by Tif Marcelo
Except privacy. Home Warehouse is the place where everything goes down. Where couples fight over what kind of tile should go in the kitchen, where babies cry for hours because it takes that long to figure out what wattage of light bulb the back porch needs. Everyone coming into this place has a story.
Ours just happens to be all over the Net.
“Okay, so what’s first on the list?” Bryn’s voice is cheerful, a good start. We’re hanging near the cash registers as Joel and Joey speak to the manager and Hank sets up the video and audio mixer in a corner of the store. I wasn’t sure how she was going to act the rest of the day after getting a ticket and then meeting Cody, who surprised the shit out of me by working today.
Which, I have to admit, was perfect. Although I’ll never say it, watching this woman become stunned after getting pulled over gave me as much of a thrill as seeing her moan.
“Mitchell?” Bryn cuts in.
“Ceiling fans,” I spit out. Get ahold of yourself, man. “Six of them. I think I know where they are.”
Once Joel and Joey join us, I lead her to the lighting section. As we stroll, I notice the slow stares, the slight turn of heads. While Joey is guiding Joel so the camera is mostly on us, we pass a woman with a basket of flowers who raises her brows in recognition. A man next to a barbecue grill halts midinspection of the sales tag and narrows his eyes at us, as if trying to place us.
The vibe’s changing, so I take advantage of the walk. I slip an arm over Bryn’s shoulders and sloppily hook her neck, bring my face down to her hair. She smells like clean sheets and shampoo, taking me right to our night together. Her earlobe is so close, and with the camera on us, I could get away with a kiss. Yet I simply whisper, “We’re being watched.”
She stiffens but doesn’t push me away. After I let up, she threads her arm around my waist, then wraps her other arm around me in front. It’s a lock and key effect that allows us to walk smoothly, and we do for a few feet, with me pushing the cart with one hand. I’m literally in her hold.
I know we’re doing a good job fooling the camera, and for a second, I wonder where the real stuff ends and the acting begins. Because I can’t tell. What we’re doing feels so perfectly natural, it’s physically painful to let her go when we get to the lighting section.
We discuss the importance of different types of lighting, the speed the fans should rotate. Humdrum stuff, but Bryn is all about the budget and getting the most for her money. After deciding on the one she wants, she presses the red button for an associate to help us.
In our periphery, I see an associate in the store’s distinct orange apron approach Joey and hand her a piece of paper. Once he’s presumably cleared and now with a microphone clipped onto his shirt, he walks up to us, and in front of the camera.
The associate—Kent, as handwritten on his apron—is breathless. “I can’t believe this. Bryn and Mitch of Paradise in the Making. My friends are going to die.”
“That’s us,” Bryn answers cheerfully, without a hint of sarcasm. Amazing how she’s so nice to strangers but insists on busting my chops each and every moment of my life. “Could we get six of these fans, please?”
Kent’s eyes light up. “Yeah, lemme call back to make sure we have enough in stock; otherwise, we’re going to have to put in a special order. But, wow. Okay. Hold up.” He talks into his radio, then stuffs it into his apron. “They’ll ping right back. While we wait, can I get a selfie with you both? It’s rare we get celebrities here.”
Bryn and I oblige, protesting that we’re hardly celebrities. Kent’s phone appears from under his apron, camera turned so we’re all in the screen, the crew included. At the count of three, we all smile to the camera’s click.
“I have an Instagram and have just shy of a thousand followers. I’ll make sure to tag you. But wait. Can we do another one . . . with you kissing?”
“Um, well—” I start to say.
Bryn cuts in. “Sure, why not?”
What? I almost fumble the list in my hand, but I don’t argue.
I know, I’m an ass. I shouldn’t revel in the opportunity for a kiss, but there’s no hiding that when the woman touches me, I verge on combusting. It’s been a day since our last kiss—too long, in my opinion—and if I can’t get it the way normal couples do, I’ll take it the fake way.
