26
DREW
I’m sitting in the passenger seat of Bryn’s Mini Cooper when Lucianna slides into its space, right on time on Wednesday morning at 11 a.m.
Two days. I haven’t seen Camille in two days, and it feels like forever. Correction: I haven’t seen her face, but I’ve known where she’s been. Yesterday she was on the Great Highway from eleven to four and then from seven until eleven. Working her ass off, churning out food like her truck’s some kind of assembly line. I can only imagine the prep she’s doing in between and how exhausted she must be.
I buckle my seat belt as Bryn starts the car. Today is all about errands. She and I are like reeds in rushing water, enveloped in construction, plans, and inventory. It’s eleven days before the grand reopening, and every contractor has been called in for the restaurant’s final touches. Pendulum lights now hang from the ceiling. The floor is perfectly level, though covered in tarp. People in various company shirts—yellow, green, blue—mill about. The timeline has sped to double time, and the last two days—which I spent avoiding my pop—have felt more like two months.
“What’s the first stop?” Bryn buckles herself in and turns on her GPS, finger on the screen to type in our next destination.
“BAU, so we can have a face-to-face with Blake.”
“That’s your buddy, pogi,” she accuses. “I mean, what kind of a person misses work two days in a row? He can’t flake out once the restaurant is open. He’s got to show up to every shift.”
“I know, I know. But we’re not open yet. Please. Cut him some slack.”
“Psh. Whatever. When I have my own place, that’s not going to fly. Your parents are way too nice.”
I beg to differ, but I don’t say a word. I haven’t exactly been squeaky clean myself with either my dad or Camille. And arguing is not on my docket today. Maybe a little bit of coercing when we see Blake at practice. A little soul searching tonight after I stop in to see Camille at work. But my method of handling conflict today is to ignore it.
“Thank you for driving,” I say.
“You’re welcome.”
Bryn backs her car out of the long driveway. I’m scrolling through Lucianna’s social media feed when Bryn slams on her brakes, practically rocking the car over its nose. Bryn throws her arm across my chest with surprising force.
“Damn. Are you okay?” I ask. And I realize my arm’s against her chest, too.
A shadow comes around from the rear of the vehicle. Knuckles knock on my window. It’s my pop.
I can’t hold his gaze when I roll the window down, knowing I should have faced him days ago.
“Oh my God, Tito. You scared me,” Bryn says.
“Sorry, iha. I wanted to talk to Andrew.” His eyes darken when his attention shifts to me. “Where are you off to?”
“To see Blake.”
“Amazing.” My pop shakes his head. “You can find the time to check in on a truant employee who we know is out goofing around, but you fail to keep me in the loop in your decisions. Worse, you can’t come and look me in the eyes to update me on what you’ve done to change the course of this grand reopening.”
“Pop, I was going to talk to you.”
He puts a hand up. “There’s nothing you can say at this point that’s going to make this better. I only want to know why you did it. Why?”
I shy away from his direct question. I don’t want to expose Camille, not yet. Not until my father has calmed down and she’s found another location to sell from. I don’t want her in the mix unless I’m around to be a buffer. Until then, I would rather take the fire. “Because it was the right thing to do. I didn’t like how this strategy was working out. We’re small businesses. We should have each other’s backs. How are these other businesses doing it, having trucks in front of them?”
“They’re fighting those trucks tooth and nail. Hammer and chisel.” Pop rests his arms on the door. Meeting my father’s desperate gaze forces my own away.
“Pop . . .”
His voice softens. “When we open in ten days, we won’t be noticed, not with all of the commotion that damned truck makes. We have everything riding on this opening, on the success of this restaurant. Our family’s livelihood. Maybe not yours, because you’re living your own life. But your mother’s and everyone else who works here, like Bryn and Victoria and your friends Matt and Blake. Even your Tito Ben. He relies on this money, too. He’s my brother-in-law, but if pushed, he will take his share of this business.” My father’s pause is a painful two beats. “I meant what I said—I won’t have you work against me. I would rather you not help at all. I would rather you step back.”
Said to my face, the notion I’m a traitor socks me in the gut, and it renders me speechless. The words are an ultimatum, though said in my father’s quiet way. No need for Chef Ritchie to raise his voice this time, because his message alone has blanketed me with bullets. I’ll lose him if I keep fighting him—it’s as simple as that.
“I would never, Pop.”
But have I already?
