9
CAMILLE
“Oh, man,” I wipe tears from my eyes and calm my breath. “Now that was funny.”
“I knew you’d appreciate it.” Ally’s eyes are alight, and she bites her bottom lip. As a customer sidles by with a car carrier with four to-go cups, she steps in closer. “I mean, who does that? Who brings an apple to an interview? Lame.”
We edge toward the counter of Bridge to Bridge Cafe, where I get my daily latte. Being a chef doesn’t mean I’m an expert at making all foods and beverages. Example: I can’t make flaky pie crust to save my life. And lattes? My ratios of milk to foam to espresso are never right, and I end up with either a very dry cappuccino or steamed milk with a touch of caffeine. Since lattes are my lifeblood, I owe every workday’s sanity to Josie and her perfectly made cups of magic. That is, except for last Saturday morning, when a cup of Barako at Drew’s fueled me the entire day.
Quit thinking of him.
I clear my throat. “Well, I am thoroughly proud of you, Al. Showing your work is the first step. And when you get into the institute—”
She waves away my suggestion. “We’re not even going to talk about it. It’s too much of a long shot.”
“Well it’s good to know you’re optimistic.” I roll my eyes. We’re up next, so I yell my order above the paying customer. “Three lattes, Miss Josie.”
“You got it, ladies,” Josie, the owner, answers back.
Ally follows me to the left side of the counter where customers are waiting for their orders. They stare silently while their baristas pour, steam, and mix java with variations of dairy and flavor. Dark roast, medium, light. Whole milk, skim, half-and-half, soy, and coconut. Here and to go. Hot or cold. The choices are seemingly endless, and the process is as smooth as the coffee itself.
Entranced, my sister says, “Just trying to keep it real. Only five percent of applicants get into the summer intensive, and I saw a couple of the portfolios. People are good, Cam. Like, hella good.”
I grab her by the elbow. “So are you. And I’m not saying that because you’re my pain-in-the-butt sister.”
Ally nods, staring off.
I could say more. That she’s the most talented mixed-media artist I know. That the institute would be lucky to get her. That at this angle, she’s so much like Nonna, so much like the shadow of what I remember of my mother.
But that would be too much to say in a noisy cafe and too little to encompass what I feel.
“Three lattes to go,” Josie says, her voice drowned by the buzz of the frother she’s already moved on to.
“Thanks,” I say, grabbing the carrier. Looking down at the white foam, I see today’s design is a koala. “You’re amazing, Josie.”
“Duh, I know.” Her blue eyes dance behind the red frames of her glasses, though half of her face is hidden behind the stainless steel cappuccino maker. “Same spot today? I’m dying for meatballs.”
“Of course. On our way there now. Though I’m not sure I can make koalas with mine. They’ll be plain ol’ balls.”
“Plain balls are equally tasty and droolworthy,” she quips. A laugh erupts from the line behind me, followed by a giggle from someone else. “The more meat, the better.”
“All-natural, lean meat.”
“Ew!” My sister squeals. “That’s enough. I’m traumatized.”
I raise the carrier to bid Josie good-bye before heading to an opposite counter where cup covers and sleeves are stacked in baskets. My brain is already buzzing from the strong aroma of coffee beans and the constant roar of the cafe’s machines. As Ally and I prep the cups for transport, I feel a presence to my left that hasn’t moved in the last few seconds. So I do the easiest thing—I turn right to avoid having to run right into the person. Except the body cuts me off, and I’ve got no choice but to look up.
“How did I know you’d be responsible for a public conversation about balls?” the mouth on the body says. The body that belongs to Drew Bautista.
My throat goes dry. I open my mouth to say something, to explain why our current status, if posted on Facebook, would be “too complicated to respond to an email,” but only a breath escapes. Drew looks even better in the light of day. Dressed in slacks and a simple white button-down shirt with rolled-up sleeves, he is most definitely headed somewhere important. The front of his hair is slicked upward, and he smells delicious and clean. Dammit, I walked away from him, didn’t I?
“Hi, Ally,” he says.
“Um. Hi. Um, I’ll wait for you outside. Yeah . . .” My sister’s voice, tinged with humor, trails off. She only got the Cliffs Notes version of the other night. We went to Coit Tower. We hung out. I got home late. No, nothing happened.
I won’t hear the end of it now.
