North to You

by Tif Marcelo

  I join him on the couch, pressing my fingers against my eyes. I want this runaway train to stop. My voice rises an octave, on the verge of panic. “Lucianna was her life. She thinks I’m part of you. She thinks I am you. Now, on top of everything else, she thinks I took her business. She won’t return my calls, and then what would I say if she did? I’m sorry my uncle took your truck for collateral?”

  “She and I made a business transaction. It was reviewed by my lawyers, and she signed it. But had I known who she was to you, I never would have.” His voice is apologetic. “I have my own projects, my own commitments. I owe people money, too. I need hers to help me pay those people back. You realize how this works?”

  I stand and pace. A trickle of a thought seeps into my brain. “How much to buy the truck back?”

  “Iho, no. Absolutely no deal.” Tito shakes his head, crossing his arms. “You won’t get her back this way. She has a business owner’s pride.”

  I yell desperately, “But I’ve got to fucking do something!”

  42

  CAMILLE

  I didn’t think ahead. In the shock and realization that Ben and Drew are connected—related—I ran. My feet pounded against carpet, linoleum, and pavement, propelling me to the truck parked in front of the building. And then my mind caught up, and it reminded me I can’t get into the truck because I don’t have the keys. They are stuffed in the yellow envelope I threw on Ben’s table.

  I no longer own my truck.

  My body crouches over, hands over knees, and I breathe. I’m on the brink of convulsing, upchucking, imploding. I need a paper bag, an oxygen tank, a redo. Someone to yell at and to blame, because none of this is my fault. I lost the truck because I was put out of business. I was sabotaged. The thing I emptied my life into is no longer, and I can’t give myself a ride home. Because of Drew, I’ve got to take the bus home. A true walk of shame.

  Except, as I piece together the movie reel of the last month, I know it’s all not true. Lucianna was my responsibility, my business, from the gas to the grill, from the wheels to the panini press.

  Truth: Drew didn’t tell me he was part of True North, but he didn’t throw those obstacles in front of me.

  Truth: the blog post was a fluke.

  Truth: I took the loan out with Ben. I offered the truck as collateral.

  But the stabbing pains inside of me don’t subside, because that’s what makes it worse. No one else had a hand in it but me and the set of circumstances I chose to be in. I could have told Ally that sending her to Austin was impossible. I could have chosen another spot, away from a restaurant owner who hated me. Or I could have risked cooking something for Kaya Banks.

  So I push it all out of my head as fast as my logic speaks, because I don’t want to be the one at fault.

  Somehow my feet manage to take me three blocks down to the next bus stop, and thankfully only a few minutes pass before a bus rolls up with its large billboard of graffiti and advertising. I climb in, deposit a handful of coins, and make my way to the furthermost row, to an empty seat. My forehead finds comfort on the Plexiglas window, ignoring Nonna’s warnings of germs on the glass, wishing instead for the safety of Drew’s arms. The feeling of his body half covering me, tucking me into his warmth and protection.

  I clamp my eyes shut. No. I must make new memories, must seek comfort in other things and people. Not Drew. Especially not Drew.

  The bus lurches and then stops. Traffic. I feel the shift of bodies around me.

  “Is this seat taken?”

  My eyes fly open at the sound of his voice. Drew. He sits next to me, hands braced against the rocking stop and go of the bus.

  Though I saw him in the flesh minutes before, he feels like an apparition, like I concocted him out of my wishes. “How’d you—”

  “I never ran so hard in my life.” He exhales for what seems like the first time today. His face is slick with sweat. “I take that back, I’ve run way harder in the Army, but running after you is something else altogether.”

  “And why’s that?” My heart booms in my chest against doubt and fear. I shouldn’t be giving this man any of my time, but I’ve missed him. Being this close, so close I can feel the heat of his skin, seems so right.