As if my words cut the tension, the moment loosens around us. He nods, and after a heavy sigh says, “Okay, iho. Let’s . . . let’s not linger on this anymore. There’s too much going on. I appreciate all of your help, including setting Victoria up with the social media. And I thank you, too, Bryn, for lining up online restaurant reviewers. This is a team effort and I couldn’t have done this all without you both.”
From my left, Bryn nods, face cast downward.
“Everything’s coming along,” is all I can respond. I keep my eyes on my pop’s face, half listening to his instructions for the next few days, weighing the words he’s not saying—about loyalty and family and being on the same team—and wondering how the hell I’m going to get out of this one. Who should I speak to first? Camille or my father? When and where? Finally, after a series of nods, my father pats the car door windowsill and walks away, swallowed by the chaos of the restaurant.
“That . . . that was pretty horrible.” Bryn puts the car in reverse.
“Yeah, shitty all right. Can we go?”
She exits our parking lot. We take a right onto the Great Highway, the car’s speed increasing to fifty miles an hour. With the windows rolled down, it’s refreshing but noisy as hell. We drive in silence until we get to the first red light.
“What’s going on?” Bryn finally asks, voice soft.
I shut my eyes and lean my head on the headrest. “I pulled the appeal.”
“No. Fucking. Way. You straight-up went rogue?”
I nod without opening my eyes.
“Why the hell would you do something like that?”
I bury my face in my hands. “It’s Camille.” At her contorted, confused expression, I say, “The girl I’ve been seeing?”
“The girl from your freshman year.”
“Yep. Camille is Lucianna.”
“What? Lucianna?” Her voice plummets. “The food truck?”
“Yes.”
“Hold on a hot minute. Because it sounds like you’re telling me the girl you’re dating owns the food truck in front of your restaurant. As in, public enemy number one.”
I nod, eyes shut. The situation sounds worse coming out of my cousin’s mouth than it ever did in my head.
“Oh. Shit. Drew. When did you find out?”
I tell Bryn everything. The Bay to Breakers Festival. The tourist traps. The no-specifics rule. Lucianna parked in front of Camille’s apartment building. Bryn rolls up the windows as I explain how I was able to pull the appeal, and the phone conversation with my pop that pretty much wrecked me.
What I don’t say is how much Camille means to me. And yet, I don’t have to.
“Do you love her?” Bryn asks as we drive into the BAU athletic stadium parking lot and pull into the first available space.
The idea alone is ludicrous. “It’s only been twelve days.”
“Ten years and twelve days.”
“Not really. More like a couple of months of our freshman year and twelve days.”
“Ugh, you’re being annoying, cousin.” She pulls up the emergency break. “Who cares how short or long it’s been? What matters is what’s inside. How you feel for her and what you’re willing to do to make it work.”
I raise my eyebrows at her. “Who knew you would be so sappy, Bryn? You’re getting soft in your old age.”
She growls. “It’s my MBA. It’s making me all sensitive because we have to outline our goals. But don’t you dare tell anyone. I’m trying to keep my image.” Her eyes narrow. “Quit changing the subject, you.”
“I’m not, softy. What’s the Tagalog word for soft? Malambot?”
Bryn flips me off, then heaves a breath. “Maybe it’s because you guys have a little bit of history. Or maybe . . . maybe she’s normal and patient enough to see past your high and tight haircut. But if this is anything as serious as I think it is, you’ll have to convince your dad having the truck there is for his benefit. If you love her, you’ll also have to tell him who she is.”
Blowing out a breath, I slouch into the seat. “What a fucking mess.”
“And not to add to the pressure or anything, but Vic’s been needling her on social media. She’s kind of being a bully.”
“Argh, I know. Camille’s mentioned it. It’s not Vic’s fault. She’s only doing what she’s been told to do.” But I can’t wait any longer. I’ve got to stop all of this.
“Well, before you go all Batman and save Gotham, and before we head into that nasty locker room, I need to run something by you.”
I slow my heart, seeing my cousin bite down on her lower lip. “What’s up?”
“You mentioned trying to get an interview with a food blogger, and I found one. She’s supposed to be the best in the city. All my friends follow her religiously. Kaya Banks?”
“Don’t know her.”
Her eyes roll back elaborately. “Of course you don’t. You okay with me getting ahold of her?”
“Yeah, that sounds good. In fact, how about seeing if we could get her out here before the opening? Like a preview?”
“Great idea.”
“We should put her on the guest list for the grand reopening, too. That’ll be double exposure.”
