by Sarah Smith
When I look at him, my chest throbs like it’s going to collapse. I’ve already told him I can’t take this; he can see how much it kills me. Why does he have to push?
When I say nothing, his face twists and his hands fall away from me.
“I see.” His voice is strangled. “I suppose that means we’re done, then.”
The finality of his words makes my knees buckle. But I can’t seem to move my mouth. To ask him to stay with me. To give me more time.
His pained gaze lingers on me for a long second. Then he walks away.
We’re over.
When I’m certain that my legs won’t fall out from under me, I stumble along the back way, turn the corner at the last food truck in the row, and stop dead in my tracks. A dozen people stand with their phones pointed at me. I have no idea how long they’ve been standing there recording my and Callum’s blowout, but even if they just caught that last little bit, they’ve captured a gold mine.
I blink and register Callum scowling at our audience.
“Fuck off,” he booms.
The crowd disperses like cockroaches scattering at a beam of light. The damage is done though. That will be uploaded to countless blogs in no time. We’ll be island gossip for sure. Who knows the effect it will have on the rest of today.
I head back to the truck and grab the nearest pair of tongs. It’s a minute before I even notice Mom standing perfectly still in front of me, not moving.
“Anak.” Her voice is even, calm. It’s not the uplifting tone it normally is, and it’s so damn unnerving.
I ignore the ache in my chest, the burn in my eyes, and focus on the scene in front of me: people standing at our truck, waiting to order food. Like a robot, I take their orders.
“Anak,” she repeats, her voice softer this time. “I heard shouting behind the truck. What was all that about?”
“Nothing.” I don’t bother to look up. My gaze is fixed on cash-filled hands outstretched at the counter. I have orders to take, food to prepare, a festival full of people to serve. There is no room for anything else.
“Nikki, I think you should—”
“Not now, Mom.” My tone is so hard, the customer in front of me flinches.
The sound of her defeated sigh hits my ears. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her walk back to the fryer.
I gaze up at the customer, who’s staring at me wide-eyed. I take the money from his outstretched hand and dispense more orders. Another second passes. Somehow, some way, tears don’t fall, and I’m grateful. Falling apart for the rest of today is not an option. I’ve already lost my cool during the biggest event of my career. I can’t cry too.
And I don’t. Every time the burn hits my eyes, every time my chest squeezes tighter and tighter, I breathe in.
Not now.
It’s a mantra I silently repeat to myself over and over until the last customer leaves and the festival comes to an end.
Not now. Not ever.
Chapter 19
I toss the last of the supplies into the truck and shut the back door before spinning around and taking in the view. Every booth is empty, and every food truck has pulled away. I’m the only one left. I stretch my neck before checking my phone and see a text from Mom.
Made it home safe. Mrs. Tokushige said you did a wonderful job today! So proud of you, anak!
Thankfully, Mom didn’t put up a fight when I asked Mrs. Tokushige to give her a ride home after the festival while I stayed to clean up. I think she could tell by my frosty demeanor and the way I made zero chitchat for the rest of the day that I was barely hanging on by a thread for some mysterious reason. I needed some time alone to collect myself. And that’s exactly what I’ve been doing for the past three hours since the festival ended. I offered to stay and pack everything up myself because I wanted the alone time to process the tailspin of the last several hours.
Everything festival-wise was a dream. Customers raved about our food. I lost count of how many people stopped by and said they voted for us. It was a heartening distraction from what a disaster I was on the inside. Even though I managed to maintain my professionalism the whole rest of the day at the festival, the damage was done. The Maui food scene now knew what I’d been up to in my personal life these past couple of months. Every time I took an order and handed out a plate of food, I wondered what that person was thinking. Were they at my truck because they genuinely wanted to enjoy our food? Or was I a sideshow to them? Were they only there to gawk at me because they heard about Callum’s and my soap opera breakup?
I shove open the driver’s side door and push away the thought. It doesn’t matter. All there is left to do now is drive home, down a cold beer, and pass out in bed to avoid thinking about how Callum and I are done forever.
“Nikki!” a voice shouts from behind me.
I spin around and spot Penelope jogging toward me. I hop back out of the truck and start to ask what’s wrong, but she cuts me off, pulling me down into another one of her death hugs.
“You did it!” she yells, her voice giddy.
She breaks the hug, grips me by the shoulder, and holds me in front of her.
I stare at her painfully wide smile and try to muster a small one of my own. “Did what?”
She shoves her phone an inch from my face. “You and your mom! You got the highest score at the festival! Look!”
My stomach leaps up my chest when I focus on the screen. At the top of the Maui Food Festival webpage are the results of the poll. Tiva’s Filipina Kusina sits at the top in bright red letters, the number ninety-seven next to our name. My breath comes out in a huff. I can’t make words.
“Holy . . . wow . . .”
I don’t let myself blink when I look at the results. I don’t want that bright red number going anywhere.
Still grinning wide, Penelope nods her head while laughing giddily. “Hell yes, holy wow! You freaking did it!”
