by Tif Marcelo
Joel’s doing the knee-jerk with the gas pedal, probably from inexperience driving a big vehicle, and the RV lurches and slows in succession. As we make our way up Highway 5 toward our campground at Shasta-Trinity National Forest, with the RV leading our two-vehicle caravan through the heavy, swift truck traffic, the engine sounds like it’s about to blow. I don’t look out my window to enjoy the view as I usually would when I’m on a road trip. Although we’re passing the natural beauty of Northern California, with the transitioning colors of the landscape, all I’m thinking of is how it’s going to be a mess if the RV breaks down.
Finally, after I think I’ve secured everything possible in the rig, I sit in the passenger seat and click on my seat belt. From the signs on the road, I know we’re south of Orland. I peek through the side mirror. “I don’t see the Suburban. Maybe we should slow down?”
Joel grumbles, though he eases on the pedal. He has yet to say anything substantial to me, and I wonder if it’s not only because I’ve been kept busy in the back.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
My eyebrows scrunch down. “You know, answering a question with another question doesn’t get us any closer to an answer.”
More silence. He turns the radio on and spins the knob through static until the clashing sound of guitars comes on.
I guffaw. “Metallica?”
“Something wrong with Metallica? ‘Nothing Else Matters’ is their best song. It came out it 1991.”
“Um . . .” I hedge on how to tell him that I hate eighties and nineties big hair bands. Instead, I spin the dial, and come upon . . . “Baby One More Time. Britney.” Still nineties, but pop, at least.
His hand pushes mine aside, and he turns it back to Metallica.
I turn it back to Britney.
He presses the button to turn the radio off.
I turn it back on, though I keep the volume low. “Ok, what the hell? What’s wrong?”
“I don’t feel like listening to music.”
I exhale audibly for his benefit, but seeing him white-knuckle the steering wheel as a set of cars tries to merge around us, I don’t push. His current mood must be because he’s trying to focus. So I pop my earbuds in, tap on my music app, and breathe as Chopin’s “Piano Concerto No. 2” plays. Immediately, my curiosity dissipates, and the orchestra in my ears becomes the perfect soundtrack to the passing view.
I settle into my seat and slide my Barbecue Beginnings book out of the backpack at my feet. From my periphery, I see Joel shake his head.
I pull an earbud out. “What?” I follow his gaze to my book. “This? It’s called professional development. Research.”
Barbecue is so much more complicated than I’d anticipated. In my limited experience at backyard barbecues and the occasional festival I’d attended where I actually ordered barbecue—because there are a million other options at food festivals—I thought it was simply meat that’s been smoked for hours, with sauce dredged on it before being served with sides.
Sides, after all, are the best part of meals. Let’s really dig into the mac and cheese, the greens, the coleslaw, the baked beans. Let’s evaluate the details of the perfect pickle, the best kind of roll to use for sliders.
But the meat? Meat is meat, and the sauces are terrible.
In my opinion.
I read through much-needed vocabulary so that I’ll survive the next eight days: black and blue, firebricks, hot guts—dear God.
“I can’t believe you hate barbecue.”
“I can’t believe people love it.” A snort escapes my lips. “It’s sauce on meat. Seasoned meat that was thrown in a smoker. It doesn’t take skill.”
“Are you this rude with your online reviews?”
I scrunch my nose, shocked at this comeback. There’s not a hint of gentleness in his tone, definitely not like the man who brought me coffee and kissed me sweetly before we’d left each other. “I’m not rude. Just telling the truth.”
“Who knew? Victoria Aquino. Cutthroat.”
Stunned, I suck in a breath, and a proper retort doesn’t materialize in my brain. “What is that supposed to mean?”
A voice whistles out along with static from our handheld radio, interrupting us. Tara. “I need a break.”
Joel brings the radio to his lips and presses the button. “Got it. Out.”