“Got it.” She sighs. “I’m so glad you’re here. We wouldn’t be doing any of this stuff if it wasn’t for you.”
“Don’t thank me. It was Camille’s idea. She’s a whiz at this stuff. Obviously.”
“Obvs.” Bryn pinches her chin, then says, “There’s got to be an answer to all of this.”
I climb out of the car and meet Bryn at the hood. “I’ve thought of everything, every option. We’re supposed to see each other tomorrow night, and I have to tell her. I’ve waited too long as it is.”
She shakes her head. “I’m sorry. I wish I could help.” Pausing while I open the door to the stadium, toward the locker rooms, she pinches her nose. “Sorry, locker rooms aren’t my favorite place. Gross. What are we planning to tell Blake?”
A slew of deep voices echo down the hallway, with one I recognize distinctly. “You aren’t telling him anything. I think this will go better if you stay outside.”
She shrugs. “Fine by me. I’ll be over there where there’s fresh air. I’ve got phone calls to make. Text if you need me.”
The Marin Spartans are staffed by players who love the game of baseball and still have the dream of getting scouted for the high minor, and hopefully, the major leagues. Matt and Blake have been at their dream for years, playing Little League, high school, and college baseball. Getting drafted into Single-A wasn’t exactly the grand prize, but they jumped into it despite the long season, constant travel, and low pay.
While major league players roll in dough, Single-A players get paid zilch, at best minimum wage. Livable wage doesn’t start until a player moves up to Double- or Triple-A’s, but it’s a pyramid’s climb to the top. Blake says he gets paid by the thrill of the game, but baseball’s expensive—gear, travel, fees. So I don’t get why he’s blowing off the job I asked my pop to give him. With my conversation with Matt about Blake’s partying lingering in my head, I decided only a face-to-face confrontation will do.
The stench of body odor, feet, IcyHot, and deodorant fills my nose when I enter the locker room. The Spartans are using BAU’s facilities part time while their field’s undergoing maintenance, so the locker room has a mix of students and players. Blake is easy to spot. All I do is follow his booming voice and the group of guys congregated in a corner.
Blake’s wicked expression switches to worry when he sees me. After excusing himself, he meets me at the front, slinging his bag over his shoulder. With a nonchalant nod, he says, “Are my eyes deceiving me, or is Drew Bautista near a sporting facility? What’s up, man?”
We shake hands and shoulder bump. “Hey. Don’t mean to bother you. Just wanted to check in. Haven’t seen you around. You’ve missed a couple of shifts.”
“Yeah? Well, I’m good . . . Ah, listen, sorry I didn’t get to work yesterday. Or the other time. Something came up.”
A couple of guys pass us, and I wait till they’re out of earshot. “I get you’re busy. But the opening’s coming up. Kinda want to make sure we’re square with this. I mean, do you want to work at True North? Because I won’t be offended. But we need to know if we have to find someone else—to cover down. I mean, we can’t have a hole in the schedule. You understand, right?”
Beats pass. “Yeah. I do want the job. I need the money, you know? And your parents are flexible with the game schedule and practices . . .”
I nod and wait for more, but Blake doesn’t say anything else. “So I’ll be seeing you soon? Contractors have taken over the place, but we have a staff meeting in a couple of days.” I stare into his eyes, hoping for a sign of remorse or that he’s going to follow through.
He clears his throat and smiles his trademark grin. “Yeah, of course, man. I’ll be there.” He offers up a fist, which I bump.
His word will have to do. Lightening up the moment I say, “Need a ride? Bryn’s out front waiting. We can grab something to eat.”
Blake cracks a smile. “Nah. I’m trying to hook up with this girl. She lives right around the corner from here.”
“Trying to?”
Sheepishly, he says, “She’s giving me the runaround, but I’ll catch her.”
“Good luck with that, bro.” We step out of the locker room doors. “So I’ll see you?”
“You will,” he says definitively.
Our final good-bye is sterile and cordial, despite a shoulder hug. I walk out of the glass double doors as Bryn jogs over. “How did it go?”
“Not really sure.”
“Huh. Time will tell.” When we get to the car, she says, “Kaya Banks responded right away.”
“Who?” My mind is still on my conversation with Blake and his nonchalance.
“The food blogger.” She rolls her eyes. “She’s down for a preview, probably as early as tomorrow. Score.”
I slap her five and hang on to that small win of the day. At least something is going well.