East in Paradise

by Tif Marcelo

  I roll my eyes. “My God, is it tight in here? Someone’s way too big for their britches.”

  Mitchell’s all smiles, in a chatty mood once we get our seat belts on. It almost feels entirely normal, like we never fought.

  Like we’ve always been together.

  32

  MITCHELL

  I’m a motormouth on double time, with my nerves shot. On top of my remorse over Bryn’s and my fight last night, my anxiety over this retirement ceremony kept me awake. Add a couple of cups of coffee before seven in the morning and then finding out my only mode of transportation decided to kick the bucket, and I’m a hell of a mess. A mess of a guy who won’t shut the hell up.

  In between my blathering about God knows what, I sneak glances at Bryn. Eyes on the road, she nods and answers me with short-phrased questions. She inquires about our winery plans, imparts sage advice about customer service. We discuss King Lear and the last present he left me on my front step. And we talk about Paraiso, how it’s shaping up to be the hottest thing east of Sacramento.

  Damn, when she decided on a truce, she meant it. There’s not a trace of bitterness in her voice from our fight.

  So every mile we clock on the odometer, the bigger of an asshole I feel. Every minute at her side, having a normal conversation, I’m proven how wrong I was.

  Bryn isn’t selfish. She doesn’t use people. She doesn’t treat people like they’re on a checklist. Bryn’s the woman her family looks up to. She’s the woman I’m discussing my own business plans with at the moment, and despite all the shit we’ve said to each other, she’s willing to share her thoughts.

  “I was a jerk.” My apology bursts from my lips, interrupting her. “I was pissed. So damn angry, because you were right—”

  She glances at me. “I was a jerk, too.” Her lips curl. “No wonder we make such a good couple to watch on live stream.”

  In more ways than one. “Granny told me once her friends loved to watch us bicker. They placed bets as to who would concede first.”

  “Nuh-uh.”

  “They always bet against me.”

  She pumps her fists. “Oh yeah. Go, Granny. I knew she was awesome, but I didn’t realize she was the best grandmother ever.”

  “Har-har.” I relax back into the seat, excitement fading. The rolling country view has changed to the cityscape of Sacramento. It passes us like an iceberg of silver—big buildings and sprawling suburbs of cookie-cutter homes. It’s a wake-up call that civilization is simply up and over a few hills.

  It also means San Francisco is a couple of hours away.

  Sweat drenches the back of my neck and my chest. I can do this. These ceremonies are old hat. The same sequence: the national anthem, an emcee introducing the soldier and their accomplishments. A high-ranking officer awarding their retirement award. And then it will be my turn, a few short minutes when I’m supposed to impart something wise.

  No big deal, right?

  Wrong.

  Warmth invades me as my clenched and anxious hand resting on my thigh is encased by Bryn’s.

  “You okay?” Her glance is brief, though her voice is sympathetic and careful.

  “Freaking my shit, actually.”

  She squeezes my hand but doesn’t say a word. We ride in silence for another hour, and I let my eyes settle on the horizon, on the brown rolling hills and the increasing traffic of Highway 80. We cross over the Carquinez Bridge between East Bay and Oakland, and after forty minutes the freeway becomes a monstrosity of six lanes, packed nose to tail. Beyond the miles of cars is the Bay Bridge and the outline of San Francisco.

  “Traffic and more traffic. Home sweet home.” Bryn’s voice lights up. Both hands now on the steering wheel, she whips her car in between two rigs. It earns her a honk, shaking the tiny car. “Really?” She presses the sunroof button on her dash, then raises her arm through it.

  She flips off the trucker.

  I crack up, taking me out of my own thoughts. “You’re just something.”

  “What?”

  “You’re setting up a culinary retreat . . . you know, peaceful, serene?”

  “That was me totally being peaceful. You know, extending the bird instead of telling him off is nonverbal communication for the win.”

  “Makes perfect sense.” Compelled, I wrap my arm around her seat, fingers resting at the base of her neck. “You are a dichotomy, Bryn Aquino. Fire and ice, but a force to be reckoned with.”