  “Because I have everything to lose.” One arm stretches across the back of my seat, and his left hand finds mine on my lap. I let him, needing this contact. There’s no animosity when we touch, no anger or resentment in my heart, and it surprises me. I look up at Drew’s watery smile. “Hear me out,” he says. “Give me these next few minutes before you have to get off this bus. Please?”

  I nod, unsuccessfully trying to keep my tears at bay. I don’t wipe them away. My body is done trying to hold everything together.

  He continues, massaging his thumb into my palm. “I had no idea my uncle made that deal with you. I didn’t know the blogger was going to post about you. But I know I lied. There was no excuse for not telling you who I was when I found out who you were. I’m still kicking myself in the ass that I didn’t say something sooner. Would it have mattered? Would I have lost you sooner? I don’t know. I never will, because I completely messed up. I thought my priorities were on point, right on. But I didn’t expect to fall so hard, and then somehow have to protect you from my own dad . . . because I love you both. I wanted both of you to be happy.

  “My pop is my best friend and my worst enemy. He’s everything I want to be, and there are parts of him I abhor. But I love him. When I left home, I hurt him. And there’s nothing worse than knowing you could die, he could die, at any second and there would be no chance to make it right. I came home to make it all up to him, to find the peace I had with him when I was a kid. But in trying so hard to protect you and him, I ended up hurting both of you.

  “When I see you, Camille, I don’t just see you as you are now. I see all of you. The young you in your jean overalls, making pancakes in home ec. Sharing your food with friends. Now, driven and generous, giving up your dream for your sister. And I know this sounds wild, but I see you, in the future, with me.”

  “I . . .” Tears choke off my words. When I open my mouth again, he squeezes my hand to silence me.

  “I love you, Camille Marino. I feel like those words were due well before we said them to each other. They should have been said ten years ago, as naive as they would have been. And I’m not sure what I can promise you except for all of me. I know I can’t even promise you time, because I leave Sunday. But I couldn’t go until I told you that you are the best thing that’s happened to me. And to think I almost didn’t come home for leave. I wouldn’t have been at the festival. I wouldn’t have realized you were the reason I came home. It was always you.”

  His words liquefy and work through my veins. I feel woozy, drunk. My tongue is twisted, and I’m seeing double, dizzy from trying to make sense of the fact that I will lose him soon. I thought I’d lost him already, but I took the passage of time for granted. “I’m not sure what to say.” I gaze at our hands, so perfectly paired, neither one more powerful or capable, both inextricably tangled.

  He’s leaving Sunday.

  He’ll be gone for six months.

  But who am I now, right this second? And what do I want? Without Lucianna, without Ally, I am free. Dropping off my keys meant a new beginning, and it frankly scares the living crap out of me. My life is a blank slate I can barely fathom, where anything is possible and nothing is off the table. It’s as easy to give into Drew as it is to walk away.

  My mind can’t wrap itself around that idea. And I can’t give voice to these thoughts churning in my head, quieted by the flutter of panic caused by the timeline I’ve been presented. To do what—I don’t know.

  Drew nods, looking down. “Fair enough.” He clears his throat, then pulls the cord above me to signal for the next stop. “Thank you.”

  “For what?” I’m jarred as I watch him stand.r />
  “For loving me, even for a short amount of time.” He leans down and presses his lips on my forehead. His thumb grazes my cheek. My eyes shut, and I breathe in his familiar scent, not caring that an entire bus is watching us.

  When I finally open them, Drew is gone, the back of his jacket the last thing I see as the bus pulls away.

  43

  DREW

  Bryn sets a tumbler in front of me, filled with ice and a light yellow-green liqueur. My mouth waters instantly, picking up the citrus scent of a native Filipino fruit—the calamansi, our version of a lemon, except small, round, and intense. “This is the good stuff,” I say, my voice hoarse. I lift the glass closer to my nose and breathe in deeply. “Manille calamansi liqueur on the rocks.”

  Bryn hands out similar tumblers to everyone else perched next to me at True North’s bar: Ma, Pop, Tito Ben, Matt, Victoria. And when Bryn finally gets to Blake . . .

