by Marcelo, Tif
“Um.” Brandon never knew what to say when Eden asked theoretical writing questions. “Maybe . . . going rogue is a good thing?”
She shook her head, and she leaned into him, ducking as the wind whipped past. “I don’t have time for them to go rogue. I wish I could take a lasso and tie them up and they can ride the arc like I told them to.”
“You . . . yes, you’re absolutely right.” He snickered. He had no idea what she was talking about. Up ahead, Chris was on his phone, leaning back against the door of a nondescript building. Its walls were made of brick, the roof of metal. Behind it was the Pamlico Sound.
Eden groaned. “He’s on that phone again. He can’t even put it down for one dinner a week.”
“He’s a busy guy.” Awkwardness clawed at his neck. He’d been Eden’s friend first, but Chris, as prickly as he was, was his brother, and Brandon was supposed to have his back. Had he not known he and Eden were fighting, Brandon might have commiserated, but now?
“We’re all busy,” she said. “In fact, you’ve done so much since you’ve been here. You must be exhausted.”
“It hasn’t been too bad, actually. It’s like a working vacation.”
“Yes, but are you really resting? You were kind enough to come down, so you should take advantage of all the perks of Heart Resort. Put yourself first while you’re here.”
“Yes, Mom,” he quipped and released a breath when she tugged him closer.
In contrast to the outside, the vibe inside the restaurant was colorful and festive, with music piping through the speakers. A sign above the front podium read SALT & SUGAR, and when the delicious smells from the kitchen reached his nose, his mouth watered.
Eden unfurled her arm from Brandon’s. “We always sit in the back.” She sidestepped through the half-full dining room, then out to the patio. Bulb lights hung from the pergola, and beyond the deck railing was the shimmering sound. There, they were greeted by Gil and the girls and Beatrice. Everyone stood and gave each other hugs and kisses as if they all didn’t live on the same peninsula. Their voices rose above the sound of the wind and water. Brandon was sure they were causing a scene.
Honestly, this exuberance was the best thing about their family, and he attributed it to their Filipino-ness. Though their parents had been private in their own ways, in public spaces, they’d celebrated each and every small thing as if they’d won the lottery. They’d responded to news with excitement. They’d been overt in their hospitality, and none of it was fake. Perhaps it was a cultural trait, maybe generational, but despite all the threads that sometimes were pulled taut in the relationships within their family, it was all excused during these events.
Everything—all of it—centered around food.
It had been a grounding thing for Brandon that Chris and Gil had taken it upon themselves to make these Friday dinners mandatory even after their parents had died; he’d loved the weekly routine. It had become so important to him that even when three-fourths of the family had moved to North Carolina, Brandon had still taken himself out. Before his big confrontation with Chris, they’d met on video chat or sent pictures of their food. It was a tradition he couldn’t kick even if he tried.
To be here with them, at this Friday dinner, was a boon despite his topsy-turvy day.
Beatrice gave him a high five, grasping his fingers. “What’s up, Bunso?”
“Nothing much.” He dipped his chin.
Then she stepped aside to reveal Geneva, already seated.
“Hey,” he croaked.
“Brandon.” Her face was unreadable, though it changed suddenly when Eden came from behind him to hug her. The stark difference of her greeting was a stab to the heart, but he pushed it down. They were in public. He couldn’t expect her to jump him and stick her tongue down his throat.
“I ordered for everyone already. You guys took so long,” Gil said. “You know the girls’ timeline. If we can’t be out in an hour, all hell breaks loose.”
“Who, these angels?” Brandon took the seat next to Kitty, grateful that his attention would go toward someone who considered him pretty cool. Kitty had already broken half her crayons and was coloring her place mat with such fervor that the crayon was being ground into a nub.
“Angels, right!”
“No fear, Tito Brandon’s here. The fun uncle.” He picked up a crayon and joined his niece in her endeavor to color the entire place mat. “Unlike these old heads, huh, girls? Enunciate with me. Old. Heads.”