“Joel,” I protest. “You’ve got to clue me in here. The last time we were together,” I stumble through my thoughts, “I thought . . . we were okay, that we were friends. I mean—”
He clicks on the blinker and gazes over to my right, to the side mirror, a sigh escaping his lips. “We are . . . friends, okay? I’m just doing my job at the moment. Driving you to your destination so I can be your cameraman once again.”
Joel’s words are harsh, curt, and confusing. It shuts me up as he drives the RV to a rest stop exit, pulling into the first parking spot. He turns off the engine and hops out, shutting the door and leaving me on my own.
What the hell? What did I do?
Even if I don’t particularly need to go to the bathroom, I get out and breathe in the fresh air. Well, sort of fresh, because the parking lot smells like gas and the lemon disinfectant from the bathrooms. Up ahead, Tara is jogging to the bathroom while Adrian halts at the edge of the grass and lights up a cigarette.
And then there’s Joel, who is walking up the path.
He must have forgotten that he’s dealing with an Aquino, and determined is my middle name. I hustle to his side. At the sight of me, his face falls. Now that we’re no longer on the road, I can’t attribute this reaction to the stress of the drive, and my stomach plummets at the thought that maybe this has everything to do with us sleeping together. That he regrets it, though I don’t.
Not that I was looking for anything whatsoever. I’m an adult who knew what the consequences were. But regret over that night? I don’t have an iota of it. Or, I didn’t.
“Can we talk, seriously?” My voice comes out sounding eager, and I wince at my inability to be chill.
He makes no move to slow down. “I’ve really got to piss.”
Grasping at straws, a bumble of words plops out. “But we should discuss us. I mean, previous us. I’m detecting a little weirdness, and I don’t like it.”
We stop at the entrance to the rest stop building and the automatic glass door opens in front of us. “I . . . there isn’t anything to talk about, you know?”
I peer at him, taking in the tone of that last sentence. Was he being sincere, that I shouldn’t worry? Or is the truth that he considers our sexcapade inconsequential? But before I can ask, he cuts to the left, following the signs to the men’s bathroom.
I’m still mulling over his words when I enter the amazingly clean rest stop restroom. After I do my business, I wash my hands, hearing the furthest toilet from me flush. Tara strolls out and pumps the canister of soap while I pull brown paper towels from the dispenser.
“Seen the redwoods before?” She readjusts her neck scarf and tightens the knot.
“I have. We’ve been to every national forest in California.”
She sighs with relief. “Can I just say I’m so glad you’re here? Don’t let my outfit fool you—I have no experience camping, so I’m going to need all the help I can get. Are you good with navigating the next leg?”
I smile at her honesty. “Of course.”
“We’re only three hours away from camp. Then we’ll hit Desert Willow as soon as the festival opens tomorrow.” She rubs her hands with a towel feverishly. “How are things with Joel?”
Her tone piques my interest. “What do you mean?”
Her shoulders slump. “You guys haven’t talked about it yet.”
I shake my head, dread rising in my chest.
She tosses her paper towel into the trash. “Ugh. Okay. But I don’t want you to freak out.”
“Tell me.”
“Joel auditioned for your job. When we hired you, we didn�
��t know there was a connection between you both. Do you think it will be a problem?”
My mind screeches to a halt. And then it all makes sense—his cold demeanor, the way he can’t look me in the face. I say the first thing that comes to mind, with a practiced smile I save for the camera, on my worst days when I don’t want to vlog. “We’re both professionals. We’ll talk about it. It’ll be fine.”
“Well, that’s good, because we have a long road ahead.” Using her elbows, she opens the restroom door.
A lump forms in my throat as I follow her out. This was the “loose end” he talked about the day we said goodbye.
How am I going to fix this? I mean, obviously I can’t fix this, but I have to try.
We meet Adrian in front of the snack machines. He has three packages of donut holes in his hands. Joel is pressing the buttons of a coffee machine as it spits out a cup and fills it with what looks like hot chocolate, so I get in line behind him.
