"I haven't indulged in singing that loud since college," I laughed as we turned a street. It was a Saturday, which meant the traffic was instantly less horrific than it usually was. The roads of Manila were almost clear, save for a couple of crazy jaywalkers and street vendors. Max didn't seem to mind as much though, purchasing a couple of candies from a vendor on the street.
"You should do it more often," he said, keeping his eyes on the road as we turned into the right street corner.
I've known about Dangwa since high school. I studied in a Catholic, all-girls' school from first grade to high school, and in our senior year, we needed to buy flowers in bulk to learn the fine art of flower-arranging. I'm not kidding. My Home Economics teacher insisted we buy several stalks of azaleas and calla lilies and squares and squares of floral foam. I had green foam stuck under my fingernails for weeks.
Dangwa was a magical place, taking up the streets of Dimasalang, Laong-Laan, and Lacson Avenue in the middle of the city of Manila. Flowers were delivered throughout the day from the cooler parts of the country, and the bus stop was nearby, so the flower markets grew stall after stall of fresh flower vendors. Max looked a little surprised that the area even existed. Everything about it felt slightly makeshift, but the explosion of colors from all directions was a welcome sight amidst the layer of grime that settled over the city.
"Holy shit, where are we?" he asked, and I smiled at him knowingly as we headed in. The street we were walking on was slightly wet, since the vendors were throwing out old flower water on to the walking area. Thankfully Max was wearing closed shoes, as was I.
As with all Filipino markets, the assault on our eyes and the light tickle of the flowers was nothing compared to the shouts of the vendors who spotted a potential customer. I pulled Max gently by the elbow as left and right vendors started shouting at us. They promised imported Holland roses at fair prices, free flower girl bouquets if we ordered enough flowers, and azaleas sold by the kilo, which was a really tempting offer.
As we walked, men carrying buckets and bouquets of all shapes and sizes asked us to move aside to let them pass. Some of the walkways were taken over by large, muscled men in wife beaters artfully arranging flowers without batting an eyelash. Max and I walked past a man arranging a cascade of mums for a bridal bouquet when we found ourselves standing beside a bucket of bright sunflowers. I looked up at him.
"How do you know which stall to go in?" he asked.
"Oh, you've got a stray leaf there," I said, tiptoeing up to pull a bright green leaf from his hair. We'd passed by so many stalls now it was impossible not to get a little foliage on you.
"Thanks," he said, smiling down at me while I twirled the leaf in one hand. We'd been in such close proximity to each other, avoiding other people that seeing him right there in front of me was a bit...surprising. Possibly illuminating.
"Ay, look at that happy couple," the saleslady nearest to us said, pointing at me and Max from her seat underneath the awning over her stall. She had a portable electric fan over her sweaty face, and the radio behind her blasted the cheesiest of sixties tunes from the AM station. "So cute! They look like the perfect ten!" She howled with laughter, slapping the arm of the person next to her so see if they got the joke. "Get it? Coz' she's so fat?"
"I get it, they're like the numbers!" her companion said, and Max and I immediately turned to them with the most murderous of glares that we could muster. Did these women think we couldn't hear them?
"Hoy," Max spat out, and I realized I'd never heard him sound so annoyed. I'd never been openly teased like that in front of him, and he was taking it worse than I was. Was it because I was wearing a sleeveless top?
I backed down immediately. We were in their territory, and if Max decided to pick a fight, it wouldn't end well for either of us. Arguing with the florists was not going to help anyone.
"Who the fu—“
"You know, honey," I cut him off, placing my hands on his chest to cool his jets. The sudden intimacy of the touch made Max turn back to me in slight surprise. "We should probably move on. Five thousand stems of roses are not going to buy themselves."
Then I took his hand and pulled him away while the salesladies' jaws dropped at the business they had just lost. I didn't let go of Max's hand and looked up at him, once we were out of earshot, just to make sure he was okay.
"What happened back there, Rambo?" I asked. "Were you really ready to beat up a flower vendor?"
