32
CAMILLE
I’ve set the table for a midnight snack. The dinner candles have burned down halfway; wax dots the tablecloth. With the lights off, and the windows bare, the panoramic view of San Francisco becomes an extension of Drew’s apartment. It’s as if the streetlights below and the stars above were lit just for me.
That inspired me to leave the warmth of Drew’s side and turn the burned brownies into cake balls. It was easy, really. Cream cheese acts like glue, and with brownie crumbs, I molded tiny balls of chocolate. Dipped them in melted chocolate chips and chilled them in the freezer, and voilà. A laughingly easy dessert, and the final touch to a perfect night.
I pull open the freezer and press a finger against the chocolate, and sure enough, it’s set. Yum.
As I plate the cake balls and clean up the last of the kitchen, Drew stirs from a dead-to-the-world sleep. He sits up in a panic, but when he catches a glimpse of me at the counter, he grins, lying back on his pillows.
“We need to make a rule,” he says. “Wake me before you get out of bed. Warn me I won’t see you when I open my eyes.” The glow from his phone illuminates his face briefly, then he scrolls and types, scrolls and types.
“Not my fault you sleep like a rock.” I want to feel his skin under my fingers. My intention is to slip in next to him, on his side of the bed, so he’ll be forced to hug our bodies close.
His side of the bed?
I think back to the other two times I’ve spent the night, and yes—Drew always slept on the right side of the bed. Which makes this somewhat of a pattern. A pattern I can get used to. My voice softens, and I add, “But, okay, I will.”
Now that the barrier has been taken away, our admission of love finally out there, a vibe is pushing me forward. To talk about everything, to let go of all of the little secrets I’ve kept. And to try to understand his life plan.
I’m also curious who has been texting him all night. Now that my cards are all out on the table, I’m moved with feelings of protectiveness I’ve only felt for Ally and Jaz. I’m involved now. I’m in and committed, whatever that might entail.
“You know what I think?” I ask.
“What?” he responds with a faraway tone.
“I think you should take me to work on Monday. I wanna see your desk. Then I want to see you behind it. You and your uniform.” My imagination runs the course of stripping said uniform off Drew’s hard body.
I expect another sarcastic remark, but as I approach him, he sits up, feet flat on the floor as if he’s ready to pounce. “What’s wrong,” I say rather than ask. Whatever it is, the sleepy face he had moments earlier has been replaced by shock.
“Bryn sent me a text.”
“Oh?”
“It’s a link. I clicked on it and well . . .” He turns the screen to me.
It takes a few seconds to adjust the brightness of the screen and zoom into the small script of what looks like a blog post.
Unaccommodating and overrated . . .
Not worth the trek . . .
“What the hell?” The words choke out of me. I paw around for my phone since it has a bigger screen. Finding it on the dining room table, I log in to my social media feed, which has blown up. Notifications are in the hundreds, all redirecting to the blog post.
“Cami.” Drew’s voice is a whisper, and his hand braces the small of my back.
“Shh.” I know this link will lead to something either spectacularly awesome or enduringly devastating. Drew’s tone is indicative it might be the latter, raising my hackles.
The anticipation of being knocked off my emotional horse makes me walk away from him. I want space and solitude, to endure it alone, don’t want anyone else to witness it. There’s nothing worse than a pitying look or touch, or a word of advice when it won’t help.
Drew doesn’t come after me as I settle on the floor with my back against one of the windows, legs straight in front of me. He sits on the bed, rests his elbows on his knees, hands clasped under his chin, while I finally touch the blue highlighted link. It leads me to the Eat It, San Francisco blog, decorated in pinks and peaches, with a picture of the Golden Gate in the background. Seeing Kaya Banks’s arrogant smile in her picture on the upper right makes my stomach turn.
May 26
Do you want the good news or the bad news first?
I know, it’s a double-edged sword, straight out of a cliché of a novel or sitcom. But hear me out, hang in there with me, as I break down my day yesterday. It might change your foodie life.
The good news?
True North Cafe is the shit. The Next Big Thing. You’re thinking, what the hell is True North? Isn’t it that old, dying restaurant next to the beach? I’m here to tell you, San Francisco, that I got the inside scoop on the place. Better yet, the inside look, and you’ll be amazed at the new space they’re cooking up. High ceilings, bright decor, with their standout Filipino food. They have upped their game to meet the masses of you foodies out there, you crazy, magnificent kids. Especially those of you who love to see your food cooked right there in front of you. Without the beach sand hitting you in the face because it’s safely indoors, and warm, and beautiful.
Bonus! It’s all due to a newcomer to the block, who is about as delicious as True North’s pork siomai—that’s dumplings for those yet to be graced by this foodie magic. Keep up with my feed, and I’ll post a pic of the sexy mind behind the new look. For now, here’s a teaser of the front of the restaurant:
An uploaded picture of Kaya and the front windows of True North are behind her. She’s wearing a white bow in her hair. I still, the pieces of the puzzle coming together, and despite the dread that has descended around me, I swipe my finger once for the screen to scroll up.
The crap news?
Your beloved Lucianna is not cutting it.
San Francisco, you kept telling me to pay them a visit. You told me my three MUNI stop exchanges would be worth it. You said they didn’t end up in the middle of the miserable beach suburb because they’d finally run their course. So I took a chance, seeing that they are right next to True North, which I have to admit was a bold move.
That would be the only props I would give.
Because they had no food. Worse—when I asked them to make something, anything, I was completely denied, turned down.
What kind of a food truck doesn’t have food, I ask?
The kind that doesn’t have the guts, doesn’t have the planning, doesn’t have the zest to make it in the middle of the city. Thereby, the kind that is now subsisting in the suburbs.
Unaccommodating and overrated.
Not worth the trek.
No selfie this time, because DISAPPOINTMENT.
In a couple of days, hopefully I’ll have some actual food pics to post. Until then—
Kaya
The post has over a hundred comments. It has been reblogged more than a dozen times. My vision blurs, and I head back to my social media feed, where I click and follow all of the posts that have tagged me. Soon there are dozens of tabs open on my phone, of some people disagreeing, others jumping on the bandwagon, slamming my food, and others curious about this guy at True North.
“I’m ruined.” My voice is a croak, like I’ve been drinking all night.
“I’m sorry,” Drew whispers from the sidelines.
“What is it they say? Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me? It’s all a lie, because this fucking hurts.” I stand and scan the room for my clothes, scattered everywhere. While my guard was down, while I slept, my entire world crumbled once again. “I’ve gotta get out of here.”
His hand is on my elbow as I’m bending for my bra. “I’m here. I’m right here.”
My body fights, rebels against him at first. It’s an automatic reaction.
“Stop,” he says. It’s a plea, his fingers letting go a little, and this gesture of him not forcing, but asking, halts me.
“I can’t. I can’t stop. Don’t you see? I’m not allowed to stop because everything depends on me.”
His arms wrap around me, a soft anchor for my tears, the inaudible complaints I’ve saved up. His chest supports me even as I collapse into him. “Not anymore, Cami. Not anymore.”
I’m at a loss for thoughts, for words. What seemed insurmountable once—having that stupid picture go viral, moving the truck to a new spot, having enough to get Ally out the door—all of it was actually minuscule. Because back then, I worked from baseline. My success was extra, bonus. This review has taken me to the negative. It now requires me to put out a fire I don’t know how to squelch.
And whether I believe Drew can really help me, I give in, because I have no idea what else to do.