“You get to be my copilot next.” I ease into some small talk. “Get ready because while I’m great at driving a big vehicle, I’ve got a crap sense of direction.”
“Well, damn. That’s another thing you should have thought of before you jumped into this.” He picks up his cup and dips his nose into it as he heads back down the sidewalk to the RV, leaving me trailing behind.
My cheeks flame as anger whips through me. I take it back. What a jerk.
I shove coins into the machine and jam my thumbs at the buttons and curse under my breath. I watch the machine make coffee, but it takes forever and a day. Finally, cup in hand, I stride after him, coffee sloshing as I try to keep up. Half my cup has spilled out by the time I heft myself into the cab of the RV. Eyes stinging with frustration, I set the coffee cup in the holder and attempt to ignore the man sitting next to me, with his seat belt already buckled, typing the address into the GPS. After he secures it in the holder, he turns it on, the robotic voice chipper when it starts to give me directions.
Thank God for it and the loud engine of the RV. It leaves me with no reason to say a word.
Because if I do, I know I’m going to cry.
I’m not a baby. It’s not that. It’s because I’m so pissed off—at myself.
My expectations were way too high. Just as my naïveté once brought me to heartbreak, my assumption that what happened between Joel and me forged some kind of a bond is 100 percent wrong. He meant it when he said there would be no regrets, because as far as he’s concerned, nothing happened between us. I wasn’t thinking we would take our relationship beyond our night in Vegas, but was a little civility too much to expect?
Now that I know he wanted this job, it becomes astoundingly clear that my initial relief in knowing someone on this trip was an error. I’m on my own.
12
JOEL
I’m silent for the next two hours, pretending to keep my eyes on the butt of the vehicle in front of the RV. After passing the city of Redding, the terrain switched from the packed two lanes of Highway 5 to the curvy, narrow, and mountainous State Route 299. I should be worried about the danger of being in a twenty-one-foot rig so close to the edge of a cliff, but all my thoughts are on the woman driving next to me. Unaffected by her current job maneuvering a large vehicle on a tiny-ass road, she’s casually looking for a clear channel on the radio. As her fingers fiddle with the knob, the compass and arrow charms on her bangle jingle.
I flash back to her body next to mine, warm in slumber, her arm slung across my chest, and how it felt like the most natural thing in the world.
It’s official: I’m an asshole.
Back in Vegas, I made my decision that what happened between us, as unforgettable as it was, would be a one-time deal. I turned the page to a new chapter when my texts went unanswered, content that what we’d left behind was a damn good memory. We were there for one another. Nothing more, nothing less.
But having her here changes everything.
I can’t help but be pissed. I’m clearly more qualified than her, and if anything, more passionate about the food.
And while the angel on my shoulder reminds me that auditions are subjective, I soon have to use my talent to make her look good in front of the camera, to bring out the best qualities in her performance.
How do I get over this? How will I be able to look through that viewfinder knowing that it should be me on the other end of the camera? The woman was reading, essentially, a Barbecue for Dummies book, for God’s sake. She won’t know what she’s tasting, what she’s even looking for when a slew of sauces and various cuts of meats are offered to her. When she realized I was traveling with her, her palpable relief was a sure message that she thinks I’m here to support her, to help her through.
Well, guess what? I won’t. I studied my ass off to get where I am today. I learned; I watched. I took my turn getting the ego kicked out of me. Every once in a while I still get slapped upside the head—such is this business.
The worst part is: I can’t get too close to Victoria because I don’t know if I can control my imagination and my urges. I still think of what we did behind closed doors, above the sheets, under the bright chandelier lights.
The RV jolts as Victoria slams on the brakes. “Crap, sorry. The entrance is right here.” She flips on the blinker, and follows the signs to the Shasta-Trinity National Forest campground, marked by an etched rock perched upon tree logs.
The radio clicks on and Tara’s voice squeaks through. “Home sweet home, at least for the night. I’ll jump out and register us. Hold tight.”
I click to respond. “Roger. Out.”
