22
JOEL
True North.
So this is where it all began: Victoria’s need for a compass tattoo, why she has a thing with arrows. It all stems from here, from that clock on the wall that looks like a compass to the people here who seem to ground her, who have put a smile on her face. From the view of Ocean Beach through the large window and the open kitchen that has staff bustling around it, to her dad who has now cornered me, I’m starting to understand this woman who I’m undoubtedly attracted to.
She’s the baby of this family. They put all their love into this woman who could do no wrong. And someone broke her heart. Now they’re worried as hell. It shows in the way they hover over her, how her father, her cousin, and Mitchell are grilling me. They ask me about her mood, if she’s coping. They talk as if she’s suffered a loss.
And the only thing screaming at me is: I might end up hurting her.
I don’t have a place to call home—hell, I don’t know what my next gig’s going to be after West Coast BBQ. She might say she’s good with carefree, with simple, but now, being around her family, I’m doubting it’s true. She might not even know what she wants. But this I’m sure of: she doesn’t need a guy like me who can’t give her more than this trip. And I can’t feel bad for being honest about it.
I might be unequivocally drawn to her, but we may not be good for each other.
It suddenly feels too crowded in the restaurant; there’s too much noise as the serving staff wraps the tops of a set of tables in plastic wrap. What the hell are they even doing? But the need for fresh air supersedes my curiosity. I excuse myself and walk out the front door, down a few feet.
True North Café stands alone beachside, and lit bright against the sunset, it’s gorgeous. I feel like I should have been here already, having filmed the Aquinos. I have the desire to pick up a camera and get them in my viewfinder and watch how they interact. Get right up there so the expressions on their faces are close and clear, so I’m a witness to the hurt and the lessons and the joy, without having to be entirely part of it.
Now that I’m supposed to be physically present, without anything to hide behind, it’s all too raw.
“Hey, looks like you and I had the same idea.” A guy’s voice comes from my right. Mitchell walks out, hands in his pockets. He sucks in a breath as a gust of wind cuts through us.
“Yeah. It’s kind of crowded in there.”
“I get it.” He looks out onto the water, and we settle into a silence. Knowing the guy, he’s doing the same thing as me. He’s taking a breath, but while he’s talking himself down from an overwhelming day—he has seen a lot in Afghanistan and grapples with his past—I’m trying to figure out the future in my head.
Like, how do I deny the fact that I love being in front of the camera and I no longer want to be behind it?
That the woman who I’m attracted to and have slept with probably isn’t the type I should be pursuing?
Yet, I can’t see how I can keep myself away from her.
Mitchell breaks the silence first. “Now that Mr. Aquino isn’t around, how’s the trip really going with Vic?”
My answer’s swift and clipped. “Good. Fine.”
An eyebrow goes up. “Aw, c’mon dude. I think you pretty much know you’re in safe waters, right? I can tell there’s more than what you said in there.”
“I dunno.” I hedge on what to say. The trust between Mitchell and me is mutual, though unspoken. It comes from me being in his space, and him sometimes completely forgetting I’m there. So I go for it. “The RV. It’s brought us closer.”
Though I’m looking out onto the beach, I can tell he’s staring at my profile. “Do you mean . . . between you . . . and a specific someone?”
My gaze darts to him, and then back out onto the beach.
“Huh. I see . . . and is this specific someone about, oh, five-one, and do they have a big sister that will come after you if you’re saying what I think you’re saying?”
That makes me bust up. I nod at the level of ridiculousness of this conversation. The guy was in my shoes two months ago—trying to deal with an Aquino woman that knocked him to the ground. But while Bryn is complicated, Victoria is not. She’s honest and open.
It’s me who’s complicated.
“Look, man, you can’t be messing with Vic.” Mitchell’s voice rounds into a serious, almost paternal tone.
I frown, not liking the implication. “I’m not messing with her.”
He puts a hand behind his neck. “Not what I mean. I know you’re a good guy. But she’s vulnerable. Luke fucked her up.”
That’s his name. Luke.
I repeat the words so the guy understands. “I’m not messing with her. If anything, being around her is what’s making me think twice.”
“About what?”
“What I’m doing, how I operate. I’ve got my own baggage, too. Did you know I was in the Army?”
“No shit?”
“One tour.”
“Well, who the hell knew?”
