by Tif Marcelo
And not for the first time in my life, I wanted to leave home.
I turn on my phone for the millionth time. Not one email or text from Camille. A brief glance at Lucianna’s social media site doesn’t show a change from yesterday. Short of dropping by her house, I’ve done everything I can think of. And I won’t pop up at her front door. I won’t invade her space and her privacy. In the end, she’s got to want to come back to me, too.
“Dude, you’re needed inside.”
I turn and Blake is at the doorway, wearing the True North uniform of black on black. A pen sticks out from beside his ear, the top chewed from the guy matching reservations and walk-ins with tables and servers. Sober since the night at the club, Blake has been the one to make me laugh even if all I’ve wanted to do is hide in my apartment. I smirk. “Who says?”
“Your pop. He’s starting his speech. And he’s a little happy, so . . .” Blake tips an imaginary drink to his lips, and I nod knowingly. My pop has been rehearsing his speech for the last couple of days, lining up his acknowledgments for the VIPs who are here tonight.
I head in, following the rising volume of laughter. Coming through the door that leads to the dining room, I see my father has commanded the room’s attention. Customers have their drinks topped off with champagne and booze, in flute glasses and short tumblers. Bryn shoves a quarter-filled bottle of wine into my chest as I take my place in the employee lineup.
Be chill, she mouths with an agonized look.
I tear my eyes away and plant them on my father.
His voice takes over the speakers. “Eight years and here we are. From the first day we began our word-of-mouth catering company to this moment, the grand reopening of True North, this has been a labor of love. Named after something we know is solid, whether one is standing in San Francisco or Manila, True North is an extension of us, our life, and the Bautista family. I’d like to introduce my beautiful and eternally young wife, Ramona”—he raises his glass to my mom, then to Tito Ben—“and my brother-in-law, Ben.” He turns to where I’m standing with my cousins and friends. “And this special staff of young people who we’ve been privileged to watch grow. Each one has been under our feet, under the counter, tasting first dishes. Nieces Bryn and Victoria, good young men who I consider Bautista by association, Matt and Blake . . . and finally, our only son, Andrew.”
At the mention of my name, Bryn’s warm fingers clamp around my wrist like a vice.
An undercurrent of tension runs through the staff side of the restaurant. Across from me, my mother’s smile falters a little, her laugh lines showing one less crease. My father doesn’t know anything about Camille, but there’s everything else. There’s the Army, my pending deployment, our lack of relationship that has yet to be resolved, my seeming rebellion since my return. In front of all of these people.
“Son, you have worked the hardest for this opening.” To the crowd he says, “Everything you see here is of Andrew’s hands. Almost a month of his muscle, his input, his ideas, and vision. He’s a genius.”
A few people clap. Matt and Blake let out a whoop. In the effort to act like I’m in cahoots, I raise my bottle, though I don’t dare drink. Not yet. My father’s not done. When silence descends, he continues, voice cracking. “This restaurant is for you, Andrew. This is you, your legacy. It is yours, and by fixing it, you made it yours, my son. So I beg you, one final time. Stop playing soldier. Come back home, after your deployment, for good.”
“No.” Bryn whispers next to me, echoing what I don’t have the strength to say.
It’s a dare, an ultimatum in front of a hundred people, in front of phones trained at all of us. Sitting right up front is Kaya Banks, sipping lazily on her mango juice. Whatever happens tonight is going to be plastered on her blog tomorrow.
“Son?”
Fuck. He wants an answer and he wants an answer now. Ma tugs her husband in her ever-gentle way, but Pop pays no mind. Bryn lets go of my wrist, the action making me feel like I’ve been cast out in the water but without a life preserver. Everyone is out of reach, and it’s up to me to swim.
“I’m sorry.” The words slither out, soft enough that those near me can hear.
My father frowns, showing wrinkles like the parched earth of Northern California.
