West Coast Love

by Tif Marcelo

  I settle back into the leather seat, pull my legs back in, and shut the door. Clasping my hands in my lap, I focus on the friction of the skin between my fingers to keep my emotions at bay. Because no, it’s not any better, and this attitude isn’t me. Normally, I don’t avoid hard discussions. “What do you want to talk about?”

  “Us.” His dark eyes focus on mine. “It’s like you woke up this morning and did a complete one-eighty. It isn’t cool. I mean, fuck, Vic. Just yesterday we were making plans to spend the night. And the festival—you shouldn’t be pissed at me for trying to do a good job. What was I supposed to do, mess up on purpose? Prove everyone right that this wasn’t the job I was supposed to get? Am I supposed to be apologizing to you for succeeding? Because I will, if only to keep the peace. Just so we can get through the next four days without us being pissed at each another. I can’t get with this hot and cold.”

  I relent, hands flying to my forehead, to what feels like the start of a headache. “No . . . no. That’s not it. Though that’s partly it.”

  “Then what? I don’t know about you, but I’m not willing to walk into your family’s restaurant like this. They might only remember me as the cameraman at Paraiso, but they’re wise enough that they can see through bullshit like a clear window. They’re going to know something is going on, so we need to smooth this out. Right now.”

  Herein lies the problem: I don’t know where to start. So I let my first thought plop out of me. “You weren’t supposed to do so well.” Then I wince at the shallowness of my words. My emotions are like a whirlpool: up above is the easy swirl of water, and below, in the depths, is a vicious twist of emotions I can’t sort out.

  But he surprises me with his next words. “Look, I didn’t think I was going to do so well.” He grins. “I’m grateful I didn’t fuck up.”

  “Yeah, that’s the thing. I’m glad you didn’t either.”

  We both grin.

  He looks at me, contemplative. “But I can’t lie. It was fun.”

  I scrunch my nose as the familiar prickle of competition runs up my spine. This job is mine and mine alone—I know that his appearing on air was a one-time thing—but the need to build a cage to protect it is strong. Before, I was worried about how credible I looked to the outside world, but now, my worry is about my cameraman.

  Someone who I slept with. Someone who has found his way under my skin.

  Because it’s not solely about the job. It’s also the uncertainty of him, of us.

  “There’s more.” I sit up. “I heard you on the—”

  A slap at the window startles me, and we both turn to the face staring at us. It’s Ellie, eyes narrowed, appraising our mood. Both Joel and I smile, our conversation sliced in half. I press the button to lower the window and infuse good vibes into my voice. “Hey!”

  “Are you guys going to sit here all afternoon?”

  “On our way,” Joel says.

  I climb out of the car, taking a cleansing breath. I look back and catch Joel’s eyes. They convey exactly what I’m feeling.

  This conversation isn’t over.

  Ellie shuts the door for me. “You aren’t giving anything away with that face of yours.”

  “I’ve had a rough day, is all.”

  Her eyebrows lift as we walk toward the front door of True North. From behind, the echo of the car door slamming and Joel’s footsteps let me know he’s right behind us. “So, will it be a good thing for all of us to watch tonight’s segment, or not?”

  Before I can answer “hell no,” Ellie opens the door to a round of cheers from my whole family. Family, meaning blood and otherwise: My dad and sis, Bryn. Her boyfriend, Mitchell. Drew and his fiancé, Camille. The entire crew of True North, many of whom I worked with throughout my school years. True North’s regular grandparent-like customers, Mr. and Mrs. Villa, smiling brightly.

  They’ve all got party hats and blowouts, and as soon as I step in, someone throws confetti at my feet.

  I laugh. “What’s all this?”

  My dad emerges from the crowd, arms out. He’s not in his usual suit, but dressed down in jeans and a Polo, collar up. I walk into his embrace and into the familiar smell of Calvin Klein cologne. “There’s so much to celebrate. Where’s the rest of your group?”

  “Tara and Adrian are caught up in work. But Joel’s right behind me.”