  We are halfway across the Bay Bridge when Bryn starts to change lanes. A swerve, another bird, and couple of loops and an exit, we’re following signs to Treasure Island.

  “What’s up?” I ask. Did I say something? Was reaching over out of line?

  She gazes over her shoulder before slowing. “When was the last time you were in the city?”

  “Years. Eight, at least.”

  “Then this is a requirement.” She zips the car into a parking lot, then gets out. The wind cuts into me as I follow suit, my T-shirt useless at keeping me warm. “C’mon, Dunford. We don’t have all day.”

  “Did I say you were fire and ice? I take it back. More like a hot poker to the eye, I swear. I’m coming.”

  Bryn laughs as I get into step with her. She pulls at my elbow as we cut through the parking lot, sidestepping zipping cars. We cross a road . . .

  And wow.

  It’s a California Vista point, an overlook of San Francisco in its full scenic splendor. The Transamerica Building, Sutro Tower. Fog hazing over the middle sections of buildings, thicker than I’d experienced on Dunford. And before it are the raging, frigid, whitecapped waters of San Francisco Bay rushing under the Bay Bridge.

  “Nothing like it,” I say.

  “I know.” Her voice is wistful. “Can you imagine how it must have been for those early pioneers, like your great-grandparents, to come upon this? They risked everything—safety, their families—to find something better than what they had. My parents had a version of that experience, too. They were in their early twenties, newly married when they immigrated. My mom told me when she looked out her airplane window and saw California below, all she saw was opportunity. I have mad respect for them, for people like that, who jump into making a life for themselves.”

  She threads her arms across her chest and shivers. Though I’m in fewer clothes, I want to take off my shirt to give her one more layer against the wind. Instead, I stand behind her and wrap my arms around her shoulders, tentatively at first.

  She leans into my chest, head just below my chin. I tighten my hold on this perfect fit. “You’re pretty fearless yourself,” I say.

  She turns in my hold, sincerity in her eyes. A grin sneaks onto her face. “I didn’t say all that for my benefit. Mitchell, I want to take full responsibility for our fight last night, and the other night, and the night before that. I didn’t want you to apologize in the car because it was my fault. I’m brash. My lack of a filter gets the best of me, and sometimes it keeps me from saying what needs to be really said. But right now, I’m not going to let it win.” She pauses and takes a breath. “I brought you here . . . I wanted to show you this, to tell you you’re one of the bravest people I know. Whatever happens, whatever you say, and whomever you say it to . . . it will be okay. Because the people who matter, the people who care for and love you, will know the truth.”

  She wraps her arms around me, fingers splayed into my back. I feel resistance against her words, against Bryn, against the surge of emotion washing through me. This is what keeps me up at night—the disappointment in myself. The excuses I make for the one bad decision that could have ruined everything.

  I clamp my eyes shut, hearing the crashing tide of the bay, feeling the burn of Bryn’s words against my heart.

  “I’m here.” She holds me tighter, forcing me to let go. It’s another fight, another one of our squabbles. We’re playing chicken, a
nd the headlights are coming closer. Someone has to give up.

  And it’s me.

  I give in to what she says, allowing her words to seep into my soul, and much like an extra drop of water in an already full cup, I spill over. Unsuccessfully blinking back tears, I rest my chin on her head. The slice of the cold wind dulls, and the sounds of the freeway and the rush of the bay simmers into a faint buzz.

  In Bryn’s arms, there’s acceptance.

  In Bryn’s arms, there’s more . . . a knotted mass of emotions I can’t describe. When she looks up at me, I lean in to kiss her. I don’t ask beforehand, nor do I falter. All I want to do is show her. Show her with the touch of my tongue against hers. With the gentle rake of teeth against her lips. Encouraged by the firm press of her hand against my lower back, I weave my fingers into her short hair. She sighs into my mouth, and it unlocks the door I slammed a long time ago.

  With her by my side, I am no longer afraid.

  I peel myself away, despite myself. “We should go.”

