by Tif Marcelo
If only my cohost and I could straighten ourselves out.
Victoria takes my side, to the right of the crowd, and Lowell positions the camera in front of us.
“Ready?” Tara asks.
I nod.
“Victoria?”
I look at my partner. She’s gone pale, eyes out into the crowd. “Oh my God.”
“What’s up?” I squint in the direction she’s looking.
“Shit. He’s here.”
“Who?”
“Luke.”
27
VICTORIA
The universe is playing a cruel trick on me. It’s either that or I’ve eaten another bad batch of potato salad, but instead of getting sick to my stomach, I’m having hallucinations.
Luke is here. Luke Graham.
“The Luke?” Joel whispers next to me.
Yes, the Luke. The Luke who strung me along for the better part of four months. Who sent me pictures online. Private, intimate pictures. The Luke who I sent pictures to. We had hours-long conversations via text, spoke on the phone in the middle of the night. The Luke who fooled me into thinking relationships created online, forged without touching the person for real, were authentic.
He made me believe in the philosophy that out of sight doesn’t have to mean out of mind. That what we couldn’t see in real life, we could still get. That love could be channeled through the pixels of the computer screen, and that words on the page were as solid and as valuable as gold.
While for some these are still valid truths, with Luke, they were simply lies.
Because of him, I’m not sure how I will ever be able to discern what is true and what is false when it comes to love.
“Are you sure it’s him?” Joel’s words are clipped, rough around the edges, as he scans the crowd.
“A hundred percent.” I can barely get the words out, my chest tight. Discomfort flows through my veins, a mix of rage, curiosity, and hurt.
I could spot him anywhere. Besides the daily pictures he sent me via texts and private messages, I committed to memory the way he looked when I saw him that day in Phoenix. It’s burned in my mind: Close-cropped sides with long, purposely disheveled hair on top. A carefully trimmed beard that I dreamt of running my fingers through. Deep-set eyes that used to strip me of my inhibitions, eyes that lured me into exposing my whole heart. We had an emotional, rather than a physical, relationship, where we relied on our words—spoken and written—to establish trust.
Trust he broke.
And now, standing behind the crowd that has formed around us, Luke’s gaze is leveled on me.
My chest feels constricted, like a ribbon’s been wrapped around my torso. I’m floundering and questions ping-pong inside of me. It’s been five weeks since my trip to Phoenix. Five.
Though the pain has dulled considerably, seeing him now is like ripping off a Band-Aid.
“It’s going to be okay.” Joel whispers so it’s only me who hears. “I’m here.”
Joel’s gaze is an anchor. It’s serious and unwavering, and it brings me back to this crucial moment when I’m going to be watched by hundreds of people. Our moments since finding out about the competition have been tense at best, but that all disappears.
It’s a reminder that Joel never has to say a word for me to find comfort in him. With him, it’s the actions that matter.
I believe him.
So I stare into those dark brown eyes of his and take a deep breath.
“You remember our plan, right?” he says. “You’re supposed to give me a run for my money.”
I jut my chin out. That’s right—this job is something I want. I’m going to kick this segment’s ass, and not for anyone else, but for me. Luke can’t take this away.
“You guys ready?” Tara takes her place next to Lowell. The lens of the camera pans over to us, and she gives us a count.
The red light turns on.
My cue.
Joel nudges me forward, and it’s like jumper cables, and from somewhere my voice returns.
“Welcome to West Coast BBQ. I’m Victoria—”
“And I’m Joel—”
I take a step forward to snag the limelight, and Lowell follows my cue and steps in closer. With my eyes focused on the tiny light above the front lens, where I pretend I’m speaking to my dearest vlog viewers who left me the most encouraging comments and who took my reviews to heart, I let myself be pulled into the moment. “Today, we’re in Gilroy, California. I know, I know—Gilroy? You’re thinking garlic, right? Well, now, there’s barbecue.” I throw an arm to the side and Lowell pans across the food-filled table and the chefs, then returns back to me. “We’re here at the first annual Gilroy barbecue festival, where the best restaurants from the area are keen to show you that there’s life after garlic.”
The camera swings to Joel and follows us as we approach the first vendor, Hog-ulous. The owner, Myra, a woman with her hair pulled back beneath a bandana and in forties-inspired clothing with makeup akin to Rosie the Riveter, hands me a plate. “Brisket with a little something special,” she coos.
And I swear, my mouth waters. Next to the brisket are greens and baked beans, and the combination of their scents wakes the synapses in my brain. While Joel asks about this restaurant’s departure from the old-school version of smoking by choosing to use a pellet smoker, I suddenly know exactly what to say.
Whether barbecue is growing on me, or if I’m just thankful to think of something other than Luke, I throw myself into the segment. My taste buds fire when Joel and I begin tasting, and I don’t hold back with my impressions of the dish.
“Aha, you’re feeling it, too, right?” Joel asks, as if we’re having a one-on-one conversation. “There’s something deeper going on with this brisket.”
“Yep. It’s the rub. This might sound silly, but it feels like a day in the orchard, of picking fruit.”
“It’s apples,” Myra says.
“I knew it. Apples and garlic and maybe a little cumin?”