I laugh. “It’s not like I was in a position to tell you. Anyway, my point is . . . Vic’s the angel on my shoulder—so damn optimistic and hopeful despite . . . despite that guy. Do you know she believes in fate? It’s got me approaching things differently.”
“These Aquino women will do that to you.” He grins. “Want my advice?”
I inhale the salty air, let it settle in my lungs. Breathe out. Nod.
“Don’t rush it.” He puts his hands up, defensively. “Hey, you’re both adults. Lord knows I can’t judge, what with the way Bryn and I took off. Just saying, being together all the time accelerates all these, I dunno, feelings or whatever. Maybe step back a little, see what you have for what it is.”
“I get you.” I press my lips together. Mitch is right. But what he doesn’t know about me is that walking away has always been my MO. Victoria has a pull that keeps me coming back; she’s a light my body seems to need.
The voices in the restaurant rise to a roar and the front door opens, grabbing my and Mitchell’s attention. Victoria steps out. “Hey. It’s time to eat.”
“Good, I’m famished,” Mitch says, a little too loud, and he gives me a final nod before walking past Victoria.
She pauses at the door, and then, as if changing her mind, comes over to me. “What’s up?” Her voice shakes as she shivers and wraps her arms around her waist.
Temptation has me wanting to encase her in my arms, but no, not here or now. I keep my hands in my pockets. “Catching up.”
“Huh.” She searches my face, then looks down. “Our conversation in the car . . . I didn’t mean to be such an ass. I’m sorry. I’m glad you stepped in for me—call me jelly, is all.”
I let the seconds pass. She doesn’t touch on us. Us having sex and continuing to have sex, so I don’t push it. “It was a one-time thing, an emergency contingent.”
She scrunches her mouth into a half smile. It’s so damn adorable and sweet. “They were going to show the segment in there, but I asked my sister not to. I didn’t want to have to explain right there and then, you know?”
I nod. “But they’d understand. They’re proud of you, you know, for everything.”
“It comes with some pressure. When people think you do everything well, it’s hard to make mistakes. And when you do make mistakes, it’s hard to get away from the reminder. Starting over is tough. But these days, I remember that I can start over at any time.” She raises her eyes to me. “Sound familiar?”
I scour my brain. “From a movie?”
“No, silly. From you. When you walked me home from the tattoo shop.”
The wind’s knocked out of me. “You remember that?” Fuck it. I take her hand into mine. Our palms flatten into one.
“We keep getting interrupted, but . . . can I ask you something?” she asks.
“Course.”
“Who’s—”
“Vic, Joel, damn, that’s where you two are. Will you both come in already? We’re about to fall over hungry in here.” Bryn flies out of the door, laughing, snapping our serious conversation in half. We both let go like our hands are on fire.
“Argh.” Victoria’s gaze falls to the ground. “Coming, geez.” She hesitates before walking away, with a final glance at me. “Later, okay?”
I nod, and following her back into the restaurant, I’m hit by a sight that I’ve only seen in pictures: a table full of food. Without exaggeration.
The tables that were wrapped in plastic wrap? They’re now covered with flat green leaves. Each setting is marked with a napkin, nothing more. Down the middle is steamed, white rice, shaped into one long rectangle, and around it are meat, veggies, and seafood.
“We thought that since everyone has started to go their opposite directions, we’d make a celebration of tonight’s dinner.” Mr. Aquino claps his hand on my back, leading me to take a seat. He sits next to me, passes me a tub of wipes for our fingers. Most everyone is wiping their hands, so I follow suit. This feels like a crab boil hopped up on steroids.
Victoria’s uncle, Chef Ritchie, stands. “Welcome everyone to a kamayan. Kamay, meaning hands. Which means you will be eating with your fingers. It’s the way ancient Filipinos ate, and as many still do today. It’s also called a boodle fight, which dates back to a Philippine military tradition where all ranks of soldiers ate with each other, sharing one big meal.” He walks around the table, then puts a hand on my shoulders. “Don’t be scared, iho.”
Everyone at the table laughs, and I look up at Chef Ritchie, who called me son. I picked up a couple of Tagalog words filming the Aquinos, and the idea that he would do so makes my stomach drop, and I’m sure the smile I return is pretty fucking pathetic. “I think I’m good.”