Even when she says impatiently, “Do you expect me to come up to you or something?”
“You heard the woman,” Kent exclaims, and suddenly the guy is my new best friend. He centers the camera on us and nods for us to start kissing. Bryn reaches up, her soft fingers finding the back of the neck. It zaps me straight awake, and I’m in her utter control. I lower my head and shut my eyes as soon as our lips touch.
I expect her to break away after a peck. When she’s still with me after one, two, three seconds, I settle into what my body has deemed muscle memory. Though the kiss remains chaste, with very little tongue, I nibble lightly over her bottom lip. Everything falls away, leaving an insatiable hunger for her. Only this precarious thing called the public keeps me from assuming full lion form and tearing her clothes apart.
“You guys are so cute.” Kent’s voice cuts through Bryn and me, a thin slice of reality in this fantasy moment. Bryn settles back on her feet and I straighten, feeling the cool AC from above and now the attention she and I have attracted.
A gaggle of people are stomping toward us, and in front is none other than . . .
“Granny.” I choke on air. My grandmother, who took care of me as a child. The one who taught me everything about treating women with respect. I wince at the lecture that’s sure to come about PDA. Even if she wanted me married yesterday with three bouncing babies, she believes in good, proper behavior. “I, uh . . .”
Joey guides me and Bryn to the end of the aisle with the cameraman, now solely trained on us. We pretend to look at another set of light fixtures as she manages the crowd. Kent updates us on Bryn’s ceiling fans and schedules a delivery date at his computer.
Finally, Joey gives us a signal that we can return, and as we approach the crowd, Granny rushes at Bryn like she’s her long-lost granddaughter. And damn, that’s probably what she honestly thinks this is all about. That finally, her matchmaking worked and we’re on our way to the altar.
“I’m so happy for you both. I just knew you were meant to be.” Granny holds Bryn’s hands as if it’s all a done deal and we’ve announced our engagement.
The crowd surrounds Bryn, and I’m pushed aside. Phones are out, some high in the air for a good view of the live stream celebrity herself.
Granny turns into a morning television host. “And just think, everyone, the retreat will be open in about a month. Can you tell us what kind of cooking classes you’ll be offering?”
Bryn beams from under this spotlight. She answers everyone with confidence, feeding into all of their questions, like what kind of view each room will have, the culinary classes the chef will teach, the different Filipino foods guests will learn to cook and eventually eat.
Looking in now as an outsider, I get why Laurel snagged Bryn for this live stream project. Bryn is positively stunning in her element. The crowd soaks her up, thirsty for her passion, promising to bring their girls’-night-out, quilting, and writers groups.
It’s apparent that nothing is going to stop Bryn. Whether it’s this retreat or another project, she’s got the resilience of a soldier, moving forward through mud and live ammo, three-digit weather and lack of sleep. She’s doing it now, faking this relationship, lying to everyone. For her, and for me, too.
It makes me feel like an asshole, but so proud at the same time. I might not have contributed to her success, but witnessing it is magic on its own.
Her strength fuels my own bravado. If she can do this—start over all by herself, take on a massive project alone, and make sacrifices for her passion—I can, too.
With her
as my beacon, I move through the crowd, gently pawing my way through the spectators and Home Warehouse workers. Bodies part like a wave in high tide. Hyperaware of the cameras and the bystanders, I keep my face still as the last month and a half flips through my mind: finding the vineyard in distress, scrambling to make the most of the property with what we have left, faking a relationship for money.
I came home to take my turn at our family business. But what if this turn means finally listening to myself and the subtle messages that have been planted in my mind? What if I learned to trust my instincts once again?
When Bryn sees me coming through the crowd, her face softens. Whether or not it’s all an act, it pushes me over the line, to make this spur-of-the-moment decision.
To take a risk as big as she is making.
I scoop her hand into mine, kiss the tops of her knuckles. While a sincere move on my part, it ignites catcalls in the room, bringing a blush over Bryn’s cheeks.