  “This okay?” she sets down a tall glass. “Calamansi juice. It’s like lemonade, but better.”

  “Sounds like my kind of drink.” Blake raises his glass of calamansi juice. “How about a toast? Here’s to changes, changing, and being open to change.”

  We all raise our glasses. “Hear, hear.” I echo the sentiment and chug the drink. Sweet and sour burns down my throat. This is the last alcoholic drink I will have for at least six months, but unlike any other drink to celebrate an occasion, this toast—a final farewell called by Bryn—is to clear the air.

  And so we do. We take our turns, each of us. From my pop’s expectations, my shame-filled admission of how I treated Camille, Bryn’s wish to become an entrepreneur, down to Vic’s guilt that she had a hand in pushing Lucianna away.

  We are a sorry bunch.

  A pounding takes all of our attention to the front door. A customer. Scratch that—customers wait outside impatiently.

  “Our first reservation of the day,” Bryn says. She strides to the front, opens the door, and speaks to the people outside. She doesn’t turn over the Closed sign when she returns to our group. “I told them this was your farewell, pogi. And of course they’re more than happy to wait a couple of minutes outside.”

  “So this is it?” I ask. “Tomorrow I go, and life goes on. If you asked me at the beginning of my leave how we were going to celebrate my farewell, I wouldn’t have guessed it would’ve been in a completely brand-new restaurant, with me feeling sorry for myself.”

  My mother steps off the stool and wraps her arms around me. “We’ll make this better.”

  I shake my head. “I have to be at the base by 5 a.m. tomorrow. Not much time.”

  “Love is timeless, iho. You can write her from Iraq. It doesn’t stop because you’re getting on a plane.”

  “I can always put in a good word for you,” my uncle says.

  “Thanks, Tito. But somehow I think that might compound the problem.”

  He shrugs.

  “Andrew, haven’t I taught you anything?” my father booms from the end of bar. He stands from his stool.

  “What do you mean, Pop?” I ready myself for another slaying, because why would the man stop now?

  “That family is everything.”

  “I think I know that rule quite well,” I say under my breath. A hand falls on my shoulder, and when I look up, it’s my pop.

  “You didn’t let me finish. If this woman is who you love, then she is our family, too.” His voice turns regretful, and he perches himself on the stool next to me. “I’m sorry I made it hard for you to tell me about her.”

  I feel myself crack open, and tears well on my bottom eyelids. So pathetic, because I could have done better. The ball was always in my court.

  “I’m sorry, iho.” He hooks his arms around my neck and jerks me into him. I’m not sure what to do with my hands, and I hesitantly wrap them around his back.

  “I’m sorry, too.”

  My pop’s hold on me is solid, forcing my tears to flow. Around me, I hear sniffling and quiet crying. Someone blows their nose.

  This was what I wanted. Peace between my father and me. To be in his good graces. I was willing to do anything, and the mission took everything out of me. Was the means justified? I won’t ever know.

  My pop whispers in my ear, “Family also means we work on problems together. It means having trust in us. Will you trust me?”

  “Yeah, of course,” I hastily answer, though unsure what he’s getting at.

  “I only have one demand.”

  “What’s that?” I ask.

  He lets me go and looks at me squarely in the eyes. “Get back home safely.”

  44

  CAMILLE

  So this is what empty nesters feel like: idle, in limbo, restless. Ally’s been gone for five days, and I miss her something fierce. I don’t know what to do with myself except turn on every light in the apartment and every device to mimic the constant noise she used to make. Her quilt now permanently resides on the couch, so I can slip my feet under it while watching TV.

  Which is what I’m doing now. Binge watching Hart of Dixie, with chocolate chips and a glass of wine on the coffee table, while tucked under Ally’s quilt as if it’s winter.

  But I would be lying if I didn’t say some of my unease is because of Drew. Even if I try to fool myself, make myself believe I’m watching the clock because of Ally and Jaz, who is now working full time teaching yoga and Pilates, every bone in my body has kept time.