Slowly, I nod my head. Processing is still a struggle, but after another few seconds of Penelope’s giddy squeals and congratulations, it finally sinks in. We won. Mom and I, we did it. We established ourselves as the top eatery on the island, beating every other restaurant and food truck in the festival. We just won twenty thousand dollars. Nothing else even close to matters.
I wait for the wave of emotion to hit, for the joy, the relief, the adrenaline rush of success to paint me from the inside out. But it never comes. Inside every muscle is tense. My blood pumps like slow-moving sludge. There is not one iota of joy, happiness, or excitement inside of me.
“This calls for champagne!” Penelope says.
She pulls away and chatters on about a new cocktail place near her apartment. Her words fade into the background, though, the longer I stand there.
Champagne.
The last time I had champagne was with Callum, cuddled next to him on his couch, just before we screwed each other’s brains out. I’ll never, ever have champagne with him again—I’ll never have anything with him again.
Our win means he and Finn won’t share a food truck spot with us anymore.
I won’t see Callum’s face every time I look up from the truck window. I’ll never get another eyebrow wag that serves as a secret smile between us. We’ll never share another champagne-drinking contest, another kiss, another cuddle, or another flirty conversation.
Hot tears burn my eyes. Penelope doesn’t seem to notice as she’s still chattering away, looking up an address on her phone. I pull out my phone from my pocket, call up the Maui Food Festival site, and check the results once more. And then I see it. I zero in on the text that rests below Tiva’s ranking. Hungry Chaps is in second place, scoring two points lower than us.
“Um . . .”
Penelope glances up at me. “What?”
I turn my phone to her, remarking just how close Callum and Finn were to beating us.
She shrugs, a look of ease lighting up her face. “A win is a win. Besides”—she beams and pats my shoulder—“he’s your boyfriend. He loves you and he’ll be happy for you, promise.”
She winks before looking back down at her phone.
The word “love” hits like a fiery ember to my skin. It’s what unleashes the floodgates. My face twisted, I let out a sob.
Penelope’s eyes go wide. “Oh my . . . What’s wrong, Nikki?”
I shake my head while holding my hand up, as if to wave her away. It’s the trademark move so many people pull when they’re upset but don’t want to be fussed over. But Penelope stays still, rubbing my arm with her hand.
“It’s okay,” she says. Her stare has flipped from joyful to concerned. “Just take a breath.”
Covering my face with my hands offers only a tad more privacy as I sob out in the open. But I can’t help it. I should be jumping up and down in triumph. I should be texting Mom and Mrs. Tokushige the good news. I should be driving to the nearest bar with Penelope to toast my victory.
But the way my stomach churns, the way my chest aches as if it’s on fire, makes all that impossible. Because there’s only one thought crowding my mind.
I’ve lost Callum forever.
This time when Penelope pulls me in for a hug, it’s gentle. So are her words. “Nikki, what happened?”
When I catch my breath, I tell her everything.
* * *
• • •
No matter how many times I glance out the kitchen window of my condo, my gaze always goes back to the computer screen. My fingers always type in the same phrase:
Tiva’s Filipina Kusina
The results that pop up on the pages are never the ones I want to see. Nothing about our win at the Maui Food Festival or how good our food is. Just endless comments on Twitter and Instagram about me and Callum. Our secret affair, our very public fight, our very public breakup. It’s only been a day since the festival results were released, and everyone seems to have forgotten that we’re the winners. Instead the topic trending on Maui social media is the disintegration of my and Callum’s secret relationship.
I thought falling into a sobbing pile of tears in front of Penelope yesterday would be my all-time low. How I wish. I hit a whole new low every time I check Tiva’s Twitter or Instagram accounts and read the incendiary comments people leave.
I polish off my glass of beer while eyeing the results page of my latest search. Audio clips of Callum and me lashing out at each other circulate like wildfire. Thankfully, no one was able to get a clear video of the two of us having it out, but the sound they recorded is plenty hurtful. I let myself listen to part of one clip that some newbie food vlogger named @IEatEverything posted, but I muted it halfway through. I couldn’t take it. I couldn’t relive hearing my and Callum’s raised voices, our wrenched words, our private pain on display for strangers to listen to, like some demented heartbreak song played on repeat.
I grit my teeth while scrolling through the endless tweets.
Who knew these two were dating? #mauifoodfestival #foodtruckromance #torridaffair
Someone caught feelings. Hate when that happens #ouch #brokenhearted
I can’t bear to think this British stud is heartbroken. What kind of monster breaks up with a hunk like that? #pickmeinstead
Nikki from @Tivas is an ice queen for leaving that hottie out to dry. Yo, Callum! I love @HungryChaps! Hit me up! I’ll cheer you up! #DTF
My eyes go crossed reading all the declarations of love for Callum and admonishments aimed at me. But they have no clue about our history, our feelings, what we endured. They have no right to make judgments about me or Callum. They don’t know a damn thing about us.
Halfway down the results page, the comments grow even snarkier. My jaw aches with how hard I’m biting down.
