by Tif Marcelo
“I’m sure Seth’s going to love having you pick him up from school.” Again, with the “loose ends.” I tamp down the suspicion of what this means and I nod toward the middle of the street, where Lowell is standing. He flashes his pointer finger and signs the number zero. Ten minutes before showtime.
Which doesn’t leave any time to talk about us.
We step toward Lowell. “Do you want to go over what we should talk about?” I ask.
Joel lets out a breath as we walk up the line of trucks. “I know these guys already. Bacon Junkie over there? They started out smoking in their backyard, and they love oranges in everything—their marinade, in the smoke. Hot to Touch? They slather so much sauce over their meat that it drips. It’s disgusting in my opinion, but people love it . . .”
There’s an excitement in his voice. In his true element now in his hometown, he’s acting like the mayor, waving to passersby and stopping occasionally to speak to a vendor. As we discuss the details—I negotiate taking the first interview because I’d already spoken to the owner earlier that morning—I notice a distance. Joel’s acting like he was the first day of our trip, polite but curt. He’s avoiding direct contact with me; he stands a step too far away.
He’s disengaging emotionally, which hollows out my chest and raises my hackles all at once. I need to be on my toes today. Despite our own drama, Joel’s still out for blood, and I’m not going to let him take mine.
“These truckers are pretty gruff, but don’t let them get to you, okay?” Joel fixes the neckline of his shirt.
“I think I can handle myself. I’ll be fine. Good luck to you.”
He opens his mouth to retort, but Tara shows up with the phone against her ear. She snaps her fingers for us to get started.
Once we get our cue, Joel begins. “Welcome to another segment of West Coast BBQ. I’m Joel.”
“And I’m Victoria,” I say with a smile.
“We’ve made the trek inland to the first annual Central California Barbecue Food Truck Festival.”
I jump in, although we’d agreed for him to take the introduction. “Just think of the deliciousness: BBQ Frito pie. BBQ French fries. BBQ pulled-pork tacos. And can you imagine eating all that good food with this view? It’s like we are in the Wild West. I did a once-over of the trucks this morning, and though we can’t feature all of them today, I want you all to think about how creatively these truckers have to transport their food. C’mon, let’s go inside and visit one.”
Joel physically steps in front of me, practically pushing me out of the camera’s view. “But before we do, let’s discuss the festival. Although this is the first annual, the food truckers you see lined up here have been hitting the streets for years. These tiny central California towns are full of way more foodies than you think.”
The gall of him taking over is fuel for me to interrupt him right back. But Joel rides this wave in the segment like a play-by-play sportscaster, in a fluid, conversational way. He knows his stuff, and he’s positively glowing. Even I get caught in his spell.
I know at that instant he deserves the next job, and the passion I see in him now is exactly how I feel about writing, despite my lack of it these last weeks.
The sun shines a smidge brighter, and the sounds behind me mute to white noise. My writing. I have to fight for it as hard as Joel’s fighting for this job now. He said he’d let life pass him by, and this job is the thing that brought him from the side of the road.
I can’t let my writing go.
I’m nudged by Joel, and I realize we’re in front of Superpig’s door. Right. My turn.
I knock, introduce the truck crew to the camera, and enter. Lowell can’t come in all the way because the space is minuscule, but he zooms in as Frank, the owner, gives me a tour and I talk about the features of the truck.
Joel jumps into the truck and extends his hand to me. I take it and he twirls me around once, the breath whooshing out of my body. “Talk about putting Baby in the corner; there’s barely enough room for two people to dance. This is a tight space, ten by fourteen feet. Bravo to our food truckers.”
By the end of the segment, my throat is parched, I’ve exhausted my vocabulary, and my cheeks hurt from smiling. My and Joel’s teamwork was off the charts, and it shows in Tara’s beaming smile and Lowell’s excitement to get the footage sent over to be edited.
I pull off my microphone and spot Joel with a crowd of women, who part when they see me coming.
“This is the better half of our show.” Joel cheeses it up.