“Great. Let’s go over some rules.” He goes back to the head of the table. “Notice that all the food here can be picked up. Feed yourself with your right hand, take from the middle with your left. Everyone has a buddy here. Help each other, okay? Besides the steamed rice, there’re alternating dishes: sisig, which is a sizzling pork dish. Grilled squid. Grilled tomatoes.” He points to the beef with onions. “Bistek. Sautéed string beans. But instead of me explaining everything, I invite you to dig in. We can discuss later.”
The group digs into the food in the middle, though I hang back. Sure enough, everyone reaches in with their left hand, and it’s truly like a fight. Fingers clash, sorrys and laughter abound. Mr. Aquino balls the rice and the pork with his fingers, forming it into a bite-size piece before placing it into his mouth. The whole experience is loud and relaxed. I take a little of every dish, my stomach growling at this palate cleanser of a meal, drastically different from the barbecue I’ve had the last couple of days.
Victoria is across from me, engrossed in conversation with her sister and Ellie. From my periphery, I notice Ellie glancing at me every so often, which can only mean I’m the subject of their conversation. Did Vic tell her? I dig into the food, enjoy the feeling of the warm rice on my fingertips, the tang of vinegar on my tongue from the sisig, and the pop of the sweet steamed tomatoes.
Mr. Aquino’s voice shakes me out of my thoughts. “I worry for my girls. At least Bryn is in one place, but my Vicky? I know she’s an adult, but she’s still my bunso—my youngest. She insists on being on the road. To know there’s someone like family nearby who she can go to when she needs help is such a comfort. I wanted to make sure I thanked you.”
The man’s vibe is somewhat of a force, and I sit tall and swallow all the food in my mouth before I speak. “No need for thanks, sir.” Guilt courses through me, because the kind of help I’ve been giving his daughter is probably not what he’s thinking of.
“Do you have family? You’re on the road quite a bit.”
“I do, sir. Central California. My sister and her son, Seth, are the closest family I have.”
“Good. Well, you have us here, too.”
Again, that feeling of my stomach dropping. I can barely get the words out. “Thank you, sir.”
The table settles into eating while the conversation rocks from Paraiso’s wedding schedule to True North’s fall events to Drew’s next military assignment and Camille’s food truck, and whether there’s the potential to relocate. People break off into side conversations only to come together again with a crescendo.
I am immersed in everything. The food, the family. All of my senses are being worked on, and it’s like watching an HD video—so fucking satisfying.
From across the table, Victoria’s sister asks, “So, Joel. You jumped from Paraiso to this job, and then what’s next?”
Shit. I hate these kinds of questions, the “what do you want to do in the future” question. Everyone thinks that by the time you hit your thirties, you’ve got everything figured out. But what if you feel like life’s just getting started? “Not sure. I haven’t yet looked into my next gig, but I will, soon.”
She frowns. “That seems like it could be an unstable life.”
I know that look of hers. She’s appraising me, judging. Before I can step in to answer, Victoria speaks. “I think it’s exciting to go with the flow.”
Bryn doesn’t let up. “What did you do before you were a cameraman?”
I wipe my fingers on my napkin. “I was in the Army.”
“No shit.”
Her father nods as if impressed.
“I was in for four years, with one deployment. It was a great start. Once I figured out what I wanted to do, I used the GI Bill and went to Cal State. Worked and interned in between and made my contacts, and I sort of jumped from one place and one job to another.”
Bryn’s still assessing me, and she’s balling up her rice like she’s preparing to chuck it my way. “So, you’re what, thirty?”
I’m not sure where this line of questioning is going, but I answer, “Thirty-one.”
“Interesting.”
The table falls into a silence, until a server comes in and fills our water glasses. The sound of ice and water hitting glasses incites another round of conversations, though my mind is on Bryn’s questions.
A buzz sounds next to me. Mr. Aquino sits up in his chair. “That’s my alarm. It’s time.”
“Time for what?” Victoria asks, suspicious.
“The show. Let’s turn it on.”
Her eyes widen, and she fumbles her next words. “B-but Dad.” She faces her sister. “I told you no.”
Bryn stands to keep her father from turning on the flat-screen over the bar, but he’s already got the channel up, the West Coast BBQ logo already on the screen. But instead of Victoria’s face smiling back, it’s mine.