Bet they planned this for the publicity. Perfect timing with the #mauifoodfestival. The whole thing screams scripted drama #dontbelievethehype
Two rivals having a secret affair in the run-up to the biggest competition of their careers, then a public breakup?? #manufacturedromance #fake
Public argument + wrenching breakup = free publicity and more business for @HungryChaps and @Tivas, amirite?? #fakeAF
I grip the edge of the counter until my fingers ache, wondering if the Flavor Network, the cosponsor of the Maui Food Festival, has seen any of this. Holding my breath, I make a silent wish that somehow, some way, this major TV network doesn’t have a social media department. Because if they catch wind of any of this, it’s all over. They’ll think Hungry Chaps and Tiva’s conspired together to secure their top finishes, and disqualify us like they did with last year’s champion. I hold in a breath then let it burst out, annoyed with myself. All the deep breaths in the world don’t make one bit of difference in this disaster.
I close every social media tab, then check my email. A new message pops in my inbox. Someone named Charlotte with a Flavor Network email address. The dread that hits my stomach is instant. I know exactly what this message is going to say even before I read it. I do a half-hearted skim of the text anyway.
. . . clearly a talented chef who is passionate about food . . . recent social media activity has alerted us to a possible violation of the Maui Food Festival rules . . . which is why we regret to tell you that we’re rescinding the prize money and commercial offer . . .
I blink through the burn in my eyes, but a tear escapes down my cheek anyway. Sniffling, I lift the hem of my shirt and wipe it dry. That’s it. All those months of thinking up new recipes, all the backbreaking days of cooking and prepping, all those hours on my feet, carving out a social media presence . . . it was all for nothing. Everything Mom and I earned eighteen hours ago is gone.
Down the hall her voice echoes. “Anak, are you hungry?”
She walks to the kitchen sink to fill a pot of water. “We should start planning how we’re going to use the prize money. The truck definitely needs some work, but I also want to get a new fryer. And can you believe we’re going to be in a commercial? I already called your aunties and uncles and told them. They’re so excited!” She spins around to me, grinning. “What do you think?”
Her smile drops as soon as she registers my tear-soaked face. She darts over to me, but I stand up before she can pull me into a hug. I don’t deserve any affection for what I’m about to tell her.
“I’m sorry, Mom. But we . . . The festival changed their mind. We didn’t win. They took back the prize money.”
Her perfectly arched eyebrows wrinkle together. “What are you talking about?”
We stand facing each other, the stool between us. “It’s just . . . I did something . . . I messed up. Really bad. It’s all my fault.”
Her frown turns serious. “That’s ridiculous. You didn’t mess up anything. You and I did a great job yesterday at the festival. Everyone loved us.”
I pause to wipe my face with my hands before dropping them at my sides in defeat. She reaches over, taking my hand in hers. In her eyes, there’s a calm I didn’t expect to see. A reassurance, understanding.
“It’s okay. You can tell me.”
Her sweet support in this moment is more than I can take—it’s more than I deserve after what I’ve done to ruin our big break. “I know, Mom, but—”
The shrill ring of my phone cuts me off. I huff out a few steadying breaths as the ringing dies out, thankful for the pause to collect myself. A second later, it drones on once again.
I swipe my phone from the counter. “Let me get rid of this. Then I’ll explain.”
Penelope’s name flashes across the screen before I answer. “Hey, Penelope.” My throat strains to keep my voice at a pleasant tone. Penelope doesn’t need to endure an in-person breakdown and an over-the-phone breakdown from me two days in a row.
“I just wanted to say, don’t worry about a thing,” she says. �
�I’m on it.”
“On what?”
“I know your phone has probably been blowing up with notifications after that statement the Flavor Network just sent out concerning your win at the Maui Food Festival.”
I let loose a heavy sigh. “I actually haven’t seen their statement yet. I got an email from them, though, which I’m sure says much of the same, so I think I’ll skip the post.” Closing my eyes, I pinch the bridge of my nose.
“I’ve got it all under control,” she says.
Penelope’s voice still boasts its bubbly inflection, but there’s something firm behind it now. Whatever she’s talking about, it’s clear she’s a thousand percent sure she’s got it handled.
“What do you mean?”
“You know how I said before that I did social media for a living?”
“Yeah.” I glance at Mom, who now boasts a confused frown as she listens to my side of this conversation.
“A lot of my clients are TV networks. One of them is Chic TV.” There’s a smile in her voice when she speaks. “You’ve heard of it, right?”
“Um, of course.” Chic TV is the most popular lifestyle channel on cable television.
“Chic has been interested in dipping their toe into something cooking related for a while now. They were going to team up with the Flavor Network to do a cooking show last year, but Flavor tried to screw them over during the contract phase of things, so Chic pulled out. They’ve held a grudge ever since. And this is the perfect opportunity to get them back.”
My head spins trying to keep up with everything Penelope says. “Oh . . . what does that mean?”
Penelope chuckles. “Sorry, sometimes I get so excited about something that I don’t explain it fully. Check your Instagram.”
I pull up Instagram on my laptop and see that Tiva’s has been tagged in a post from the Flavor Network’s account. It’s a photo of the crowd during the Maui Food Festival with a brief caption explaining why they rescinded our prize. Thankfully, there’s no mention of my name or Callum’s, just that Tiva’s was caught breaking the festival rules and that we were disqualified.