“Old heads,” Izzy announced.
“Dinosaurs,” he whispered.
Kitty roared.
“Nice,” Gil said. “They’ll return to their mother growling their requests.”
Brandon winked for effect. With a quick glance, he caught Geneva looking at him, though she swiftly shifted her gaze.
At some point four years ago, he’d begun to envision this very scene—the both of them with his family, with, perhaps, their own. Was it foolish to hope for it?
Had he always been foolish? He’d never once thought that he’d have to live life without his parents, that his brother would choose someone over him in a conflict. To expect a woman to stay after a fling . . .
Brandon colored with greater fervor.
“I beg to differ,” Beatrice added, an eyebrow plunged downward. “Jessie will be getting back girls who are well adjusted after spending quality time with their family, unlike how they were being doted on by a nanny who fed them nothing but those fish crackers.”
Chris tsked.
“All right, we don’t have to go there,” Gil said pointedly.
The table quieted.
“Awkward,” Brandon whispered. This—this was new. The last Brandon had heard, there was an agreement drawn between the two families to keep the feud peaceful so the girls wouldn’t be pressured to choose.
“Eden,” Geneva asked with perfect timing. “How are things going with your book? I’m always so curious how you get your words. Three books a year. That’s a lot of writing.”
Thank goodness for the distraction, because Brandon was starting to sweat. Beatrice was like their mother, in that she kept life light until she didn’t and every single person around her felt it.
“Oh, thank you for asking. Yes. Um.” Eden, eyes wide, caught on to the charade to neutralize the environment. She discussed her research for her upcoming book and then her drafting plan, using an app to map out her word count in an oscillating pattern so she could have rest days.
Not only did her soliloquy drag Gil and Beatrice from whatever drama they were having, but 100 percent of the adults at the table were paying rapt attention, including Brandon.
“I can’t imagine sitting there all those hours, Eden,” he said. “I need to be outside, in the sun. And literally pushing things around instead of words.”
“Yeah, we know about Bran and words,” Chris said, eyes alight with humor.
“Did you even go to English class, Bunso?” Gil asked.
“Ha ha. So I admit I wasn’t so great in English class,” Brandon mumbled.
“Not . . .” Beatrice coughed in between the words. “In . . . any . . . class . . .”
The table roared, and Brandon’s face warmed, not out of embarrassment but from the realization that this was a family joke.
That he was the butt of the family joke despite being away from it for a couple of years.
Which was something. And on this day, when he was reminded all his relationships were in precarious positions, he would take it.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Geneva’s lips were sore from laughing. The nonstop banter, spiced with the combination of sarcasm, corny dad jokes, and old stories, lifted her spirits. By the end of the main course—a combination of inihaw na bangus, pinakbet, bistek, grilled vegetables, and steamed rice—her belly was full of homestyle Filipino cuisine, and her heart brimmed with a contentment she hadn’t felt in a long time.
How had she gone so long without this? How had she dampened her need for this?
Her days hadn’t been idle. She’d filled them with what she loved—work.
But this—being with all these people—was different.
All through dinner, she tried to find the word for it. Simple didn’t convey the deep ties she had with them. Nostalgic didn’t give proper value to how much these people meant to her today. Easy was a complete lie, because her friendships with each of these family members were hard earned.
And then there was Brandon, who was sitting two seats over and across from her, who was entrenched in this joy. He reflected exactly what she was feeling, with his unyielding laughter and relaxed posture.
Geneva could feel her defenses dissolving. Goodness, just watching Brandon interact with his nieces brought down every single one of her barriers. His jovial nature was on full display in front of them. She wasn’t a believer in a woman’s biological clock. But were her ovaries aching? Yes.
It’s incestuous.
Chris’s words rushed back, and Geneva coughed. She choked on her own spit, and she brought her glass of water to her lips.
“Oh my God, are you okay?” Beatrice laughed as she patted her back.
