw them at a coffee shop the other day, but things got busy and I never got to follow up. Apparently they were going to tell us tonight that they’re hooking up.”

  “Wow. I don’t know what to say.” Anguish courses through me. Finally, I have this chance to apologize again, to explain why I kept things a secret. A chance to tell Camille something—anything—but the timing is crap. We’re outside a club, and my buddy’s asleep on the ground behind me. And I’m a chickenshit, because I don’t want her to reject me again.

  She nods, then turns to head back to Jasmine, whose arms are crossed.

  “Tell your friend never ever to call me,” Jasmine yells back, linking arms with Camille.

  “Damn.” I curse under my breath as I watch them disappear into the next street. This is going to be a long night, and not the fun kind. In fact, it’s going to be a sausage fest. I turn on my heels, meeting up with the guys in the next block.

  “Ready for a fucking intervention?” I announce, offering my fist.

  “Hell yeah. I can’t tell you how happy I am you’re home.” Matt bumps it with his.

  Xander shrugs. “I’ve got nothing else to do. Might as well help you sober this dude up.”

  Later, while riding in the front seat of the cab, I send a text to Camille: Talking to you was my one good thing today.

  I wait for the little dots to appear on my screen, but they don’t.

  Part 6

  TEST

  I tell everybody the same thing: you have to make every dish so when you taste it, you should remember it when you go home.

  —Wolfgang Puck

  38

  CAMILLE

  Nonna told me once that losing something is all about perspective. It’s only if you thought you had it in the first place that you would feel like it’s escaped from your fingers. And the closer you held that thing next to your heart, the harder it was to let it go.

  As usual, she was right. As I look out Lucianna’s window on Friday evening, seven days after Kaya’s blog post, I know I have lost something immeasurable. Jaz, silent next to me, doesn’t have to verify my thoughts, and the lack of notifications on my phone doesn’t have to confirm my suspicions. The Great Highway is playing out this act for me, and I am helpless to do anything.

  Where a line of customers once wrapped around the block, only five linger by the truck. Where there used to be people taking selfies in front of my chalkboard menu and Lucianna’s trademark awning, empty spots remain. No need for True North to call the cops on us now. The truck looks like a leftover act from a long-lost circus show.

  Overrated.

  Disappointment.

  “Hey, you trying to do my job or something?” Jaz bumps me with her hip. “Get back to your spot.”

  I pull myself from the window and head back to the prep station. The switch doesn’t change my demeanor as it usually does. The vibe is the same in the back of the truck as it is in the front—it sucks. “If this continues, I won’t be able to afford you,” I say. It’s not the first time I’ve said it in the last week, but it doesn’t dull the blow. It’s venom on my tongue.

  “Oh, you know I’d work for free.” Jasmine’s smile is sincere, but I see the panic behind it. She, too, has a stake in this truck’s survival. Her life is here in San Francisco, one of the most expensive cities in the country. Giving her a fair wage is not an option. “Besides, after True North’s opening tomorrow, the customers will be back. They’ll see we haven’t moved. We might even grab some of their customers.”

  Doubt screams back. The shift has been palpable. I’ve had fewer responses to posts, fewer online conversations . . .

  My heart clenches, wrings itself inside my chest. From it drips the knowledge I’ve soon got to inform Ben that my first payment is exceedingly short.

  “Hey. You.”

  I look up at my friend, staring at me with a mournful expression. “Hm?”

  “I hate seeing you like this. You can still fix it.”

  “I can’t. In twenty-four hours, the truck won’t be mine, and there’s nothing I can do about it. I knew this would be the risk, you know?” I conjure a version of a smile, though I’m not sure it’s convincing.

  Jaz sighs. “That’s not what I’m talking about.”

  I swallow an anxious breath. “I’ll be okay.”

  “You always say you’ll be okay, and I know you will be, eventually. But you deserve to be happy and excited again. Beyond Lucianna. Beyond work. I’m talking about you. I know you don’t want to have me even mention him . . .” Her voice lowers.

  “You know what kills me? How he was so physically close to me and I didn’t know. How our windows faced theirs and not once did I see him. You’d been out with Blake, and he didn’t let on once.”

  “I don’t think he put it together either.” She sighs. “You guys kept it on the down low well enough, and with our crazy lives some things slip. But can I be honest, Camille?”

  “Why not?” My sarcasm is thick.

  “Hear him out. Drew has been here every day despite you refusing to speak to him. The poor guy is so sorry. He’s trying. He knows he fucked up. Guys like him . . . they don’t purposely go out of their way to hurt people. There’s got to be more.”

  I’ve mentally calculated the distance between Lucianna and True North’s front door a million times, but every inch feels like it’s paved with fire. If I take a step toward it, I’ll burn from anger, from sadness, and from hope. I don’t know if I’m brave enough to do it.

  “He lied, Jaz.”

  “Yeah, but it’s not like you were completely honest, were you? Not like you told him anything about your life. He hasn’t even set foot in this truck. You both had limits.”

  “I love you, but I don’t wanna talk about it anymore.” I bristle against her words. I had to keep my secrets for a reason. And this mess might have been different had he come clean. I could have done so many things differently if I had known.

  “Fine.” Her hands fly in a defensive posture, in time for the first customer to come to the window.

  We work though our shift and we don’t run out of food. It’s a double-edged sword, exactly what we wanted a week ago, but not now, because it confirms customers have been lacking. With this extra food, a portion of it will go to waste, the lo
cal shelter eating up profits I desperately need to pay Ben back.

  But it’s an endeavor I’ve accepted as a lost cause.

  After our shift, I drive around the city, through the streets where my best food truck buddies are parked. Up Market Street just as they begin their late night shifts, where the More Pho You truck has customers seated on the sidewalks, blatantly blocking parking spaces, some eating on portable chairs. Down Van Ness, where Crepe’ing Around’s lights blink like strobes. Cinnamon and butter smells permeate the air. Even my stomach growls. Then I go up, up, up. Up Twin Peaks, up above the fog and twinkling lights of the city, where I park and get out.

  The expansive view is breathtaking. A couple of weeks ago, I took two risks on this mountain. I allowed Drew into my life, and I envisioned my truck next to the ocean. And neither one worked out exactly like I thought it would.

  San Francisco encompasses forty-nine square miles. It has more than eight hundred thousand residents. This afternoon, I only served twenty-three customers. One afternoon, a few nights of not making goal would not have been a big deal. But not tonight, not this week, when it was utterly crucial. Not now, when everything hangs in the balance.

  My phone vibrates in my apron pocket. I take it out, knowing who it is. I decline the call, sending it to voice mail. Hearing Drew’s voice would remind me of the decisions I’ve had to make. And that’s not what I need right now. What I need is a backbone. I need to be a grown-up. And no one can be that but me.

  I text the number I’ve memorized since last week. I glance at the clock: five minutes to midnight.

  39

  DREW

  The thunderous celebration of True North’s grand reopening can be heard from the alley, where I empty the first of many crates of bottles and cans of drinks. So far, all signs are auspicious: a clear night yielding a great view, on-time steaming-hot dishes, customers who are happily drunk, and a well-worn cashier terminal.

  But my conscience is far from light, and being outside is a respite. Lucianna didn’t show tonight as it has every weekend night, and everyone noticed the truck’s absence, including my father. Except while I was drowned in worry and curiosity, Pop was convinced his efforts worked. I officially ran her out, he said, claiming victory.