His frown deepened, and he shook his head. He looked down sadly at me, and I wondered if it upset him that he had to defend me because of my weight. "I just don't get why people have to make comments like that. It's so rude."
This new side of Max was utterly fascinating to me. Most of the time he acted like I was just a normal person, a bro he hung out with, or occasionally flirted with to make me squirm. Now he was being protective and concerned, it was...strange.
I knew I had to diffuse the tension somehow, so I shrugged.
"It's more fun in the Philippines."
"Really, Martha," he said with a sigh. "You don't have to act like it didn't hurt you, or that it didn't mean anything. You don't always have to smile and just let people walk all over you."
That hit a nerve, and he knew it. What was he trying to do?
"Well we can't all be sailing through life like you do," I said sharply, crossing my arms over my chest. His eyes widened, and I wondered how hard I hit on that particular nerve. I knew I was being neither logical nor fair. I wanted so bad to argue with him and yell, because to be completely honest, I was still a little angry about the way we both handled the George thing. We hadn't talked for three weeks, and I didn't like it at all. I ended up taking a deep breath, filling my lungs with the smell of warm, damp concrete and fresh flowers. I sighed.
"This is why we can't be together, Max," I joked, shaking my head. "You know me too well."
He smiled too, but I could tell he didn't find my joke amusing. We started walking together, now dodging passing vendors like experts. I peeked into the stalls, trying to find the kind of flowers we needed.
"I thought that would be my selling point," he said, following close behind me.
"Yeah, like that's the only thing I'm looking for in a relationship," I said sarcastically. "I just want someone who doesn't think I'm cute, you know? I'm too moody to be cute. Cute is what you call babies or chubby bunnies. Or an endearment you say when you want to tell someone they're ugly in a nice way."
"I don't think you're cute at all," he said immediately, and I squeezed his lower arm lightly. He faked getting hurt anyway, and it made me laugh. Max always made me laugh, and the little fog of anger above my head dissipated just as fast.
"So what's your number one requirement," I asked, as we continued our walk. "Maxwell Jeffrey Angeles's number one requirement for the woman of his dreams. Does she have to have read a thousand books? Be a dog lover? Listen to every band in the local gig scene?"
He paused, and I found myself holding my breath in anticipation.
"She has to be my best friend," he said simply, so sure of himself that I envied his confidence. "That's all you ever want in your person, right?"
I don't know why, but my heart fluttered and my cheeks burned. Who knew Max could be such a romantic? He's read so many books on love that he had to know. I smiled and looped my arms around his muscled arm so excitedly that my entire body bounced (boobs included) a little, making him sway slightly.
"You're exactly right," I agreed. "Now honey, are we going to buy flowers or what?"
At my use of the h-word, Max immediately lightened up. He curled his arm up (ooh, that bicep!) and clasped his hand against mine, kissing the back of my palm, before his lips quirked into a mischievous smile. There was the Max I knew.
"So we're really doing this?" He asked, raising our clasped hands with a quirked eyebrow. "Bring it on, boo-boo."
"Ew," I scrunched up my face at the sound of the name. "No, no. I don't like boo-boo."
"Honeybunch? Lovey-doves?”
"Max, those are horrible pet names," I laughed. I looped my arm around his, pushing him forward as he chuckled and tucked the same hand into his pocket. "What was the one that Elizabeth wants to be called in Pride and Prejudice? Goddess Divine?"
"If you're talking about that last scene from the movie version, I say it was totally unnecessary," he commented. "But I believe it was 'Lizzy' for every day, 'My Pearl' on Sundays, and 'Goddess Divine' on special occasions.”
"And when she was truly, incandescently happy?" I smiled, looking up at him again. It was something I had done thousands of times before, but in this light, in this moment, in the rush of our laughter and the heady scent of the flowers surrounding us, it was dizzying and brilliant. Things had changed around us, and I didn’t really understand it yet. But I knew it was nice, I knew it was easy. I knew I didn’t want it to end yet.
Max, who knew the film version as well as he knew the novel itself, simply smiled and kissed my cheek with his lightly pursed lips.