Victoria idles the engine next to the registration sign, and Tara hops down from the Suburban behind us, striding over to the reception hut. Meanwhile, the cab is thick with awkwardness. Victoria’s examining her nails and avoids all eye contact with me. As the seconds pass, I get a pull in my stomach to say something. I need to apologize for being curt to her or these eight days are going to be torturous.
Enough already, Silva, be a pro.
But before I can open my mouth, Victoria beats me to it. “I know why you’re mad.” Her words are clipped. “Tara told me at the rest stop.” She must hear me take a breath to interrupt, because she shows me the palm. “But how you’re treating me now? It’s messed up. I get it, you wanted this job. But it’s mine, Joel, and I’m going to do my damnedest to make sure Olivia and her crew did not pick the wrong person. So now I’m asking you—are you going to be a sore loser? Or are you going to do your damnedest, too?”
She’s looking at me fiercely now, like she’s in the middle of a negotiation, expecting an answer. And frankly, I’m not sure what to say. I’m not finished being angry that I was outdone by a rookie who has limited knowledge of the food she is supposed to cover. Disappointment still weighs across my shoulders that I wasn’t good enough. And, now, I’m supposed to be able to hide her ignorance of barbecue from the public? Victoria is an open book. The camera will pick up her lack of barbecue knowledge. Why would the network choose her over me, a sure thing?
A whomp against my window takes our attention: Tara. When I roll the glass down, she hands me a tag. “Hang this on your rearview mirror. You guys will be parked in spot thirty-eight, and the Suburban will be in fifty, a couple of rows down. I guess they like to separate the tents from the larger vehicles. Go ahead and set up, and after we get the tents up, we’ll come to you so we can get the fire going.”
“See you in a bit.” Victoria says. We watch Tara jog back to the Suburban and get in.
I skim through the thin brochure and map of the campground. With tall oak and pine trees hiding the sun, it feels like dusk, and Victoria turns on the headlights for safety. We wind through a half mile of road before the RV area comes into view. The Suburban veers to the right, to the tent area.
“To the left,” I instruct, and we come to a space marked with our number.
Except it’s not the kind of space that we can pull through. “Crap. With where our connectors are, we have
to back into it.” Victoria says. “But without a backup camera . . .”
“I’ll do it.” Her accusation that I’m sore loser is sitting like a clump of cheese in the bottom of my belly. I’m far from it—the network made a mistake by not choosing me, and I’ll show her by parking this rig.
Yeah, I know it’s immature. But whatever.
“Fine.” Victoria climbs out of the cab and heads to the nose of the vehicle and begins her hand signals, gesturing toward her. The snap of her forearm is like the ground crew in a flight line. I go forward, and at the change of her signal, I back up. Then, she hikes a thumb to her right. I assume that’s the direction she wants for me to turn the wheel, but as the rig canters right, she shakes her head.
She signals for me to come out of the space again, and we start over. My heart speeds up as the rig inches back with me turning left and right to her seemingly random arm signals. Finally she flashes both palms with a scowl on her face. I slam my foot on the brake.
Sweat pooled under my armpits, I push on the emergency brake with my foot and hop down from the rig, finding I am nowhere near the hookups. “Fuck!”
Meanwhile, Victoria is still at the hood of the RV and has a hand on her hip like I’m parking a golf cart and should have been done days ago.
“Fine. Switch.” She dares.
I snicker. “You’re saying you want a shot at this? This is not as easy as you think. Not like that matchbox Mini Cooper your sister drives.”
Her eyes roll upward, impatient. “Do you want to park this correctly or not?”
“Have at it.”
I open the door for her and she climbs into the cab. She puts on her seat belt. “Point toward the side you want my butt to go. Got it?”
“So you don’t want me to do your fancy-schmancy hand movements?”
“They were basic hand signals. Left, right, forward, backward. Apparently, you are signal illiterate.” She rolls up the window to let me know her side of the conversation is over.