  Breathing in, she nods.

  It takes less than a half hour for us to make it to the Presidio, a former Army post in the city. Although it’s closed now, it’s still used for private ceremonies, and the grounds are kept immaculate. It’s set up like most Army posts: rolling greenery intermixed with offices and low-lying buildings, a redbrick chapel every few miles, a historic housing area that has its own stories to tell. But what makes this Army post stand out is the stunning views of the Golden Gate Bridge, San Francisco Bay, and the Pacific Ocean.

  We spot the crowd quickly. A white tent has been set up, and flags and a podium line the ceremony area. Bryn parks a half block away. “Ready?”

  I nod. “Thank you. For driving. For the talk. For not kicking my ass when I kissed you.” My words fall between us, though they don’t remotely convey my message.

  But her lips turn up into a smile. “Don’t worry, I’ll hold it against you when you least expect it.”

  Leaning in, I kiss her on the cheek. She doesn’t move away, doesn’t say another word as I pinch the bridge of my nose to focus and get out of the car. Digging into her backseat, I pull out the garment bag and slip on my white button-down shirt, black necktie, and blue Army Service Uniform jacket. It fits perfectly. Damn, it feels so good, this pride that comes over me when I put on this uniform. I’ll carry it until the day I die.

  I put on my cap, come around to the driver’s side, bending down to the window. “I’ll see you next week.”

  She palms my cheek, and the connection, the energy she gives me is instant and mighty. What is she doing to me? But before I can pursue another thought, I hear my name called. “It’s Sergeant Murray.” And her voice is as familiar as my own brothers’.

  “I’ll see you later, soldier.” Bryn settles back into her seat. She starts the engine, and I straighten, waving one last time before I head to the tent and face my biggest fear.

  33

  BRYN

  Erect, handsome, and with a smooth confidence, Mitchell walks toward the group of similarly uniformed soldiers. Though empty-handed, he takes with him my pride, my support, my awe.

  I didn’t realize. I didn’t understand how steeped he was in this world until he put his uniform on. Sure, my cousin Drew is in the Army, but it didn’t sink in, not until now, what this brotherhood and sisterhood is like. Not until I saw Mitchell wearing his uniform and ribbons that transformed him, being embraced by those soldiers with obvious respect and affection.

  I’ve only scratched the surface of this man, and I want to know more.

  I touch my fingers to my lips, shut my eyes to the memory of us earlier today.

  That kiss. It felt different. Hot, tender, sweet. It felt like the sum of our previous kisses hopped up on four cups of coffee and an extra boost of . . . I don’t know what. Lust?

  No, it wasn’t lust. It was the feeling of falling away, of peeling back, of giving in.

  I put the car in park. Pull my foot off the brake. Turn off the engine.

  Mitchell expects me to leave. I’ve already done him a huge favor by bringing him here, and I apologized for my terse words last night. I’ve repaired our relationship so when we see each other next week we can be civil. Besides, my dad’s waiting for me, a short half-hour jaunt across the city.

  But my body is rebelling. It pulls out my phone, heads to my last text with my dad: Running super late today, Dad.

  As usual, my father is the fastest texter in the city: Okay, iha. Everything all right?

  I hesitate telling him, knowing we’ll be exposing our fake breakup in a couple of weeks, but I relent: I’m with Mitchell at the Presidio. He’s speaking at a ceremony.

  He writes back: Ah. And you are there because . . . ?

  I want to support him. Like he’s been there for me.

  Seconds pass where there’s no response. Dad?

  You really like this guy.

  My fingers still. I shut my eyes and let my fingers tell the truth. I think so.

  He’s a diamond in the rough, iha.

  I stare at the words, not sure how to answer.

  But a diamond’s a diamond. And you’re one of the strongest people I know.

  I choke back a grateful laugh. It’s exactly the encouragement I needed from the man who always supported me despite his own reservations.