My first thought is to take it back. Take back my words and say yes—yes, after this deployment, after my military commitment, I’ll come back to what’s most familiar. This home, this city, and this restaurant. Then everyone will be happy, and I won’t have to tote around this guilt. What the hell, right? Who needs to move every couple of years? Why would I want that?
But no.
True North is not me.
True North is not my life. The Army is my life, my calling. I’ve said this to him more than a dozen times in so many different ways. Why would he ask me this? Why would he put me on the spot like this?
Anger rises from my gut, at the gumption of this man who thinks he can tear down my calling. “Let’s get the halo-halo passed out,” I say with a hoarse voice, choked by emotion. I plaster on a smile, hoping the mention of the iced dessert will distract everyone.
But it doesn’t work on my dad. His eyes narrow, darken, dare, and challenge. “No. I want an answer.”
“Ritchie,” my mother says softly.
“Ramona, I am offering him everything we have. Everything we’ve built in this country from scratch, when we were nothing. What he needs to do is respond.”
“You don’t have to,” Bryn whispers, voice shaking. “Just walk out. Right now. We’ll calm him down.”
I find my voice in the chaos of my mind. “It won’t work. He won’t ever stop until I make him.” I’m surprised at its volume, at the conviction that somehow made its way up my throat. With a louder voice, I say, “No, Pop.”
A wretched look appears on my father’s face. Hurt slices through his features, tearing at my insides. “How can you keep walking away, from this? From us?”
Yet despite my need to puke, to cry, I fight back. “This is not about you. This has never been about you or the restaurant. This is about me and what I want, what I’ve done with my life. You have no idea what I’ve done, what I’ve been doing. Are you even proud of the man I’ve chosen to become? I have made a difference, Pop, out there in the world. I came all the way home to try to make you happy, but I realize now that I might never do that. So, I’m sorry, Pop. But no. This is my life to live.”
Matching his gaze, I need all of my training, all of my strength, to look my father in the eyes. I’ve bared our business to a hundred people. And I challenged my father, which is the biggest taboo of all.
Don’t flinch, Bautista.
I’m prepared for an explosion. Artillery. A sniper to knock me down clean, but what happens is something I never would have expected.
My pop, looking away first, walks out of the room.
40
CAMILLE
I pull up the emergency brake. With my back against the faux-leather seat, I rest my hands on my lap while watching Ally gather her things. “Sure you don’t want me to walk you in?”
Ally loops her hobo bag across her body and pulls her hair out of her ponytail. Her curls drape across her shoulders, the tips newly dyed a dark purple. It matches her pants and the Chucks she’s slipped on for her flight.
My purple girl.
“No, I’m good. Promise.” Her voice is firm, patient. I’ve asked her the same question at least a dozen times since last night, and she’s answered with every version of no.
“Got enough cash?”
“Enough cash. My cell, credit card, boarding pass, and driver’s license are in my purse. Exactly where they were ten minutes ago.”
“Fine, smart butt.”
“Just saying. I’m ready.” Her lips curl up and she grabs my hand, entwining her fingers through mine. Fingers that still feel deli
cate and tiny, but I know better—from those fingers come the fiercest images—and I’m overcome with a pride that threatens to burst from me.
We both come to a settled silence. Ally’s right. We’ve talked about everything, discussed contingencies, her budget, her requirements. But I need to say more, not ready to end this conversation. “I can be there to get you, be with you anytime, any day. It’s a straight shot from SFO to Austin. Twenty-four hours door-to-door if I go sixty-five miles an hour.”
“I know, sis. But—”
“But what?” At her hesitance, I sigh, knowing where this is going. “Don’t worry about the truck. I’ll figure out a way to get it back, write up a new game plan.”
“Not that. I know Lucianna will bounce back. She is forever.” Her grin is infectious, and her faith is everything I need in this moment. “Please talk to Drew. Sort it out.”
I shake my head. “Oh, Ally.”