I grin in response to the comments and questions. After I’m handed a pen, I sign arms and take selfies. Normally, I’m down for this. I love the attention, but I want time alone with Joel. I’m chock-full of pride in the both of us, and whether it’s the high of today’s segment, or my naïveté calling once again, I want to know the answer to the question I posed to him last night. Would he ever be ready for more than a casual affair? Am I just imagining this deep connection between us?
Joel puts his hand on my lower back and guides me toward a woman. “Victoria, this is Jocelyn, my sister.”
I freeze. His sister.
I have a huge high-maintenance family. They’re loud and rambunctious and opinionated and nosy. They’re a part of me that my friends and love interests have to accept, but there’s so many of us that the pressure is less, I think. Knowing Joel only has Jocelyn and his nephew, Seth, I’m pressed to make a good impression.
I want her to like me. I’m not his girlfriend, but I’m his partner in this gig. If he’s as close to her as I am to my sister, then she already knows we were together and are now in competition.
Jocelyn’s a couple of inches shorter than Joel, though she has the same dark, thoughtful eyes and full lips. Her hair’s painted with soft highlights that give dimension to her thick, dark shoulder-length cut. She greets me with a smile that immediately puts me at ease, so I offer my hand.
Instead, she hugs me. “Joel’s told me so much about you.”
I’m taken aback by the affection. It’s usually me who’s more forthcoming, but after a beat I return the embrace. “Oh, God, hopefully it’s only good things.” I peek up at the man next to me. My heart races as I wonder what he said.
“Joc. Don’t even.” To me, Joel says, “I mentioned that you’re a cutthroat cohost.”
She steps back and gives me a once-over, grinning. “He said that you’re amazing and talented and beautiful, and I completely agree.” She turns to Joel. “We’ve got a few minutes before we have to pick up Seth. Meet you at the Jeep?” When Joel nods, she turns to me, hugs me once more. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I hope I see you again.”
Amazing, talented, and beautiful. What is that supposed to mean? “Likewise.”
My brain is muddled with my shift of emotions as Joel and I handle the last of the meet and greet. As soon as we’re alone, he turns to me. “That was a great segment. You were awesome.”
“It was both of us. We totally flowed. I especially loved the Dirty Dancing reference.”
“Couldn’t help it.” His lips quirk up. “You’re definitely making it hard for me to beat you.”
“About that. Tomorrow . . .”
“Tomorrow. The final test.”
“In more ways than one,” I mumble, then lift my eyes to meet his. To figure out what he’s feeling. “It’s our last day.”
“I know,” he winces. “Listen. I need to go, but I’ll be back at the campground tonight. Can we talk then?”
Worry floods me. “Of course.”
He leans down, catching me off guard. When the warmth of his lips brushes against my cheek, I’m jolted with panic. He’s risked the crew seeing us—is this the final kiss?
As I watch him walk away one thing becomes clear: I don’t want it to be our last.
34
JOEL
My sister doesn’t hold back. “I love her. She’s beautiful, sharp. Her personality when the camera’s on her is so down-to-earth. And she o
bviously likes you, too.”
We’re leaning against a tree in front of Alford Elementary School. We came straight from the festival since it’s a half day at Seth’s school, and Jocelyn has yet to shut up, taken by Victoria. “What are you going to do?” she asks.
“I don’t know.” I reach up to a branch and feel the bark against my fingers. “No matter what happens, I’m fucked.” I lower my voice as I feel the faces of parents turn toward me. Whoops. “If I get this gig, I’m the bad guy, but if I lose it, I’m out the chance to get the next part of my life off the ground. The cross-country show is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. I want to be a host. I’m sure of it now . . .” I shake the thoughts loose in my brain. “It’ll set me up for the next phase of my career.”
“Right now, what you’re doing? It’s also once in a lifetime. You don’t need this cross-country trip to validate what you already know you can do. Even if you’re not hired for the next job, why couldn’t you do it yourself? As a freelancer, you can make your own schedule, your own plans.”