  “Ah, that’s okay, more food for us.” My dad lets go and says, “Oy, iho!” Hey, son, to Joel, who was just greeted with confetti. Shocked at the reception, his face breaks out into a worried smile when he sees my dad. His eyes flash up to me as my dad gives him a shoulder bump.

  I shrug, equally surprised. This might be the first time my father has ever, ever liked a man that wasn’t part of our extended family. Soon, Joel is swallowed up by my father’s questions, so I leave them be. The smell of the kitchen is luring me deeper into the dining room, and I’m bowled over with relief that I have an appetite despite my afternoon.

  But I don’t get to eat, not until the rest of the family has their way with me. The questions are relentless as they ask me how things are going. How is it to live and work with the same people? How can you stand each other? Is barbecue all you’ve been eating? Can we meet you at your next spot? Can we get on TV, too?

  I lob answers back and say, “You guys act as if I’ve never left home.”

  My cousin Drew, who has been handing out San Miguel beers to everyone, puts one in my hand. He taps his bottle against mine before taking a swig. “Yeah, but usually you’re online all the time and we know exactly what you’re doing. What’s up with that, anyway? I haven’t seen an update on your blog or social media. Hell, you haven’t even been texting.”

  I tip the beer up and drink deeply, feeling the bitterness of the hops go down my throat.

  “Hey, babe,” Camille interrupts, voice sweet and cajoling. She puts a hand on Drew’s forearm. “Can you help bring the food in?”

  “Oh, yeah. Course.” He excuses himself, forgetting what he asked me altogether. Thank God. Camille winks at me as she follows him into the kitchen.

  So I guess she knows, too. I mouth a thanks.

  “Hey, sis.”

  I turn and Bryn’s at the bar. She jerks her head for me to come to her, so I hitch myself onto a stool. I set my beer bottle down onto a cork coaster, not wanting to mar the beautiful sheen of the mahogany wood top.

  She slaps Post-its onto the bar next to the coaster.

  I lean in. The words are upside down, and the scrawl of my uncle’s indistinguishable handwriting is that much more unreadable. “What’s that?”

  “Messages. All for you, from Luke.”

  My body jerks backward. After my sister erased all traces of Luke from my contacts and blocked his number before I left for Vegas, I’ve had a reprieve from his pressure. It’s also helped with the healing process, since forgetting doesn’t seem to be an option. Over the last three weeks, the phone messages he left at Paraiso had dwindled, and I thought he’d finally given up.

  I’d forgotten that he knows I used to work at True North. “I don’t want to read them.”

  “These ones, you’ll want to.”

  My fingers tremble as I fiddle with the edges of one of the Post-its. My anger had kept me moving forward. It acted as fuel. It dragged me all the way to Vegas, and it’s kept me on this trip.

  But I’m afraid that if I read something, feel something else . . . I might not want to get back on the road. I might want to find out how and why. Luke’s last email to me proclaimed that I didn’t know the whole story, and he begged for a chance to explain. Truth is, I do want his version of the story from his own mouth.

  I’m not so much of a fool as to think that he didn’t lie, but my curiosity about why is eating me up.

  I stack the Post-its and flip through each page. His number is on every one. On one note, Please call back is written. On another, Let’s talk. And on the last, I need to explain.

  My heart breaks again, as if it could. Not on
e of these notes says he’s sorry. It’s still about him. I crumple the notes into a little ball. “He’s not even remorseful.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Absolutely nothing.”

  “Good.” She smiles. “I was worried you were going to give the guy a chance. Maybe one day you’ll want to know why and how, but you owe yourself a chance to start over.”

  “Isn’t that what I’m doing now?”

  “Right. So don’t look back,” she says. “Speaking of, Joel can’t stop looking at you. What’s up with that?”

  I sip my beer, shake my head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  My father’s bellowing laughter grabs our attention, and we both look toward the group of men. Joel’s with my dad and Mitchell, chatting without a trace of fear on his face—like he already belongs.

  “Look, I feel a zillion times better that he’s around to keep an eye on you—”

  I roll my eyes. If she only knew. “Keep an eye on me?”