He crosses his arms and leans against the counter as if we have all the time in the world, though my first instinct is to run. Those eyes of his gleam, even behind his glasses. I can’t tell if they’re happy to see me or if they want to give me a spanking.
I shake my head. Wake up, brain.
“Wh-what are you doing here?” I manage to ask.
“Grabbing coffee. And finding you.”
I shake the carrier in my hand, feeling foolish. Like I’ve been caught with my spoon in a tub of ice cream at midnight. “I mean the shirt. Not a uniform?”
“Oh, you mean, here, in the Financial District with all of the bankers and lawyers and such. Yeah, call it a ‘take your child to work’ day.” His lips quirk up. “It’s a project I’m working on with my dad. Yada yada, long story, but that’s not what I want to talk about right now. Because you’re here and”—he shuffles to the left as three girls shove past him—“it must be fate, right? Twice in three days?”
His question catches me by surprise because I’m still digging my mind out of the gutter. Did I really leave this beautiful man in bed? What kind of sorcery have I been placed under? “Listen, about the other night.” My phone buzzes in my pocket and I shut my eyes against the distraction. “I had such a great time, I mean, really great. And I feel like we kind of picked up where we left off, but . . .”
A wave of relief changes the expression on his face. He jumps into my sentence before I can formulate my next thought. “Great . . . and we can still do that. Keep going, I mean.”
The buzzing continues, causing tension in every part of my body. This is why I can’t pursue anything remotely permanent or serious with anyone or anything else. “I’ve got to take this. Sorry.”
Ever the gentleman, Drew takes the carrier from me, making me feel worse about the words I can’t seem to get out of my mouth. It’s a text from Jaz.
Trouble at 415. Someone in our spot.
“Everything okay?” he asks.
I shake my head and jam my phone into my pocket. “No.” I grab the carrier back from him with the exit as my only thought. “It’s work. I’ve got to go.” Pushing through the cafe door, I scan the area for my sister. “Ally!”
“Cami.” I hear Drew’s voice at the exact moment I feel his hand on my shoulder. His touch brings me back down to earth. It grounds me to this moment, to our escapade, and to him.
I turn, shoulders hunched, falling into his spell. “What is it, Drew?”
His face is all hope. “One date tonight, and that’s it. A sober, legit date. Let me do this right.”
My eyes close, and I feel equal parts thrill and trepidation. Right now is not the time to be thinking about dating, about kissing this man one more time. But the guy won’t give up, and I love that. “Fine. Ten, tonight.”
“Wow, that’s late. But yes, of course. Ten. I’ll come get you.”
“Nope. I’ll meet you right here.”
“Fine. Anything.” With a quick hand he pulls the phone from my pocket and texts. “Wait for it.” The Star Wars theme song plays. And it makes me grin. Of course this is Drew’s ringtone. Pleased at my response, he takes out his phone to show me. “Now we can reach each other. Anytime.”
Anytime. All the time. Which means I can reach him day and night. My body starts to hum, remembering his lips on the soft, sensitive spot on my neck.
Where is my mind? That’s right, with Drew, it’s mush. Especially when he’s in front of me.
My sister shows then, and the serious frown on her face snaps me back to the present. After a hurried good-bye with Drew, Ally and I power walk around the corner to meet up with Jaz, who is dutifully guarding Lucianna, illegally parked in Bridge to Bridge’s loading dock.
My knuckles are white as I steer the truck through bumper-to-bumper traffic a mile up Market Street. The wheels bounce against potholes and cable car rails, but I don’t feel the jostle. I’m steaming hotter than a four-hundred-degree oven. My eyes narrow on my destination, far beyond the traffic and the streetlights, and to the parking spot that is usually mine.
Truth: despite the cutthroat competition among truckers, a mutual respect exists in this business. We food-truck entrepreneurs are good to one another. We keep in touch, and we try to give each other space.
It is that respect that prompted a text from Shawna, the owner of All the Soup, to Jaz that something was going down.
“This can’t be happening. Who the hell is that?” A litany of curses rages through my brain, but the connection from it to my tongue is severed by the sight in front of me. A food truck is parked in my usual space. Painted in a matte black, with solar panels jutting from the roof, it looks like the front of a locomotive.
Jasmine pulls her seat belt taut as she leans forward on the dashboard. Her fingers scavenge the glove compartment and pull out a small binder containing our business contact information, which includes Joe, Club 415’s owner. “How would they know to park there? Unless . . .”
She doesn’t continue but I finish for her, my words heavy. “Joe gave them permission.”