She fanned her fingers against her chest. “Yep.” She caught Brandon’s inquisitive expression, and her face heated. Incest wasn’t the problem between them, nor was the fact that he was her best friend’s little brother—though that was problematic, obviously, for Chris. This was about where Brandon belonged in her life. He was in the past, and perhaps it had been easy to fall back into this . . . situation . . . because it was physically comfortable between them. But that didn’t mean they belonged in the future.
They had to speak and figure out the way ahead, especially with Beatrice’s proposal hanging in the balance. A lifestyle brand was a major effort, and it would be a challenge; Geneva loved a challenge. Just the thought of being in creative control made her giddy. But she was on her own current trajectory, her own journey, which was six years in the making with projects lined up at least for the next year. To walk away, even if it was toward a business that was located at the beach and with her most favorite people, would be setting aside everything she’d built that was already a success.
Geneva hadn’t been able to give Beatrice an answer today, and her friend hadn’t fussed. But she knew she would want an answer soon.
First things first: Brandon.
The next time Brandon’s gaze darted her way, Geneva channeled a message of follow me with her eyes, then drank a long sip of water. “Restroom time,” she announced, though everyone was deep into dessert plates of leche flan. She pushed her chair back, then headed toward the cavernous hallway that led to two restrooms.
Chef Paula Castillo had just stepped out from the restroom on the left side, tugging her chef’s jacket straight. She looked up in surprise. Her lips were bare, cheeks with just the right amount of rouge. Her blue-black hair was pulled tight into a bun on the top of her head. “Oh, hello. Is everything going well?”
Geneva stepped out of her way; the woman’s voice was loud. “Yes, it was all delicious. I’m just so impressed at everything. This place, it’s so unassuming, but as soon as you enter—wow. And the view.”
“I’ll definitely let Chef Priscilla know.”
Yep, her voice could be classified as outdoor.
“Oh, it’s not your place?” Geneva asked.
“No, this is Pris’s, my twin sister’s. I only come to lend a hand on the weekends. Our parents do the cooking during the week. Though Salty and Sweet represents the two of us. Do you want to guess who I am?”
“Ah . . .” Geneva hesitated, and winced. This sounded like a trick question, sort of like guess how old I am. “Um, sweet?”
“Yep! Even if she’s the pastry chef.” She beamed. “Anyway. Back to work! Our bathrooms are gender neutral, and the right one is free.”
That last sentence, if rated in volume, was an eight.
Geneva thanked her and slipped down the hallway but didn’t go into the bathroom. Instead, she leaned against the wall, hoping that Brandon got the hint and wasn’t scared off by Chef Castillo’s strange declarations. And speaking of—hadn’t she come from the left restroom door?
Maybe Geneva had misheard.
Across from her, on the wall, were black-and-white photos in a mishmash of frames hung in random fashion. The common things among the photos were pictures of Chef Castillo and of a woman who looked exactly like her in features, though had a different hairstyle. Or perhaps one was the other?
The connection was undeniable between them. Upon closer inspection, everyone else in the photos appeared to be related too. It dawned on her—these were family pictures, much like the ones her mother displayed proudly on the refrigerator door with magnets that she’d picked up from souvenir shops.
At the memory, an ache began in her heart. The fun she’d felt out there with the Pusos, and these pictures on the wall of the Castillo family? Geneva could have that. She could have all of this: Friday dinners, the Pusos, the Atlantic, Heart Resort, and Beachy. Hell, she could have and be with her parents anytime. A bedroom remained free for her to use, without notice.
Was that what she wanted? Or did she want to keep living the life she’d been living, which wasn’t awful by any means? Her everyday affection was channeled toward design and Luna, and even then, the cat demanded her attention whenever she faltered. Life on the road, checking those boxes, treading lightly, was exciting—it was fulfilling in its own way.
If she’d hung on to people, if she’d stayed in one place, what could she have accomplished?
The hallway darkened, grabbing Geneva’s attention; she turned toward the shadow.
Brandon.