Myra touches her nose, and her red lips part in a satisfied smile. “You got it.”
Inside, I fist-bump myself. Yes. I did it. It’s such a small accomplishment, but it’s one just the same, because it catapults Joel to ask Myra more about how long she’s been in business. From there, we move on to the next vendor, then to the next, allotting a couple of minutes for each one.
For the first time since the beginning of this trip, I feel completely at ease. Joel and I are like two halves of a whole, and we work together seamlessly. His passion propels me to keep up with his banter. We finish each other’s sentences. We make up for each other’s lost words. With the raised ante of our competition, we step up to perform, and our connection is electric and exciting. I’ve never seen Joel more animated the whole time I’ve known him.
That is, except behind closed doors, when he’s pulling my clothes off with abandon. When I have him in my hands and he’s got no choice but to enjoy. When he’s rocking in between my legs on the verge of climax.
Today’s foreplay is in front of the camera, and I’m equally turned on by it.
“Victoria?” Joel snaps me out of my thoughts.
Startled, I shift my feet and my face flushes. What was the last thing I said? Did I reveal what was going on in my head?
Joel, sensing my confusion, looks back at the camera. “And that’s it for today. Thank you for joining us here on West Coast BBQ. I’m Joel—”
Ah. I recover. “And I’m Victoria. And we hope you’ll join us in two days in Alford for the Central California Barbecue Food Truck Festival.”
As soon as Lowell lowers the camera, Tara is upon us, ecstatic and throwing out high fives and compliments. Though I’m breathless, Joel and I thank the crowd and vendors. We sign a few autographs, agree to selfies.
I don’t leave Joel’s side, following him when he ducks under one of the tents and makes conversation with Popping Pig’s pitmaster.
I know I’m stalling, but I need a breath, another jum
p start before I face Luke.
“You don’t want to walk out, do you?” Joel asks.
“No, I don’t.”
“I can go out there. If you’re uncomfortable, tell me and I’ll take care of it.”
My first thought is to take him up on his offer. It would take a simple please, and I know Joel would find a way to run Luke off.
My next thought? Joel and I have slept together. We have had amazing sex. He’s asking if Luke is important to me. He’s asking if I’m going to choose Luke over him. If I’m willing to risk Joel’s respect in order to find out the real truth from Luke.
“I have to talk to him.” I look down at my feet.
He frowns. “I was hoping you’d say you wanted me to beat his ass.”
My lips press into a grateful smile.
“What are you going to say?”
“I don’t know, honestly.” Scouring Joel’s face, I look for a blip of emotion as to how he feels about me, about us. But there’s nothing, except for suspicion of the man from my past who’s just shown up. “But yeah. I’ll catch an Uber back to the campsite. Will you let Tara know?”
“Yeah, sure. But, Victoria . . .”
“Yes?” I wait for the rest of his sentence, but instead, he shakes his head.
“Be careful.”
“Always.” I exhale, making room in my lungs for the strength I need to confront the man who’s hurt me the most.
28
JOEL
Pain shoots up my arm like a bolt of electricity. “Fuck.”
I rub my elbow and stare at the perpetrator: the towel bar in this miniature closet aka RV bathroom. I’m trying to maneuver my body so I can properly brush my teeth without killing myself.
“You okay in there?” Adrian’s voice is muffled through the door.
I roll my eyes but take my tone down to appreciative. The campground bathroom had a mile-long line, and Adrian was good enough to let me barge in even though he was already sound asleep. “Yeah. I’ll be out of your hair in a couple of seconds.” I wait for another response, and when I hear Adrian’s rumbling snore signaling his return to his afternoon nap, I breathe a sigh of relief.
For five days, I haven’t had any time to myself. Living and working with three—or four now—other people twenty-four/seven has brought me back to my time as a soldier in basic training. I’m living in a vortex, where my perspective is skewed and every little thing is pissing me off.
Like how this bathroom is so narrow I can touch opposite walls when I extend my arms outward in any direction. How this RV rocks no matter how gently I walk to the front door. How I can’t help but see Victoria, half naked, leaning against the counter of the kitchenette.
How I wish she were here and not with Luke.
Talk about a fucking sock in the gut. After a near-perfect segment where we were able to play off each other and where I swore the chemistry was palpable, she leaves to be with him.
I changed my own rules. I thought twice about walking away. I let her matter to me.
Not once did I think she would flip the tables.
And what did I do? Absolutely nothing. I saw how he was looking at her: he was proud of her; he grinned like he had something to do with her success, even if he had jack to do with it.
I didn’t say a damn thing because I didn’t think she would leave, and when she stepped out of the tent, I deflated into the man I was trying to move away from, the one who’d been all right with letting life and people pass him by.
I am such a dumbass. This is what I get for throwing myself into situations, for expecting more from others and from myself. Earlier today, when she laid our relationship on the line and called it what it was—temporary and casual—I’d gotten offended. But weren’t those the things I wanted? It was me who set the terms.
