38
CAMILLE
Nonna told me once that losing something is all about perspective. It’s only if you thought you had it in the first place that you would feel like it’s escaped from your fingers. And the closer you held that thing next to your heart, the harder it was to let it go.
As usual, she was right. As I look out Lucianna’s window on Friday evening, seven days after Kaya’s blog post, I know I have lost something immeasurable. Jaz, silent next to me, doesn’t have to verify my thoughts, and the lack of notifications on my phone doesn’t have to confirm my suspicions. The Great Highway is playing out this act for me, and I am helpless to do anything.
Where a line of customers once wrapped around the block, only five linger by the truck. Where there used to be people taking selfies in front of my chalkboard menu and Lucianna’s trademark awning, empty spots remain. No need for True North to call the cops on us now. The truck looks like a leftover act from a long-lost circus show.
Overrated.
Disappointment.
“Hey, you trying to do my job or something?” Jaz bumps me with her hip. “Get back to your spot.”
I pull myself from the window and head back to the prep station. The switch doesn’t change my demeanor as it usually does. The vibe is the same in the back of the truck as it is in the front—it sucks. “If this continues, I won’t be able to afford you,” I say. It’s not the first time I’ve said it in the last week, but it doesn’t dull the blow. It’s venom on my tongue.
“Oh, you know I’d work for free.” Jasmine’s smile is sincere, but I see the panic behind it. She, too, has a stake in this truck’s survival. Her life is here in San Francisco, one of the most expensive cities in the country. Giving her a fair wage is not an option. “Besides, after True North’s opening tomorrow, the customers will be back. They’ll see we haven’t moved. We might even grab some of their customers.”
Doubt screams back. The shift has been palpable. I’ve had fewer responses to posts, fewer online conversations . . .
My heart clenches, wrings itself inside my chest. From it drips the knowledge I’ve soon got to inform Ben that my first payment is exceedingly short.
“Hey. You.”
I look up at my friend, staring at me with a mournful expression. “Hm?”
“I hate seeing you like this. You can still fix it.”
“I can’t. In twenty-four hours, the truck won’t be mine, and there’s nothing I can do about it. I knew this would be the risk, you know?” I conjure a version of a smile, though I’m not sure it’s convincing.
Jaz sighs. “That’s not what I’m talking about.”
I swallow an anxious breath. “I’ll be okay.”
“You always say you’ll be okay, and I know you will be, eventually. But you deserve to be happy and excited again. Beyond Lucianna. Beyond work. I’m talking about you. I know you don’t want to have me even mention him . . .” Her voice lowers.
“You know what kills me? How he was so physically close to me and I didn’t know. How our windows faced theirs and not once did I see him. You’d been out with Blake, and he didn’t let on once.”
“I don’t think he put it together either.” She sighs. “You guys kept it on the down low well enough, and with our crazy lives some things slip. But can I be honest, Camille?”
“Why not?” My sarcasm is thick.
“Hear him out. Drew has been here every day despite you refusing to speak to him. The poor guy is so sorry. He’s trying. He knows he fucked up. Guys like him . . . they don’t purposely go out of their way to hurt people. There’s got to be more.”
I’ve mentally calculated the distance between Lucianna and True North’s front door a million times, but every inch feels like it’s paved with fire. If I take a step toward it, I’ll burn from anger, from sadness, and from hope. I don’t know if I’m brave enough to do it.
“He lied, Jaz.”
“Yeah, but it’s not like you were completely honest, were you? Not like you told him anything about your life. He hasn’t even set foot in this truck. You both had limits.”
“I love you, but I don’t wanna talk about it anymore.” I bristle against her words. I had to keep my secrets for a reason. And this mess might have been different had he come clean. I could have done so many things differently if I had known.
“Fine.” Her hands fly in a defensive posture, in time for the first customer to come to the window.
We work though our shift and we don’t run out of food. It’s a double-edged sword, exactly what we wanted a week ago, but not now, because it confirms customers have been lacking. With this extra food, a portion of it will go to waste, the local shelter eating up profits I desperately need to pay Ben back.
But it’s an endeavor I’ve accepted as a lost cause.
After our shift, I drive around the city, through the streets where my best food truck buddies are parked. Up Market Street just as they begin their late night shifts, where the More Pho You truck has customers seated on the sidewalks, blatantly blocking parking spaces, some eating on portable chairs. Down Van Ness, where Crepe’ing Around’s lights blink like strobes. Cinnamon and butter smells permeate the air. Even my stomach growls. Then I go up, up, up. Up Twin Peaks, up above the fog and twinkling lights of the city, where I park and get out.
The expansive view is breathtaking. A couple of weeks ago, I took two risks on this mountain. I allowed Drew into my life, and I envisioned my truck next to the ocean. And neither one worked out exactly like I thought it would.
San Francisco encompasses forty-nine square miles. It has more than eight hundred thousand residents. This afternoon, I only served twenty-three customers. One afternoon, a few nights of not making goal would not have been a big deal. But not tonight, not this week, when it was utterly crucial. Not now, when everything hangs in the balance.
My phone vibrates in my apron pocket. I take it out, knowing who it is. I decline the call, sending it to voice mail. Hearing Drew’s voice would remind me of the decisions I’ve had to make. And that’s not what I need right now. What I need is a backbone. I need to be a grown-up. And no one can be that but me.
I text the number I’ve memorized since last week. I glance at the clock: five minutes to midnight.