Geneva sighed in relief.
As he approached her, she picked up a hint of his cologne. It was sweet, like him, through and through. She turned to face him fully. Every doubt and negative emotion she’d entertained slipped away. She felt herself light up at his presence, drawn to him immediately.
Brandon pulled her deeper into the hallway. Steps away was the entrance to the storage closet. “I’ve been wanting to get you alone all day. I missed you. And this dress.”
“You like it?” The fact that Brandon noticed everything was also such a turn-on, and she basked in it. She looped her fingers in Brandon’s jeans, bringing him close. With her back against the wall, he covered her with his body, hers fitting into his like a key into a lock.
It felt so right.
He nudged her nose with his; she detected a hint of citrus from the lemonade. They kissed, chaste at first, but one, five, ten seconds passed, and it flipped to a fervent need. Geneva wanted more.
She groaned. “You know exactly what to do to me.” She pressed her torso against his.
He lifted her leg, making her gasp. Her flowing skirt draped backward. “Like this?”
“Yes. Yes.” She moaned at the slide of his hand up her thigh, and she fisted his shirt, bringing him closer. Her lips crashed into his, and soon she was lost in his taste, in his arms, which held her steady.
The echo of dishes clattering from the kitchen broke their kiss. Brandon’s face was hot, his breaths heavy, and knowing she did that to him revved her up. She wanted to revisit all the things she could elicit with her touch.
But a random voice from afar halted her running thoughts. She took the moment to breathe, to bring some oxygen into her brain. She’d called Brandon alone for a reason, and it wasn’t to make out with him, even if her body was going rogue.
“We really shouldn’t be doing this,” she said with a swallow, as bits of her wit returned to her. Strands of hair had fallen out of her bun, and a few were stuck to her cheeks.
“I know. Chris and everyone are out there.”
“No. I mean, this wasn’t why I asked you to come meet me.”
He ran his hand through his hair. “Damn.”
“I mean, I loved . . . that . . .” She stood from the wall, and the excitement from their kiss flipped to dread. She hadn’t actually planned it
this far; she really should have thought about what she wanted to say. But his expression begged an explanation, so she heaved a breath and allowed her instincts to take over. “I love all of it. I can’t get enough of you. I can’t stop when I’m around you. But we can’t keep doing this—you know that, right?”
“You said that before.”
“Yes, but this time I mean it. I can’t deny that I’m attracted to you. In fact the more time we spend together, the more I want to be alone with you, like this. But none of our situation has changed. You’re still you with your goals, and I’m still me with mine.”
Geneva had cut right to the heart of it, but after Beatrice’s proposal, it was evident that she had choices to make: a new career with Beachy, or a solid, reliable life as Harris Interiors. Fall back to once again playing house with Brandon, or move forward in a professional relationship. Though she was still unsure about Beachy, in Brandon’s case, forward was the only option.
Brandon took a step back, and with it, the temperature dropped. Seconds passed. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Say you’re not mad,” she pleaded. “Say you don’t regret it. Agree with me that we got a little ahead of ourselves. But we can push through this. Because all those people out there are depending on us.”
“So . . . no regrets, then?”
She looked back up at the pictures over Brandon’s shoulder to focus her thoughts. “No, no regrets.” Geneva reached out for his hand, heart dropping, the truth an anvil. “I’m s—”
He shook his head, though he took her hand. “Don’t apologize. I had a feeling from your texts . . . though I’d hoped . . . I don’t know what I hoped. But you’re right. We tried once to keep it simple.”
Relief pulsed through her. “There’s no such thing as simple.” Yet, even as she said it, she knew that they’d had a choice back then, and they had a choice now. They were that much older; they were more self-aware.
But at the heart they were still the same people.
“Especially not here on Heart Resort.” He heaved a breath. “Are we okay?”
“Yes.” Then she said with more conviction, “Yes, we are totally okay. I don’t want to lose you, Brandon. That was the worst part about breaking up last time.”