  “Oh, come on, Vic. You’re camping with strangers. At least you’re with someone we can trust. Someone who, you know, knows how to kick people’s asses.”

  In the middle of taking a pull of my beer, I choke on the liquid. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

  “What? That he’s fucking strong? Look at the man. He carries that camera all day long.”

  “I guess.” I pretend not to care, though my body hums with the memory of every muscle I’ve touched.

  “But”—she pauses, giving me the eye—“I’m not too keen about something coming up between the two of you. It’s much too soon.”

  I keep my gaze on my beer bottle.

  “Oh shit.” Her eyes widen, knowingly. “You’re doing that thing . . . with your cheek. Something is up. Tell me everything.”

  “What for, so you can give me a hard time?”

  She takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be so bossy. Wait. I take that back. I don’t care if you think I’m bossy. I want you to be happy, and I would hate to see you get hurt again. He’s a nice guy, but he’s totally the opposite of you. You’re going forward, and I feel like he’s kind of . . . hanging.”

  I shake my head, thinking of Joel’s performance today. “Don’t get ahead of yourself. He’s plenty driven. Anyway, we’re still figuring it out. It’s complicated and confusing.”

  “Honey, it’s always that way.” She smiles sheepishly. “Okay, I promise I will try to stay out of it.”

  “I appreciate it. And, please, nothing to Dad until there’s something to tell?”

  My dad is notorious for intimidating my and Bryn’s boyfriends and love interests. Mitchell and my sister have been seeing each other since June, and my dad still finds ways to test him. It’s par for the course, and Mitchell understands, but it’s sometimes a stress point in their relationship.

  “Fine. And you’re welcome.”

  “To be honest, the job isn’t helping the situation. I sucked today. Or, I didn’t get a chance to suck, and Joel stepped in for me. I feel like my job is on rocky ground.”

  My sister leans on the bar top. “You’ve got to suck at something, sometime. You’re used to being accepted, of being successful right off the bat. This time, you’re going to have to hustle. Keep going, okay?”

  “Yeah, okay.”

  “I mean it. Sometimes you have to take steps in the wrong direction to get back to where you need to be.”

  The doors of the kitchen fly open, and chefs Ellie and Ritchie—my uncle—walk out, followed by the serving staff carrying platters of food. While the rest of the restaurant is ogling the dishes, all I can think of are my sister’s words. I wonder if, with what I’m doing right now with my career and with Joel, I’m going down the wrong road, or if I’ve finally turned the corner.

  22

  JOEL

  True North.

  So this is where it all began: Victoria’s need for a compass tattoo, why she has a thing with arrows. It all stems from here, from that clock on the wall that looks like a compass to the people here who seem to ground her, who have put a smile on her face. From the view of Ocean Beach through the large window and the open kitchen that has staff bustling around it, to her dad who has now cornered me, I’m starting to understand this woman who I’m undoubtedly attracted to.

  She’s the baby of this family. They put all their love into this woman who could do no wrong. And someone broke her heart. Now they’re worried as hell. It shows in the way they hover over her, how her father, her cousin, and Mitchell are grilling me. They ask me about her mood, if she’s coping. They talk as if she’s suffered a loss.

  And the only thing screaming at me is: I might end up hurting her.

  I don’t have a place to call home—hell, I don’t know what my next gig’s going to be after West Coast BBQ. She might say she’s good with carefree, with simple, but now, being around her family, I’m doubting it’s true. She might not even know what she wants. But this I’m sure of: she doesn’t need a guy like me who can’t give her more than this trip. And I can’t feel bad for being honest about it.

  I might be unequivocally drawn to her, but we may not be good for each other.

  It suddenly feels too crowded in the restaurant; there’s too much noise as the serving staff wraps the tops of a set of tables in plastic wrap. What the hell are they even doing? But the need for fresh air supersedes my curiosity. I excuse myself and walk out the front door, down a few feet.

  True North Café stands alone beachside, and lit bright against the sunset, it’s gorgeous. I feel like I should have been here already, having filmed the Aquinos. I have the desire to pick up a camera and get them in my viewfinder and watch how they interact. Get right up there so the expressions on their faces are close and clear, so I’m a witness to the hurt and the lessons and the joy, without having to be entirely part of it.