After throwing water on my face, I dry off my hands roughly on a towel, then walk out of the bathroom. The shades are drawn, and the only light in the rig is the lantern perched on the vinyl kitchen countertop. I tiptoe my way out and pass Adrian, a lump in his sleeping bag. It’s only 5 p.m., but this trip is taking its toll on the group, and we’re all exhausted.
When I open the rig door, I see the outline of a person crouching in front of the fire ring. Victoria. Except when I leap down the stairs, the outline takes the shape of a man.
Disappointment courses through me, but I drop into the chair across the fire ring. “Hey, Lowell. Didn’t think we were going to do a fire tonight.”
“Yeah, everyone’s tuckered out. Tara’s in her tent asleep, too.” He clicks on the long-nosed lighter, firing up the kindling in between logs. “I was craving a s’more though.”
“Well, shit, hook me up.” Realistically, I’m not going to be able to sleep tonight, not until Victoria gets back, anyway. This would be a good chance to catch up with Lowell after today’s segment. As a crew we watched the final product before our late lunch of Arby’s takeout, since our resident cook was gone.
I accept a marshmallow-loaded stick from him and wait for the roar of the fire to settle. “Great work today. What did you think?”
He gazes up at me through thankful eyes. “That means a lot, man. It was a rush, being the solo cameraperson. I was grateful for Tara; she knows what she’s doing.”
“Yep. She’s a little heavy on the school spirit, but otherwise, I trust her eye, and you should, too.”
“I’m still wondering what I like most. Film? Television? Journalism maybe? How did you know what you wanted to do?”
I stick my marshmallow into the fire. After a second, it catches, and I pull the stick out, twisting it to spread the burn until the marshmallow chars all the way around. The flame dissipates. “In the beginning I wasn’t picky about where I would go as a cameraman—I just wanted to work. I bounced around to different projects, then landed with Food Right Now. Been there for a couple of years doing reality-type and live stream gigs. Graham cracker?” I grab a couple of crackers from Lowell. “But, yeah, there’s a rush in journalism, in reality TV–type shows, or live stream. The entire environment has a level of stress, because you can’t re-create scenes. Film crews will say that they have their magical moments, too, but out on the road where you’re dealing with elements you can’t control, drama has its way of surfacing.”
He leans forward in his chair and extracts the marshmallow from his stick, playing with it first before popping it into his mouth. “I can see that. Like that last couple you shot: Bryn and Mitchell.”
I nod, biting into my s’more. “Exactly.”
“Or like you and Victoria.”
A cracker crumb gets caught in my throat. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Aren’t you hanging out waiting for her?”
I hedge my answer. “No. I was actually about to head to my tent but stopped to keep you company.”
“Hm-mm.”
My muscles tense at the insinuation. “What do you mean, hm-mm?”
He shrugs. “Didn’t say a thing.” Settling back into his chair, he spins around, as if to see if anyone is within earshot. He changes seats to the one next to me.
“I know your secret,” he whispers.
I imitate his eagerness but make sure to top it off with sarcasm. “What secret?”
“You know . . . that there’s something going on between you and Victoria. I mean, that’s the reason why Olivia Russell decided to put the both of you in the shot, right? You two have some mad chemistry from where I’m standing.”
“Yeah? Well, your view is a little skewed. There’s nothing going on between us. We knew each other before this gig, so there’s going to be some chemistry, but not like you think.”
“If you say so.” He laughs.
I feign ignorance, though irritation courses through me. Are we that obvious to the whole world, and what does the rest of the crew know? I gobble the last couple of bites of the s’more, and stand. “I’m gonna get rid of the garbage. Take care of the fire for me?”
“No pr
ob.”
“And I’d appreciate you not spreading that thing about Victoria and me around, because you’re wrong, you know.”
“Got it. Your secret is safe with me.” He gives me a thumbs-up.
I hoist myself to my feet and haphazardly gather napkins, empty soda cans, and bottles of water from the picnic table. Worry nags at me that our newest cameraman might know too much, but I push it aside when I pass by the RV window and hear Adrian’s rumbling snores.
I check my phone. Four hours have passed. Where is she?
After tying up the garbage bag, I send Vic a text message: Fair warning. Adrian took your bed. I’m grabbing your sleeping bag and throwing it into his tent.
And I do exactly what I say in the text, taking my time and waiting for the phone to buzz with a response in my pocket, though it doesn’t come.
Still antsy, I grab the garbage and hike out to the campground entrance to unload both it and my annoyance off my shoulders.
29
VICTORIA
I’d imagined my reunion with Luke completely differently in my head. I’d anticipated it happening over a month ago. My plan was to swoop into Phoenix in the warm August sun in my favorite sundress, the hot wind against my cheeks. Luke would have been rightly shocked at my unannounced appearance at La Vie where he was a sous chef—I’d pieced together the bits of information he had revealed over the months—but he would have taken me into his arms anyway, amid the applause of his coworkers. We were going to live together happily ever after.
Yes, I have a slight penchant for dramatics. My underlying logic reminds me that the ideal scene was fairytale-like at best, but at the very least, Luke would have received my arrival with such joy and relief that he would have lifted me off my feet and given me a hug to end all hugs. At the absolute minimum, if he ended up being more of an introvert than I guessed he was, his elation would have been written all over his face.