“That sounds romantic and all, but let’s not forget the crux of all of this: money. People who freelance make squat for a long time. Let’s not forget how much time it took for you to get off the ground . . .”
“Whoa. Hold your horses right there.” She holds a finger up at me. “Sure, it took a while for my graphic design business to take off, but that happens in every industry. You give and take; there are always pros and cons. But you don’t hold yourself back because of fear. Bottom line: you shouldn’t let this job keep you from Victoria. A job is a job. Money is money. But people? People are forever.”
The bell rings, interrupting Joc, allowing me to breathe. Whenever our conversations round to this, I feel my defenses rise, the bricks piling upon themselves so I can hide behind them. To distract myself, I focus on the kids lined up in front of the school. Seth is first in line, hands waving and on his tiptoes, his teacher bent at the waist as he shows her where we are. I wave back.
Jocelyn waves, too. “Both Seth and I have appreciated all you’ve done for us, helping me when I needed you, but we’re not yours to take care of anymore, Joel.”
“What are you talking about? Of course you are. You’re my family.”
“Nothing will change that. I admit—I wish you were always home. I wish you could celebrate every holiday with us. I wish that when something broke around the house, I could call you to fix it because I hate doing that stuff. And the garbage—I wish you could pull it to the curb every Monday. But that doesn’t mean you’re my protector and provider. I don’t know how much differently I can tell you this, since I keep trying to, on the phone and in email and by pulling your furniture under the carport.” She shakes her head. “But I am a grown woman, and Seth is my son.”
The kids are let go one by one, and Seth exits the gate. He doesn’t wait for me to bend down but instead launches himself onto my hip, awkwardly crawling up my back. He smells like sun and hand sanitizer. He squeals. “Uncle Joel!”
“Hey, bud. Want to help me get ready for my trip to San Diego tomorrow?”
“Do you have to go?” he whines.
“Yes, he does.” My sister ruffles his hair. “He’s got to go and do his own thing, bud. In fact, I think I’m going to help him pack up his stuff.”
I cut my eyes to my sister. “Pack up my stuff?”
“Yeah, you know, to help you get into your new place, wherever that may be. Or to storage.”
“Are you moving, Uncle Joel?”
My sister nods for me.
“You’re kicking me out?” I glare at her.
“Uh-huh.” She cackles. “You are so bad at reading the signs. Hello, it’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. You can’t boomerang back to Alford anymore, brother, and I’m going to make it hard to. The storage facility is literally down the street. One U-Haul trip and it’s done.”
“But you’ll still come and visit, right?” Seth wiggles down my back.
“Course.” My sister answers for me. “As a visitor.”
I turn Seth in the direction of the Jeep, parked a quarter of a block away. “See the car? The door’s open. Go.”
Seth takes off down the sidewalk.
My sister slinks her arm around mine. “I’m done being your reason to keep coming back.”
“You’re no such thing.”
“That’s bull. I’m the first to say that we wouldn’t have such an amazing Seth without you being a great example to him. And, yes, you’ll continue to have a hand in raising him. But I’ve got it—I’ve had it together for a very long time.
“I want you to move out, completely. Find your home elsewhere, where you belong. The thing I learned with having a baby so early in my life? There are going to be shitty things that happen on this road. Detours, wrong turns, and accidents are inevitable, and you’ve got to pull over and regroup. But it doesn’t mean you don’t keep trying to stay on course. Your ex messed you up, and, well, after you pulled over to regroup from her, you kept yourself there, thinking you were fixing me and Seth. But you never had to.”
My breath gets lodged in my chest as everything she says catches up to me. Have I been stalling all these years? I knew I was keeping myself safe because I didn’t want another Dear John letter in my life. I didn’t think I could handle it. I didn’t think I deserved it. But the only thing that comes out of my mouth is, “Where am I going to live?”
Her grin spreads across her face. “That’s the thing. Anywhere. Everywhere.” She shoves me to the side. “Race you to the car.” But before I can prep myself, she’s off and running. Of course. She beats me to the door and explodes in laughter, sticks her tongue out like she used to when we were kids.