  The squeal of the microphone takes my attention and I climb out of the car. I open the hatchback and tunnel into my suitcase. I laugh, thanking God for my penchant to overpack. I find and slip on sling-back heels and a lace cardigan just as “The Star-Spangled Banner” sounds through the speakers. My right hand finds its way to my heart, and it’s as if I’m hearing the anthem for the first time, knowing now two people connected to the protection of this country. I burst with pride.

  Only three rows of white chairs are set up under the tent, and the rest is standing area only, so I take my place behind a group of uniformed soldiers. From where I stand, I catch the outline of Mitchell’s face and his worried expression clutches my heart.

  The crowd seems to be aware of the sequence of events, from the chaplain’s prayer, to the couple of times soldiers call out what I think is their motto. Different speakers take their turns, praising Sergeant Murray. We’re given her history, all the awards she’s won, how many times she’s moved. They talk about her devoted husband, her supportive son, the sacrifices this woman has made over twenty-two years.

  Finally, Mitchell’s called up to speak. My heart is beating wildly as I squeeze my way through bodies to get a better look.

  Mitchell is breathtaking. Seemingly a giant, a real-life superhero in blue, his eyes shine clear. As if he knows exactly what he’s going to say, when just minutes before he was unsure about getting out of the car.

  This alone is bravery. It’s acting under pressure even if it scares the living shit out of him.

  He clears his throat, and his voice rumbles through the microphone. “Good afternoon, esteemed guests. My name is Captain Mitchell Dunford, and I’ve had the extreme honor of serving with First Sergeant Mercedes Murray as her company commander. First Sergeant Murray is a leader, in and out of uniform, and by example. Soldiers never hesitated under her direction. It’s because she led from the front, taking the helm with her own deeds and words. On many occasions, it wouldn’t be a young soldier who needed sage advice—it would be me. Without her, we could never have completed our missions and kept our soldiers safe.” He clears his throat, and in the pause, I hear sniffling in the crowd. Tears gather on my lower lids, not out of sadness, but for this enormous affection I can’t place. All this time, I faulted Mitchell for using humor as a cover, and now I know it’s out of humility.

  “She is a credit to us and to the nation, for serving twenty-two years, being deployed countless months overseas. Sergeant Murray, I hope you can look behind and see your legacy: the friendships, the diffe
rence you’ve made. One thing I guarantee: I will be here if you need me. Retiring doesn’t mean this life stops, it means your family gets a little bigger. Now let’s get this awards ceremony moving.”

  A soldier on the right snaps to attention. “Attention to orders!”

  Every soldier in the room stands bone straight, and I follow suit, puffing out my chest to match the others around me, and absorb the words being read by the announcer. Mitchell hands Sergeant Murray a folded American flag and pins the Meritorious Service Medal on her jacket. They speak to one another, faces close, and they shake hands, pumping their fists as if they don’t want to let go.

  Their friendship is a camaraderie I can only liken to family, and in many ways I understand it. My parents, away from the Philippines, have made friends their family, and their friends’ children are like my brothers and sisters. But this is different. Mitchell and Mercedes might have only known each other a couple of years, but it’s enough to forge a bond that will last a lifetime.

  After the ceremony, everyone stands. A line forms to the right of Sergeant Murray, and the buzz of noise increases. Laughter filters through the tent. I shuffle around people, frantic to find Mitchell.

  Everyone at this ceremony has come with someone, can rely on a buddy, while Mitchell’s alone. He wrings his hands between handshakes, shoulders back and stiff. He shifts his feet awkwardly one too many times, and it’s too much. I hear his thoughts in my head, how he’s thinking about the past, the what-ifs. That even if he’s grateful to have come, his anxiety is getting the best of him.

  I can no longer stand it.

  I excuse myself through bodies and weave around chairs. Thank goodness I showered last night, threw on a dress this morning. I’m adequately presentable for this important ceremony I had no plans to attend, but have crashed.

  Mitchell sees me as soon as I step out of the crowd, though at first he doesn’t recognize me. A beat later, there it is—recognition. He stands taller, eyes flashing. Then he smiles. A full-mouthed, lovely smile that tells me I am exactly who he wants to see.