“Please? Give him a chance to explain. I feel . . . I feel a little guilty. Responsible.”
My heart squeezes. “No, don’t say that.”
“I do, so I am . . . saying it. If this school didn’t come up, things might have been different.”
I capture both of her hands in mine. Baby’s in big sister’s. My rough against her smooth. The discoloration of skin where I’ve burned myself, flecks of paint under her fingernails. “Lots of things could have been different. Our parents, Nonna, Sierra Foothills, San Francisco, Lucianna, the Art Institute of Austin, and even Drew. No one will ever know. But we can’t base our decisions on what could have been. We do things because we love and because we must.”
The words were meant for Ally. I wanted her to know deep down that I would do anything for her. Anything at all.
Instead, the words twist around and aim at me. When she grins, I realize this time, she’s taught me.
“Go.” I kiss her hands. “Text as soon as you land. I want pictures. I don’t care if it’s of the sidewalk on your way to class.”
“I will.” Ally’s arms hook around my neck and I breathe her in, committing this moment to memory.
When she walks away from the car, I have no tears. I was ready to cry, to feel the sudden inability to let her go, a last-minute change of heart. But as she steps away, I realize I’m as ready as she is.
I snap a picture of her as she walks into the revolving door of the airport, the entire shot a blur except for the suitcase she’s dragging behind her and the sign above the door that reads Departures.
Without applying a filter, I upload the picture.
@Lucianna: Change is sometimes necessary, but departures are never permanent. We thank you, our loyal customers. See you on the other side.
* * *
The notifications start rolling in as I pull from the airport curb, and my phone chirps a cacophony of responses. The noise becomes a distraction and I pull into a parking lot. My first instinct is to check what’s been written. The gracious thing to do would be to respond, to acknowledge my best customers.
Instead, I log out of all my social media accounts and remove the apps from my phone.
I drive the rest of the way back to the Mission in silence.
41
DREW
I’m charged with delivering the final payment of True North’s debt to Tito Ben at Investments National. My grip on the envelope with the restaurant’s check tucked inside, if placed on a scale between one and ten, is a fifty. I intend to make sure it gets into my uncle’s possession without any hitches. It would be over my dead body if I lost it. The hurt I caused has to be worth something, and at the very least I need to get this part of the job right.
By the time I walk into my uncle’s office, I’m out of breath.
It’s not because of the ten-block hike that the oxygen feels like it’s stuck somewhere in my chest. I don’t want to face Tito Ben. He was there on opening night and was a witness to the embarrassing Bautista father-and-son show. While standing up to my pop was the most honest thing I’d done all month, I regret it was in front of so many people.
I nod at Ms. Finney, Tito Ben’s assistant. Silver haired now, she has been a constant in my uncle’s office since I was a kid. With her pen to paper, she’s fielding a call, but she winks and gestures to the room down the hall. After patting the counter in thanks, I bypass her to the left and walk down the carpeted hallway that leads to mahogany doors.
I don’t knock, out of habit. Investments National is located between my schools and my parents’ Victorian. As a middle and high schooler, I scored a dollar every time I stepped in to say hello after school. Tito Ben would always find a chore for me to do—photocopying papers, shredding documents. I was more than happy to have the opportunity to earn a little extra coin.
My uncle is sitting at his desk when I approach, his reading glasses perched on his nose. His eyes peer above the black metal frames. I’m not met by judgment but by sincere surprise. He lowers the papers in his hands in two deliberate stacks, then removes his glasses. “Ah, iho. I didn’t know you were coming today. I’m happy to see you.”
“Just business, Tito. Ma wanted to make sure this came straight to you.” I halt at the end of the desk, which is neat and tidy, unlike the chaos of a kitchen. I hand my uncle the envelope.
He lays it down gently. “You don’t want to stay? For a soda, like old times? Or coffee? Do you drink coffee?”
I smile. “Yeah, Tito, I drink coffee. Thanks, but not today. I’ve got to get back. Got a list to get through before Sunday.”
