24
DREW
Camille’s and Ally’s outlines are backlit by the light of the student cafe, hunched over a tiny table. The temperature has dropped, and gusts of wind cut through my thin long-sleeve shirt. I forgot how labile the weather is, and without my knit cap, there’s nothing to protect my head from feeling like I dunked it in cold water.
I can tell from where I stand across the street that the two sisters are cozy. Their jackets are slung on their chair backs; both are wearing short sleeves. It’s apparent they’re not having their usual feisty conversation. They’re doing more smiling than talking, more laughing than rolling eyes. They look like they’re having a moment, bonding over their drinks.
I don’t get their attention right away. Cami wasn’t expecting me to come back, and I didn’t expect me to come back here. On my drive from downtown, I had every intention of heading straight to the restaurant. That would have been the responsible thing to do. No, the stand-up thing would have been to tell my dad before pulling the appeal.
Going home terrifies me. What I did will disappoint my ma and piss off my father. Coming here to find Cami was part procrastination and part fear. I had to see Cami’s face, bolster myself against the hammer that’s going to come down on me for what I’ve done.
I took a risk that they would be here at the student cafe. It made perfect sense that Camille would insist on stopping in for a cup of coffee. She has this thing for lattes and foam shapes and dessert. Stupid me, now I know it doesn’t end in lattes. Camille loves food, too. Correction: Camille makes food. Camille is synonymous with cooking. Just like my father eats, sleeps, drinks True North, this woman lives for Lucianna.
Panic rushes at me like a Pacific Ocean wave. Camille owns That Damned Truck. The one I’ve helped scheme against. And the advice we were giving each other about zones and social media? It was ammo against each other.
I gave Camille and Ally a chance at the expense of my family’s success.
But whose chance was it to begin with? If the sun and the moon fought for the same spot, which would the Earth fare better with?
Both. Both must exist. Both must share space. Somehow I’ve got to make my father feel the same way, and then . . . and then tell Camille who I am.
With a sudden rush of bravado, I pull out my phone. My conscience screams at me as I dial my pop’s cell. This news should be broken to him in person. This is a crisis, dammit, and I’ve got to take whatever he dishes out, in the flesh, like a man. But the chickenshit kid in me stomps back. It’s now or never. This will explode in everyone’s faces soon enough, so the earlier the better, right? It doesn’t make the news less shocking either way.
I bite my lip as the restaurant phone rings shrilly in my ear.
“True North,” the voice says, pulling me out of my thoughts.
“Pop.” Then, before giving him the time to respond, I say, “I want to let you know I pulled the appeal.” There. It’s out in the open. And instead of wincing, I brace myself, ready to take the brunt of profanity and accusations.
But the voice that answers me is calm. “Why would you do something like that?”
“I don’t understand why we can’t work with this scenario. Our target audience is absolutely different from Lucianna’s. If people want Filipino food, they come to us; if they want panini, they go to her. She isn’t our competition.”
“Andrew, this is not what we talked about. This was not our agreement. You . . . we . . . sat and talked about this plan. We agreed part of standing out is getting rid of potential obstacles, and That Damned Truck is a huge one. You can’t change the course of something that was decided half a month ago.”
“Our plan was to make True North better, not to push someone else so they fail. There’s got to be a deal we can cut. People do it all the time . . . partnerships, affiliates, referrals. We can probably find a way to cross-advertise. Like a rewards-type deal.”
“We decided the truck is a hindrance to the restaurant’s view. An eyesore. True North is white tablecloth, and the truck is . . . ugly. No one can see our front door, our signs. We ourselves can’t look out our front windows and see the street.” My pop’s voice spits out the comparison, as if the mere mention of Lucianna is poison.
Yet the view in front of me, of Camille and Ally, is everything but. “It isn’t necessary to bring another business down. As small businesses, shouldn’t we look out for one another? Their street food is attracting pedestrian traffic that didn’t exist before, don’t you agree? There are other choices.”
A snort echoes through the phone. “This is ridiculous. Why did I expect any less?”
“Excuse me?” My grip on the phone tightens, my hearing heightened to pick up my dad’s breathing on the other end.
“You can’t come home and make these kinds of decisions. Not only do you know nothing about this business, you don’t even have the right to. I allowed you to help because I thought we were on the same page. I thought we wanted the same things, but you obviously don’t. If you aren’t working with me, Andrew, you’re working against me.”
Steam and anger infiltrate my vision. Along with it, a conversation—a fight—I had with my pop the night I left for my first duty station replays in my head. My father didn’t want me to go. He begged me to back out. But I knew I couldn’t stay. The dreams I had went beyond the street, the city, the state. I wanted more. To get him to let me go, I denounced my role in True North. And what he told me haunted me and kept me away.
Don’t expect to come home and have everything the same.
Don’t think you can come home and I’ll forget you left when I needed you.
So I bite my tongue. Even if I know my pop’s words are false, a last-ditch effort to rein in his child, the mere thought triggers the guilt I carry. I did refuse my legacy, and I was too proud then to come home and say sorry.
But if there’s one thing my father has taught me, it’s you have to hold tight to the decisions you make. Own them, whether it leads to success or to a monumental face-plant. I’ve made Camille’s and Ally’s business mine, and I can’t waffle now. “I’m sorry, but it’s done. I’ll fight the appeal myself if you file another one. And we’ll no longer be calling the cops on them for every little thing you don’t like. It’s harassment.”
A growl echoes in my ear and the phone clicks off.
I exhale.
I stare at my phone and sense the foreboding feeling of World War III, thick and inevitable. I’ve been home less than two weeks and I’ve made our relationship worse, not better.
My mother needs to be involved now. She has always cracked the stalemate, broken the silence, and pieced truths together. My father always listens to her.
But the phone buzzes in my hand and a text flies in.
Is that you out there? Ten feet away, Camille waves. While I can’t hear what she’s saying to Ally through the double-pane window, I can see she’s wearing an honest-to-goodness smile. It’s the same smile I haven’t been able to get out of my mind since I’ve been home. Since ten years ago.
ME: I dunno. Is it me? Feeling out of body at the moment.
CAMI: If it isn’t, I’m going to end up kissing the guy outside this cafe. We got some good news.
ME: Hell, if you put it that way, I’m coming in.
CAMI: You okay? Did you make it in time for whatever you needed
to do?
ME: Yeah. I have great timing. OMW.
I cross the street and approach the cafe window. Camille lifts her coffee cup to me and mouths, Want some?
I nod. Yeah, I want some. And if I have any chance to keep Camille, Lucianna has to stay exactly where she is.