41
DREW
I’m charged with delivering the final payment of True North’s debt to Tito Ben at Investments National. My grip on the envelope with the restaurant’s check tucked inside, if placed on a scale between one and ten, is a fifty. I intend to make sure it gets into my uncle’s possession without any hitches. It would be over my dead body if I lost it. The hurt I caused has to be worth something, and at the very least I need to get this part of the job right.
By the time I walk into my uncle’s office, I’m out of breath.
It’s not because of the ten-block hike that the oxygen feels like it’s stuck somewhere in my chest. I don’t want to face Tito Ben. He was there on opening night and was a witness to the embarrassing Bautista father-and-son show. While standing up to my pop was the most honest thing I’d done all month, I regret it was in front of so many people.
I nod at Ms. Finney, Tito Ben’s assistant. Silver haired now, she has been a constant in my uncle’s office since I was a kid. With her pen to paper, she’s fielding a call, but she winks and gestures to the room down the hall. After patting the counter in thanks, I bypass her to the left and walk down the carpeted hallway that leads to mahogany doors.
I don’t knock, out of habit. Investments National is located between my schools and my parents’ Victorian. As a middle and high schooler, I scored a dollar every time I stepped in to say hello after school. Tito Ben would always find a chore for me to do—photocopying papers, shredding documents. I was more than happy to have the opportunity to earn a little extra coin.
My uncle is sitting at his desk when I approach, his reading glasses perched on his nose. His eyes peer above the black metal frames. I’m not met by judgment but by sincere surprise. He lowers the papers in his hands in two deliberate stacks, then removes his glasses. “Ah, iho. I didn’t know you were coming today. I’m happy to see you.”
“Just business, Tito. Ma wanted to make sure this came straight to you.” I halt at the end of the desk, which is neat and tidy, unlike the chaos of a kitchen. I hand my uncle the envelope.
He lays it down gently. “You don’t want to stay? For a soda, like old times? Or coffee? Do you drink coffee?”
I smile. “Yeah, Tito, I drink coffee. Thanks, but not today. I’ve got to get back. Got a list to get through before Sunday.”
He flips his calendar to the next page. “You leave on Sunday.”
I nod. Awkwardness skyrockets a hundredfold. The mixing of business with pleasure, all the jumbled thoughts of a catastrophic week. The idea of snapping to and heading to the desert twists my insides into a knot.
“You ready?” he asks.
“Always.” The word flies out proudly. And frankly, now I really am. I’ve done exactly what I promised my pop I would—get True North off the ground. Not without collateral damage, but it is what it is.
“We’ll miss you. Your papa will miss you. Tremendously.” He stands, comes around his desk, and extends his hand.
I return my uncle’s firm grip. His words were meant to be comforting, but they’re tarnished, jaded.
“Ritchie didn’t mean what he said. Your father is stubborn, passionate, a little overzealous. He’s got opinions and lots of faults. He isn’t perfect by any means. But he loves you, and I know for a fact he is proud of everything you do.”
This is the conversation I hoped to avoid. “I’ve got to go, Tito. Gotta pack. Could you?”—I eye the envelope on the table—“I need confirmation it’s exactly what you expected.”
“Ah, of course.” Using the letter opener, my uncle tears open the envelope and slides out the check. “It’s perfect.” He slips the envelope inside a desk drawer, then shuts it with a click.
And there it goes, every dime of True North’s profits since the reopening. All the efforts of the last month for that one moment.
Pretty anticlimactic.
A firm knock sounds behind me. The chirpy voice of Ms. Finney says, “Ms. Marino for you, Mr. Aquino.”
Marino? I turn.
The office tilts.
Camille stands at the door, in jeans and a blazer, the vision of her a cool compress to my tired eyes. Her body is so close. Two steps and I can take her into my arms. But I’m met with a look of confusion and incredulousness, keeping me in place.
And then it dawns on me: She isn’t here to see me. She’s here to see my uncle.
“Hi?” Camille hesitates at the door.
Tito Ben answers. “Good afternoon, Ms. Marino. We’ll just be another moment.”
“No way. No . . . no damn way.” Words bubble from me, and the volume of my voice fills the room. And yet I do already know. There’s only one reason she would be here, and it’s the same reason I’m here, too. “Cami. Please tell me you’re delivering food.” It’s a reach, a plea that I’m wrong.
“Um. No—” She looks past me, to my uncle.
“You know each other?” Tito Ben’s face darkens. “Andrew is my nephew.”
“You’re . . . you’re his nephew?” Her words are aimed at me, but she’s looking everywhere but my face. Her gaze lands on the family picture hung over the fireplace, of the entire clan, of a younger me posed next to my grandfather, my lolo.
“Of course. Why am I surprised? It’s just desserts, isn’t it?”
She pushes past me, setting a thick envelope on Ben’s desk. “Everything is in there. I appreciate you waiting a few days while I cleaned it up. Thank you.”
Ben reaches out short of grabbing the sleeve of her coat, then stops. “Ms. Marino, please stay. Let’s talk.”
“No. You said fast and firm deadlines, and I’m good with my word. If only others were as honest.”
Her words are a knife, and they twist into my gut. It takes all of me to stay upright. I’m helpless as she shakes my uncle’s hand and stomps out the door.
“What the fuck was that?” I demand.
“Dios.”
“You knew about this?”
“No, but the bits and pieces you all have told me are starting to make sense.” My uncle sinks into the office couch. “Your mother said you fell in love. Your father and his hate for a food truck that was parked in front of True North, that is now gone, so suddenly. Ms. Marino and her need for money. You, and the way you looked at her. But no, when I made the deal, I didn’t know she was your girl. Ms. Finney is basically a decision-making partner now and this deal was her call. And after the deal was made, I . . . I didn’t really think about it. I’m doing business every day. Many of these deals are bigger than hers, and they are my focus. And other than the grand reopening, I hadn’t been to True North since the first meeting you attended.”
I join him on the couch, pressing my fingers against my eyes. I want this runaway train to stop. My voice rises an octave, on the verge of panic. “Lucianna was her life. She thinks I’m part of you. She thinks I am you. Now, on top of everything else, she thinks I took her business. She won’t return my calls, and then what would I say if she did? I’m sorry my uncle took your truck for collateral?”
“She and I made a business transaction. It was reviewed by my lawyers, and she signed it. But had I known who she was to you, I never would have.” His voice is apologetic. “I have my own projects, my own commitments. I owe people money, too. I need hers to help me pay those people back. You realize how this works?”
I stand and pace. A trickle of a thought seeps into my brain. “How much to buy the truck back?”
“Iho, no. Absolutely no deal.” Tito shakes his head, crossing his arms. “You won’t get her back this way. She has a business owner’s pride.”
I yell desperately, “But I’ve got to fucking do something!”