And damn did that make my chest puff up in pride. I did that to her.
I do that to her.
She blinks up at me. “You ready to go, honey?”
“Yes, we have to.” I turn to the crowd. “I hope you all will excuse us, but we’ve got another page on our list to get to. Thank you for supporting Paradise in the Making, and we hope you’ll come visit us at Paraiso and Dunford.”
“Mitchell?” Granny’s voice dominates the crowd. It verges on panic, a sure sign she’s excited by my words. “What do you mean by that? Dunford’s closed.”
“Temporarily closed. I’ve decided to reopen Dunford. Dunford, the winery.”
Granny starts to clap, giving rise to a wave, first from her friends next to her, who have seen the fall of the winery and vineyard, to the associates at Home Warehouse, who don’t have a clue. To Bryn, who has only heard part of the story but knows what I’ve declared is a big deal.
How I’m going to break this to my brothers, I don’t know. But right now, with Bryn’s hand in mine, I can move mountains.
23
BRYN
It feels like I’m climbing Everest. It takes mammoth effort to breathe, my limbs deprived of much-needed oxygen. Though Mitchell and I ended our banner two weeks together on live stream with views reaching the targeted two million after our trip to the Home Warehouse, and our friendship, though still in limbo, is liberating and fun and easy, this morning, I can’t get out of bed.
How does one day shift from the summer heat to the frigid cold? How does the tide go from a gentle roar to an undertow that can bring down the best of swimmers?
It just does, sometimes without warning. And despite surrounding myself with lists and tasks, with Mitchell’s breezy and relaxed vibe, my body fails me anyway, so attuned to this calendar day.
It knows today is July 10.
My view is of a dark curtained room. I bought blackout curtains to help with sleep, since sunlight proliferates on this side of the house. And yet it’s still too bright. I can still see me. I can still see her. My memory of that day is so damn clear, in HD and surround sound.
The phone buzzes next to my head and vibrates on the dresser that finally arrived yesterday, so I no longer have a camp chair next to my bed. It’s a testament to the passing days and Paraiso’s steady progress. Every delivery has been on time. Our contractors have made every deadline, miraculously. Food Right Now’s first paycheck posted before the weekend, and when I read the total of the business’s account balance, I cried.
I have money. I have everything I’ve ever wanted for this start-up.
But still.
Money doesn’t solve everything. Sure, it fulfills physical needs. It buys clout. It eases the mind. But the soul? It doesn’t do shit for it.
The knock on the door is swift and panic induced. “Bryn?”
Mitchell. God, not now. I sling my arm across my face.
“Bryn, I know you’re in there because I’ve been sitting downstairs waiting for you for the better part of an hour and I heard the toilet flush at least once.”
I still don’t answer. Maybe if I stay silent long enough, he’ll go away. Eighteen hours is all I need to get me through to 12:01 a.m. tomorrow and everything will back to normal, and the Bryn everyone expects will be perfectly fine.
Because isn’t that what type-A eldest daughters are for? They’re there to rely on, for crucial and helpful advice, to turn to for assistance. First daughters are the strong ones, ready to replace a parent in any situation. Maternal and mature for their age, all with an alarming confidence as attributed by birth order theories.
Most days I subscribe to these theories. I’m happy to take on the role.
Today is not one of those days.
So I flop over to my belly, tuck my arms under my pillow, and envision balloons. A million of them, each attached to a string, all held by me.
“One,” I whisper. In my thoughts, I let go of one string, and the balloon attached to it rises to the sky.
“Two.” A blue balloon this time. My mind’s eye follows its trajectory as it arcs upward. “Three.”
This was the way I was taught to fall sleep. Let go of those balloons is what my mother used to say. All my worry encased in supple latex, keeping it contained until it’s up in the stratosphere where it can’t hurt me.
And yet I’m still in pain. I count up to twenty-three, and my heart still feels like it’s breaking.