  Now that I’m supposed to be physically present, without anything to hide behind, it’s all too raw.

  “Hey, looks like you and I had the same idea.” A guy’s voice comes from my right. Mitchell walks out, hands in his pockets. He sucks in a breath as a gust of wind cuts through us.

  “Yeah. It’s kind of crowded in there.”

  “I get it.” He looks out onto the water, and we settle into a silence. Knowing the guy, he’s doing the same thing as me. He’s taking a breath, but while he’s talking himself down from an overwhelming day—he has seen a lot in Afghanistan and grapples with his past—I’m trying to figure out the future in my head.

  Like, how do I deny the fact that I love being in front of the camera and I no longer want to be behind it?

  That the woman who I’m attracted to and have slept with probably isn’t the type I should be pursuing?

  Yet, I can’t see how I can keep myself away from her.

  Mitchell breaks the silence first. “Now that Mr. Aquino isn’t around, how’s the trip really going with Vic?”

  My answer’s swift and clipped. “Good. Fine.”

  An eyebrow goes up. “Aw, c’mon dude. I think you pretty much know you’re in safe waters, right? I can tell there’s more than what you said in there.”

  “I dunno.” I hedge on what to say. The trust between Mitchell and me is mutual, though unspoken. It comes from me being in his space, and him sometimes completely forgetting I’m there. So I go for it. “The RV. It’s brought us closer.”

  Though I’m looking out onto the beach, I can tell he’s staring at my profile. “Do you mean . . . between you . . . and a specific someone?”

  My gaze darts to him, and then back out onto the beach.

  “Huh. I see . . . and is this specific someone about, oh, five-one, and do they have a big sister that will come after you if you’re saying what I think you’re saying?”

  That makes me bust up. I nod at the level of ridiculousness of this conversation. The guy was in my shoes two months ago—trying to deal with an Aquino woman that knocked him to the ground. But
while Bryn is complicated, Victoria is not. She’s honest and open.

  It’s me who’s complicated.

  “Look, man, you can’t be messing with Vic.” Mitchell’s voice rounds into a serious, almost paternal tone.

  I frown, not liking the implication. “I’m not messing with her.”

  He puts a hand behind his neck. “Not what I mean. I know you’re a good guy. But she’s vulnerable. Luke fucked her up.”

  That’s his name. Luke.

  I repeat the words so the guy understands. “I’m not messing with her. If anything, being around her is what’s making me think twice.”

  “About what?”

  “What I’m doing, how I operate. I’ve got my own baggage, too. Did you know I was in the Army?”

  “No shit?”

  “One tour.”

  “Well, who the hell knew?”

  I laugh. “It’s not like I was in a position to tell you. Anyway, my point is . . . Vic’s the angel on my shoulder—so damn optimistic and hopeful despite . . . despite that guy. Do you know she believes in fate? It’s got me approaching things differently.”

  “These Aquino women will do that to you.” He grins. “Want my advice?”

  I inhale the salty air, let it settle in my lungs. Breathe out. Nod.

  “Don’t rush it.” He puts his hands up, defensively. “Hey, you’re both adults. Lord knows I can’t judge, what with the way Bryn and I took off. Just saying, being together all the time accelerates all these, I dunno, feelings or whatever. Maybe step back a little, see what you have for what it is.”

  “I get you.” I press my lips together. Mitch is right. But what he doesn’t know about me is that walking away has always been my MO. Victoria has a pull that keeps me coming back; she’s a light my body seems to need.

  The voices in the restaurant rise to a roar and the front door opens, grabbing my and Mitchell’s attention. Victoria steps out. “Hey. It’s time to eat.”

  “Good, I’m famished,” Mitch says, a little too loud, and he gives me a final nod before walking past Victoria.

  She pauses at the door, and then, as if changing her mind, comes over to me. “What’s up?” Her voice shakes as she shivers and wraps her arms around her waist.