“He wouldn’t.”
Or would he? His spot is coveted. It’s a block into the Financial District and minutes away from the tourist attractions like the Museum of Modern Art, which commands about a thousand visitors a day. It’s in the hub of what keeps the city working, the central spoke of all walks of life. It’s good business to be there, and Joe can command top dollar.
That also means he didn’t have the decency to give us enough time to find another spot.
I park across the street from the ominous truck, knowing Lucianna is sticking out into traffic and I could get a ticket. But I don’t care. In less than an hour, I’m supposed to be up and running. Lucianna is filled to the brim with ingredients for today that cannot go to waste.
“Shit. Tailgate food.” I charge up to the window, eyeing the stencil of the red, blue, and orange flames scrawled on the side of the truck. The truck’s name, Hawt Wings, makes me wince, not because of what they serve, but because I don’t know any nonvegetarians who don’t love chicken wings. If this truck is any good, Joe will surely be more tempted to keep them instead of Lucianna. Club 415 has benefited from the truck’s customers and vice versa. And chicken wings to a bunch of drunk people? It’s an easy touchdown.
My intention is to knock politely. Someone banging on the minuscule Plexiglas window is as ear-piercing as nails on chalkboard, and I’m not here for a fight. This is a simple misunderstanding.
Except my arm is controlled by an unknown force, and I wallop the window with my palm.
Seconds pass, though I know someone is in there. Even the most expensive trucks tilt and sway when people stomp inside. I pound on the Plexiglas again, and the window finally slides open. A guy’s head pops out, blond hair spiked in purposeful cowlicks. The music blares in his earbuds loud enough so I can hear the words.
The guy pulls a bud out of one ear. “Yeah.” His voice is gruff, like he swallowed a frog.
“You’re in my spot.” I level him a look that shouldn’t give him an inkling I’m kidding, and yet he grins at me.
“Um, I don’t think so.” He blows a bubble, and it pops. He sucks the gum back in, smacking it.
I take a breath. Calm myself. It’s obvious this guy is getting a kick out of me slowly losing my shit. I flatten my lips, and what the hell, I bat my eyelashes, too. “Look, it’s obvious you’re new and all to the neighborhood, but see that truck over there?” I point at Lucianna. He swings his head to the left and nods. “Well, I’ve parked her here pretty much for the last month. You have to get approval to park in this specific area, and I’m the one who has it.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“I’m glad we got that straight. I’m gonna go ahead and pull in.”
“Um.” He shakes his head, smacking his gum. “I mean, I know you have to get approval. And I have that.”
“There’s no way.” Although I spoke those words in the truck—that Joe might have given our spot away—hearing it from this guy singes me.
“Yeah. Joe called me this morning.” He reaches upward and retrieves a piece of paper.
Snatching it from his hand, I scan it. Sure enough, it’s a license dated with today’s date, with Joe’s signature on the bottom. “It’s because of those pictures,” the guy says.
“The what?”
“The pictures, you know, of you telling off that customer? A Spartan of all people?” He shakes his head. “Not good advertising, since 415’s sign is all over it, which is, you know . . . a sports bar. Joe thought the next person on his waiting list should get their turn a little early. So, have a nice day.”
The guy shuts the window before I can rebut, and I’m left with the sound of the truck’s generator. My face grows hot and my body sweats, and it’s not from the sun.
What do I do? Where do I go?
I’m screwed.
I march to the tinted windows of Club 415. The sign confirms what I know—it doesn’t open until after dinner. And yet I knock. This is all a stupid mistake.
But the truth is as clear as my reflection on the glass: Joe is the landlord, and no contract was drawn between us. We didn’t have termination clauses or rental stipulations, only a verbal agreement. Joe didn’t fool me. He told me he would always have the prerogative. He doesn’t owe me an explanation.
My hands scrunch into fists. It’s all my fault. I let a customer get to me. I acted without thinking.
Leaning my head onto the window, I shut my eyes.
“Camille.” Jasmine’s gentle grip on my shoulder pulls me back from the glass, literally pulling me off the ledge. “You’ll make this work.”
Familiar words. It’s the same thing she told me at Nonna’s funeral, after being blindsided and turned upside down by both the truth of my loss and the enormous responsibility of raising Ally. It reminds me I have some power over my future.
I nod at our reflection in the window, now a blob. “Let’s pack it in for now,” I croak out. “Time for a new plan.”