  Seven hours until Drew gets on the plane. Seven hours to figure out what to do.

  But is it too late?

  I let him walk away without an objection. Watched him as he strode away. His explanations and apology were enough. Once I had time to think, alone, I realized the challenges in the last month were not caused by him. That my deepest regrets were the secrets we kept, and I had a hand in that, too.

  And, he made me happy.

  I love him.

  My phone glows with a notification. Turning down the volume of my phone is my new norm and it’s liberating. The quiet in between has allowed me to destress, to brainstorm, and to rest somewhat. While my eyes are peeled for Ally’s texts, the rest—the group messages, the random weather announcement or Words with Friends notification—can wait.

  I’m on the plane tomorrow morning. Bus is leaving out of Fort Pershing at 6 a.m. Bye, Camille.

  My heart squeezes; I can’t breathe. This is a sign, right? He wouldn’t have texted if there was zero chance to make this better. I mean, unless this was simply a good-bye, a note that wasn’t meant for me to respond to.

  I toss back another swig of red wine for strength, for wisdom. When he gets on that plane, it’ll be that much harder to track him down. But if I text him now, will it cause drama when he’s supposed to be clearheaded, at his best? I’m sure he’s spending his last night with his family, with Chef Ritchie.

  The thought of that man halts all of my what-ifs.

  Drew said his only wish when he came home was to make up with his dad. If I fight for Drew, for us, will I be a source of conflict? Do I want to be what finally ruins what they have?

  For good measure, I shake out a handful of chocolate chips and throw them into my mouth. Surely the answer will come when the sugar has fully entered my bloodstream.

  The doorbell rings and I freeze. Even my mouth halts. It’s late, almost eleven, and my closest friends know to call before they show. I debate pretending I’m not home, but my apartment is brightly lit. There’s no hiding that someone is in here.

  I shuffle to the door with Ally’s quilt wrapped around me like an invisibility cloak. The peephole only reveals a round, dark blob. Great. I pretend I’m not alone. “I’ll get it, honey, um . . . Steve.”

  Ugh. I have no stealth.

  Knocking ensues and a voice filters through the door. “Camille? I’m sorry to bother you. This is Bryn, Andrew’s cousin
. I’m leaving something at the door.”

  Bryn? What?

  My fingers fumble with the dead bolt, the chain, and the upper door lock, and all the while I think I would be in major trouble if there was an emergency in here and I had to get out quickly. Finally, after the final click, I throw the door open as a woman sets something down.

  Bryn looks up and her face halts me. She’s beautiful, the female version of Drew. High cheekbones, a bun coiled on top of her head. She’s wearing all black. Her polo shirt has a compass embroidered over her heart. A smile that can stop traffic spreads across her face. “You came out.”

  “Hi,” is all I can say.

  “This is for you.” She bends down and picks up her package, a small burlap bag, top tied in twine. “From my uncle Ritchie.”

  Rough fabric scratches against my skin. What’s inside is solid, heavy. “Chef Ritchie?”

  She nods. “Go ahead, open it.”

  “Does Drew . . .” I falter in my question.

  Bryn’s eyes light up. “Drew doesn’t know. This is a . . . covert operation.”

  My fingers undo the knot. Flipping the bag over, something brass falls into my palm.

  “You can open it this way,” Bryn says, showing me where on the lip to flip the top.

  “A compass,” I say.

  “My Tito Ritchie says it’s to help you find your true north.” She grins, though her eyes are sorrowful. “These Bautista men. Sometimes they’re so freaking dumb. I mean, I’ve dealt with them all of my life, and they drive me up the wall. They think they’re always right. And it takes them a while to come to their senses even if it’s obvious they’re not. But when they love, they love hard.”

  The needle wiggles as I rotate the compass, my heart orienting itself to Bryn’s words. I aim the arrow so the needle points to the N. “True north?”