“You’re a brat,” I say. I help Seth buckle up and shut the door.
“I know. But I’m a brat who’s right, aren’t I?”
I sigh, hooking up my seat belt. “Maybe.”
“Good. It’s time for you to get the heck out of my house and figure out what to do with that gorgeous cohost of yours.”
35
VICTORIA
Seated at the picnic table under the RV awning, I watch the sun begin to dip behind the mountains. Campers are settling in after their day out; they’re building their fires, starting up their grills. The crew is split up—in their tents or in the RV watching TV—and Joel’s still with his sister. It’s a perfect scenario to write, especially with such a successful segment. I came home inspired and hopeful.
But this dreaded blog post is still unfinished.
Scratch that, I succeeded in putting words on the page. I created a post that was fluffy and sweetly optimistic, a play-by-play of how I got on West Coast BBQ.
But I erased it. I can’t gloss over the weeks when my mind was in a haze, my heart broken. I also can’t omit to mention how much I’ve changed in the last five weeks, how my emotions have swung like a pendulum, and how Joel has played such a massive part in it. How do I encompass the complete story, with all the details? How do I reveal the lessons I learned from my negative experiences? This would require me to change the vibe of my blog, pull it back from its currently staged, beautiful photos and perfectly manicured words and reveal the truth.
In record time. I’ve only got till tomorrow to post it before Eleanor pulls her ad.
So I do what I do best when I procrastinate. I clean.
I shut down my laptop and walk to my tent, stuff my laundry in the duffel, and trudge my way over to the campground laundry facilities. It’s always a crapshoot as to how many people are using them, and I’m pleased to find when I peek in the windows that there’s only one person in there: Tara.
Seeing her reminds me that tomorrow is the last day of this gig, which means that in less than twenty-four hours we’ll have one last high five. Tomorrow’s breakfast will be the last I’ll make for the crew, who I’ve gotten to know intimately the last seven days.
I’ve done my share of work-related road trips, and being away from home has never been a
challenge, but I’d done them on my own. I would reunite with friends at destinations, meet new people along the way that I’d keep in touch with. But the RV with its new tire and broken radio has been home, and these people have become my family.
Tara does a double take and waves me in, and when I enter, I’m hit with the humidity of the dryers.
“Hey, perfect timing.” She’s folding her laundry and is already in a T-shirt and pajama bottoms. I notice something slick on her nose. She touches it. “Aloe vera. Damn sun.”
I toss my laundry into the washing machine and laugh. “Perfect timing for what?”
“I was thinking. It’s too hot for a fire tonight, and since we’re eating leftovers and dry goods to use up our supplies, I thought that maybe we should have a little bit of a farewell. We go our separate ways tomorrow after the segment, and I thought we should have some fun.” She stuffs her folded clothing into her red backpack and shrugs. “Yeah?”
I raise an eyebrow. “What kind of fun?”
“The kind in a brown bag,” she whispers. “What can I say? I know I said no partying, but I’m being a rebel.”
“Let’s do it.”
“Great.” She zips up her bag and walks toward the door. “Joel should be here soon. Meet you outside in a bit?”
I nod, watching Tara walk out, and beyond her, Joel’s outline materializes from the path. I forget what I’m doing for a moment, quarters clutched in my palm. He has a big smile on his face, a backpack slung over his shoulder. So comfortable now, unlike the first day or so, when we fought like cats. Sure, I bonded with the team, but it’s Joel who I will desperately miss on all levels.
After starting the load, I walk out to the campsite. I avoid Joel’s eyes though I can feel the heat of his gaze on my face. Tonight is our last night; I’m anticipating and dreading the occasion.
Does he feel it, too?
The group is already around the circle though we don’t have a fire lit in the middle, and I plop down into the first open chair, next to Joel. Tara is handing everyone a brown bag. I stick my hand inside, and my fingers jam into something ice-cold. I pull out a pint of Ben and Jerry’s ice cream as the rest of the crew does the same.