He flips his calendar to the next page. “You leave on Sunday.”
I nod. Awkwardness skyrockets a hundredfold. The mixing of business with pleasure, all the jumbled thoughts of a catastrophic week. The idea of snapping to and heading to the desert twists my insides into a knot.
“You ready?” he asks.
“Always.” The word flies out proudly. And frankly, now I really am. I’ve done exactly what I promised my pop I would—get True North off the ground. Not without collateral damage, but it is what it is.
“We’ll miss you. Your papa will miss you. Tremendously.” He stands, comes around his desk, and extends his hand.
I return my uncle’s firm grip. His words were meant to be comforting, but they’re tarnished, jaded.
“Ritchie didn’t mean what he said. Your father is stubborn, passionate, a little overzealous. He’s got opinions and lots of faults. He isn’t perfect by any means. But he loves you, and I know for a fact he is proud of everything you do.”
This is the conversation I hoped to avoid. “I’ve got to go, Tito. Gotta pack. Could you?”—I eye the envelope on the table—“I need confirmation it’s exactly what you expected.”
“Ah, of course.” Using the letter opener, my uncle tears open the envelope and slides out the check. “It’s perfect.” He slips the envelope inside a desk drawer, then shuts it with a click.
And there it goes, every dime of True North’s profits since the reopening. All the efforts of the last month for that one moment.
Pretty anticlimactic.
A firm knock sounds behind me. The chirpy voice of Ms. Finney says, “Ms. Marino for you, Mr. Aquino.”
Marino? I turn.
The office tilts.
Camille stands at the door, in jeans and a blazer, the vision of her a cool compress to my tired eyes. Her body is so close. Two steps and I can take her into my arms. But I’m met with a look of confusion and incredulousness, keeping me in place.
And then it dawns on me: She isn’t here to see me. She’s here to see my uncle.
“Hi?” Camille hesitates at the door.
Tito Ben answers. “Good afternoon, Ms. Marino. We’ll just be another moment.”
“No way. No . . . no damn way.” Words bubble from me, and the volume of my voice fills the room. And yet I do already know. There’s only one reason she would be he
re, and it’s the same reason I’m here, too. “Cami. Please tell me you’re delivering food.” It’s a reach, a plea that I’m wrong.
“Um. No—” She looks past me, to my uncle.
“You know each other?” Tito Ben’s face darkens. “Andrew is my nephew.”
“You’re . . . you’re his nephew?” Her words are aimed at me, but she’s looking everywhere but my face. Her gaze lands on the family picture hung over the fireplace, of the entire clan, of a younger me posed next to my grandfather, my lolo.
“Of course. Why am I surprised? It’s just desserts, isn’t it?”
She pushes past me, setting a thick envelope on Ben’s desk. “Everything is in there. I appreciate you waiting a few days while I cleaned it up. Thank you.”
Ben reaches out short of grabbing the sleeve of her coat, then stops. “Ms. Marino, please stay. Let’s talk.”
“No. You said fast and firm deadlines, and I’m good with my word. If only others were as honest.”
Her words are a knife, and they twist into my gut. It takes all of me to stay upright. I’m helpless as she shakes my uncle’s hand and stomps out the door.
“What the fuck was that?” I demand.
“Dios.”
“You knew about this?”
“No, but the bits and pieces you all have told me are starting to make sense.” My uncle sinks into the office couch. “Your mother said you fell in love. Your father and his hate for a food truck that was parked in front of True North, that is now gone, so suddenly. Ms. Marino and her need for money. You, and the way you looked at her. But no, when I made the deal, I didn’t know she was your girl. Ms. Finney is basically a decision-making partner now and this deal was her call. And after the deal was made, I . . . I didn’t really think about it. I’m doing business every day. Many of these deals are bigger than hers, and they are my focus. And other than the grand reopening, I hadn’t been to True North since the first meeting you attended.”