"Mrs. Angeles," he said low into my ear, and I nearly dropped his hand in my shock. Instead I lost my footing, as I occasionally did and stumbled backwards into a bucket of carnations, nearly knocking it over. Max was quick though, reaching over my big and clumsy body to set the bucket upright before a single bloom fell out.
Behind us, the saleslady clapped his hands enthusiastically and started to laugh. A couple of the other stall owners looked on in amusement. I stood myself straight and smiled sheepishly. Oh my god if I wasn't blushing hard before, I was now!
"I am so sorry," I said to the owner. "I didn't mean to…"
"Oh relax dear, it was no harm, no foul," she said, smiling at us with her toothless mouth, waving her hand at me while she sat beside buckets and buckets of tall roses almost bursting from their stems. “Always nice to see a happy young couple in love. What are you looking for? All of these flowers are from Baguio, in my family's farm."
I'd consulted my list just before we left the car and I knew we were looking for as many roses as we could find, as well as white mophead hydrangeas, succulents, and the bright violet lily of the nile. I took a peek into the woman's store and saw she had most of the flowers we needed, some hanging upside down from the ceiling. Max had already wandered inside, looking at the flowers. His fingers reached out to lightly brush the pink sides of a stargazer. I would have thought he would be a little bored, but he seemed to be enjoying himself, touching everything like a kid in a toy store.
"Your family grows all of these?" Max asked, poking his fingers into a block of floral foam. "That's amazing. I didn't think you could grow these kinds of flowers here."
He indicated the hydrangeas, with their tiny white flowers clumped into balls that spread over big green leaves. The saleslady nodded.
"Hydrangeas are difficult to grow here, but they still do in our Baguio farm. They need patience and love, a lot of coaxing. But they always turn out beautiful, just as they are,” she said, fondly smiling at the heads of hydrangeas in front of her. Max’s face turned thoughtful as he studied the flowers, like he was trying to understand them himself.
"I need flowers for an engagement party," I said kindly, trying to be in charge. "Could you give me a quote for these?" I asked, showing her the list of flowers and the quantity we needed. I had an idea of the prices, and Tita Merry’s approvals on how high I could go. They were planning on making a decadent wall of white roses for the photo booth, and that alone would cost tens of thousands of pesos. The aunts weren’t kidding when they said they wanted this event to be big.
The saleslady’s silver white eyebrows shot up when she saw the size of my order. I worried that she wouldn’t be able to fulfill it, but she nodded and excused herself for a moment, walking over to the stall next door and showing her the piece of paper. They were talking to each other, pointing at flowers and nodding at each other. Max stood next to me with a bright, blue hydrangea bush in his hand. I had no idea when he picked that up.
“I have a question for you,” he said, as we continued to watch them. “Pinky promise that you’ll answer?” “Okay,” I said without thinking, twisting my pinky around his and wiggling it to make him laugh. He smiled, but it disappeared almost just as fast. Oh. He was serious. “Why did you ask me to come with you today?” he asked, as the saleslady looked over at us and gave us a little wave to reassure us that she was coming back. We waved back, giving her the same smiles. I liked hers better because her toothlessness made her seem happier somehow.
As I dropped my hand I realized the answer didn’t change. It didn’t make my heart beat in my chest, or my hands turn clammy. The truth was never complicated or hard to say.
“Because I missed you,” I said.
The saleslady returned with her quotation, offering to throw in a person to help with the floral arrangement, and delivery of the flowers. I threw myself into business mode and left Max to fend for himself, putting the hydrangeas back and plucking stems and leaves from random piles. Then he asked for some ribbon and plastic as Stella (the saleslady) and I finished the order and set the details. I promised her I would go to her for more events, and she seemed pleased.
“With this order alone, I can afford to spend a little more time at home,” she told me, squeezing my hand. “That’s all I really need.”
When we emerged from the store, Max had a large array of flowers in his hands, and he was ecstatic to report that it cost half of what he would have had to pay if he bought it at the mall. I looked at the curious, mismatched collection of purples, yellows, pinks and oranges.