“Mary Bryn Aquino.”
Mitchell again. His voice makes my subconscious self let go of my balloons all at once, and my eyes fly open at the thought of surrendering. I sit up in bed, heart pounding.
Because I don’t want these feelings to quit either. I wish the significance of this day never existed, but the idea of forgetting is even more devastating. “Go away, Mitchell.”
“I’m not going anywhere. Bryn, I talked to Victoria.”
I shake my head, incredulous. “Where is Victoria anyway?”
“She’s in Tahoe.”
“Tahoe again?” Whenever my brain comes back to life I’ll need to ask her what the hell her plans are. She’s been off to God knows where these days.
“You’re changing the subject.”
“I wasn’t even talking to you.”
Exasperation filters through the door. “Your sister told me about your mom, that today’s the anniversary of her death.”
“Did she tell you it was me who found her?”
After a beat, Mitchell says regretfully, “Yes.”
“I will never forget her face—it was so peaceful. She simply lay down for a nap and never woke up.” Anger blindsides me, giving me just enough energy to pull off the covers. Of course Victoria told him. My sister can take grief and turn it into hope that feeds into itself. She also thinks that since Mitchell’s my man, he has a right to my story, when the absolute awful truth is no one has a right to it but me. No one can understand how it feels to find your mother gone after a short nap on the couch. Without warning, without a clue.
I drag myself out of bed, shuffle across the room, and put my hand on the doorknob, but run out of strength. My body pushes me to the floor, and I sit cross-legged, back against the door. “So what did you expect to do, Mr. Fix-it? Tell me what your expert thoughts are in this exact situation. You know everything, right?”
It’s a dare, and we both know it. Mitchell can’t fix this situation even if I give him all of the puzzle pieces. Which means everything he says will be the wrong answer. I’m donning my boxing gloves, ready to unload on him, because he’s the best fighter I’ve found in a long, long time. My breath picks up, hollow and expecting.
I hear the echo of his body against the door, sliding down with the same melancholy muffle.
He’s taken a seat. I imagine him on a split screen, my back against his, in this same lonely position. He’s probably wondering what the hell he got himself into.
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His voice is resigned. “I don’t know everything. But I have a pretty good idea how you’re feeling right now. It seems the easiest thing to do, to hole yourself up in your room. I get you need time to process today, that you want to be alone, but I’m not leaving you. Won’t go anywhere, even if you yell at me.”
“It’s going to be a long day for you, Mitchell.”
“Eh, got nothing going on that’s more important than this.”
I let my face fall into my hands, frustration making its way through my fingers. He’s wrong and he’s lying. He’s got a whole vineyard to clean up. He’s got a business plan to tend to. “God, Mitchell, just go. Why do you care so much?”
A laugh reverberates through the door. “Are you kidding me right now? Sure I care. C’mon, you and me, we’re a couple, fake or not. We’re on the same team, which makes you my battle buddy. Think I won’t have these bad days, too? Because when I do, I expect you to park your ass outside my door, Aquino. We don’t leave each other behind.”
Realization descends like a heavy cloud. There’s an entire community waiting for me to show up this morning. “Fuck. The crew. They’ll be here in a couple of hours.”
“I’ll tell them there’s no show today. Or I’ll do it all by myself if I have to. I’ll tell them you’re sick and contagious. Don’t worry.”
A snicker weasels its way out of me, defiant. Worrying is my Olympic sport. My entire livelihood is on the line. This showing up every day is now even more critical than before.
He says it before I can answer. “I know you’ll worry anyway. Look, I promise I won’t make any decisions about the house. Although that salmon color on the walls would look wonderful against all of the white in the kitchen, don’t you think?”
I’m brought back to our disagreement a few days ago at the Home Warehouse about paint colors. I invariably chose a light gray that’s soothing and bright, whereas Mitchell insisted on a hideous orange terra-cotta color. “I swear . . .”
