39
DREW
The thunderous celebration of True North’s grand reopening can be heard from the alley, where I empty the first of many crates of bottles and cans of drinks. So far, all signs are auspicious: a clear night yielding a great view, on-time steaming-hot dishes, customers who are happily drunk, and a well-worn cashier terminal.
But my conscience is far from light, and being outside is a respite. Lucianna didn’t show tonight as it has every weekend night, and everyone noticed the truck’s absence, including my father. Except while I was drowned in worry and curiosity, Pop was convinced his efforts worked. I officially ran her out, he said, claiming victory.
And not for the first time in my life, I wanted to leave home.
I turn on my phone for the millionth time. Not one email or text from Camille. A brief glance at Lucianna’s social media site doesn’t show a change from yesterday. Short of dropping by her house, I’ve done everything I can think of. And I won’t pop up at her front door. I won’t invade her space and her privacy. In the end, she’s got to want to come back to me, too.
“Dude, you’re needed inside.”
I turn and Blake is at the doorway, wearing the True North uniform of black on black. A pen sticks out from beside his ear, the top chewed from the guy matching reservations and walk-ins with tables and servers. Sober since the night at the club, Blake has been the one to make me laugh even if all I’ve wanted to do is hide in my apartment. I smirk. “Who says?”
“Your pop. He’s starting his speech. And he’s a little happy, so . . .” Blake tips an imaginary drink to his lips, and I nod knowingly. My pop has been rehearsing his speech for the last couple of days, lining up his acknowledgments for the VIPs who are here tonight.
I head in, following the rising volume of laughter. Coming through the door that leads to the dining room, I see my father has commanded the room’s attention. Customers have their drinks topped off with champagne and booze, in flute glasses and short tumblers. Bryn shoves a quarter-filled bottle of wine into my chest as I take my place in the employee lineup.
Be chill, she mouths with an agonized look.
I tear my eyes away and plant them on my father.
His voice takes over the speakers. “Eight years and here we are. From the first day we began our word-of-mouth catering company to this moment, the grand reopening of True North, this has been a labor of love. Named after something we know is solid, whether one is standing in San Francisco or Manila, True North is an extension of us, our life, and the Bautista family. I’d like to introduce my beautiful and eternally young wife, Ramona”—he raises his glass to my mom, then to Tito Ben—“and my brother-in-law, Ben.” He turns to where I’m standing with my cousins and friends. “And this special staff of young people who we’ve been privileged to watch grow. Each one has been under our feet, under the counter, tasting first dishes. Nieces Bryn and Victoria, good young men who I consider Bautista by association, Matt and Blake . . . and finally, our only son, Andrew.”
At the mention of my name, Bryn’s warm fingers clamp around my wrist like a vice.
An undercurrent of tension runs through the staff side of the restaurant. Across from me, my mother’s smile falters a little, her laugh lines showing one less crease. My father doesn’t know anything about Camille, but there’s everything else. There’s the Army, my pending deployment, our lack of relationship that has yet to be resolved, my seeming rebellion since my return. In front of all of these people.
“Son, you have worked the hardest for this opening.” To the crowd he says, “Everything you see here is of Andrew’s hands. Almost a month of his muscle, his input, his ideas, and vision. He’s a genius.”
A few people clap. Matt and Blake let out a whoop. In the effort to act like I’m in cahoots, I raise my bottle, though I don’t dare drink. Not yet. My father’s not done. When silence descends, he continues, voice cracking. “This restaurant is for you, Andrew. This is you, your legacy. It is yours, and by fixing it, you made it yours, my son. So I beg you, one final time. Stop playing soldier. Come back home, after your deployment, for good.”
“No.” Bryn whispers next to me, echoing what I don’t have the strength to say.
It’s a dare, an ultimatum in front of a hundred people, in front of phones trained at all of us. Sitting right up front is Kaya Banks, sipping lazily on her mango juice. Whatever happens tonight is going to be plastered on her blog tomorrow.
“Son?”
Fuck. He wants an answer and he wants an answer now. Ma tugs her husband in her ever-gentle way, but Pop pays no mind. Bryn lets go of my wrist, the action making me feel like I’ve been cast out in the water but without a life preserver. Everyone is out of reach, and it’s up to me to swim.
“I’m sorry.” The words slither out, soft enough that those near me can hear.
My father frowns, showing wrinkles like the parched earth of Northern California.
My first thought is to take it back. Take back my words and say yes—yes, after this deployment, after my military commitment, I’ll come back to what’s most familiar. This home, this city, and this restaurant. Then everyone will be happy, and I won’t have to tote around this guilt. What the hell, right? Who needs to move every couple of years? Why would I want that?
But no.
True North is not me.
True North is not my life. The Army is my life, my calling. I’ve said this to him more than a dozen times in so many different ways. Why would he ask me this? Why would he put me on the spot like this?
Anger rises from my gut, at the gumption of this man who thinks he can tear down my calling. “Let’s get the halo-halo passed out,” I say with a hoarse voice, choked by emotion. I plaster on a smile, hoping the mention of the iced dessert will distract everyone.
But it doesn’t work on my dad. His eyes narrow, darken, dare, and challenge. “No. I want an answer.”
“Ritchie,” my mother says softly.
“Ramona, I am offering him everything we have. Everything we’ve built in this country from scratch, when we were nothing. What he needs to do is respond.”
“You don’t have to,” Bryn whispers, voice shaking. “Just walk out. Right now. We’ll calm him down.”
I find my voice in the chaos of my mind. “It won’t work. He won’t ever stop until I make him.” I’m surprised at its volume, at the conviction that somehow made its way up my throat. With a louder voice, I say, “No, Pop.”
A wretched look appears on my father’s face. Hurt slices through his features, tearing at my insides. “How can you keep walking away, from this? From us?”
Yet despite my need to puke, to cry, I fight back. “This is not about you. This has never been about you or the restaurant. This is about me and what I want, what I’ve done with my life. You have no idea what I’ve done, what I’ve been doing. Are you even proud of the man I’ve chosen to become? I have made a difference, Pop, out there in the world. I came all the way home to try to make you happy, but I realize now that I might never do that. So, I’m sorry, Pop. But no. This is my life to live.”
Matching his gaze, I need all of my training, all of my strength, to look my father in the eyes. I’ve bared our business to a hundred people. And I challenged my father, which is the biggest taboo of all.
Don’t flinch, Bautista.
I’m prepared for an explosion. Artillery. A sniper to knock me down clean, but what happens is something I never would have expected.
My pop, looking away first, walks out of the room.