My Home Economics teacher would have disparaged his lack of leaves to support the flowers (“the flowers are jewels on a crown, ladies, not the gold that holds it together!”) and the almost painful-to-the-eyes combination. The bouquet was bright, happy, spontaneous and a little silly, and it had Max all over it. I beamed with pride, but in the back of my mind I wondered if prim and properly put together George would like it.
“Here,” he said, handing me the bouquet before I could think.
“Me?” I asked, my voice immediately rising. “This is for me?”
“Yeah,” he chuckled as he started the car. “Because I missed you too.”
I didn’t want to tell him that this was the very first bouquet I’d ever received in my life, because I didn’t want to freak him out. Why should it, though? He knows you better than most people do. I should feel sad that I got my first bouquet at 26, from my best friend no less, but I didn’t. In fact, I wouldn’t have had it any other way.
I buried my face in the flowers, inhaling their fresh scent. The petals touched my cheeks, and I smiled. I wanted this memory to be happy. I wanted to keep this particular memory close, because at the back of my mind, I knew that things between Max and I were changing, and I didn’t know if that was a good thing or not.
Eight
When Tita Flora decided to make her announcement, she grabbed the opportunity to turn it into somewhat a big to-do. She roped my mother into helping her arrange a "small soiree” with the family.
Anything she had to say, her daughter Lydia already knew, and there wasn't really anyone else to tell. My father had been right when he sensed it was going to be something big. Even Maggie was specifically asked to cut class to join us for the meal.
Dad always told me that he considered both Tita Flora and Fauna the heads of the family. Tita Flora was the sister who helped you get ready for prom, who taught you how to be cool and to sneak out of the house. Tita Fauna was the stern ate, the kind who asked if you did your homework or who gave you a hard time when you ask for allowance.
Because my grandfather used to work full time, Lola May took care of his needs while Tita Flora and Fauna watched over Dad and Tita Merry. I knew he was worried about whatever it was Tita Flora had to say, and I think this Tagaytay thing was just a way to ease whatever blow she was about to deal.
My aunt never did anything that wasn’t big, loud, or floral. We shouldn’t hav
e been surprised, really. Mom rented a twenty-person event space for a crowd of about ten at Sonya's Garden in Tagaytay. It was Tita Flora's favorite place outside of Manila, because they served fresh salads and pastas with a slice of the most heavenly chocolate cake. Walking around the property was like walking through an English garden, or so Tita Flora says.
I've always liked Sonya's, they had exotic flowers and bright, colorful blooms growing out of almost every possible crevice. The “greenhouses” that were converted into restaurants all had a rustic feel to them, with colored chandeliers and fresh greens every day. Mom and Dad used to drive here just to buy us bags of their specialty cheese hopia, crumbly and tart little rounds of pastry that flaked and filled your mouth. Ten bags with ten pieces each would probably last us a month. I was excited already.
This particular lunch was a joint thing between Mom, Tita Flora, and Regina. They coordinated with all the invitees and the garden, choosing a lunch and tea menu for the soirée. The only thing I had to do for this event was to show up, which was perfect because planning Regina’s engagement party alone was already taking up too much of my time. I hadn't gotten a lot of sleep the night before after coordinating with the event stylist, so the only thing I was currently good for was ordering my family's ten packs of cheese hopia tarts from the bakery up front.
That was where Tita Fauna found me, talking to the cashier as I sipped on my iced Caramel Macchiato. The whole bakery smelled like fresh bread and butter, and I was already cradling a bag of cheese hopia in my arms.
"Martha," she sighed, tutting her head at my drink as she slid up beside me. "What do you have there?"
"Oh my god...Tita!" I jumped, and tried to keep my cool when I realized it was her. Tita Fauna was the stricter of the two aunts, her training as a teacher made her severe and seem a little controlling. But I knew she meant well, even if everything she said to me came with barbs. When I thought of evil stepmothers, Tita Fauna's face usually found its way into my imagination.
If the Dress Fits Page 9