33
VICTORIA
September 7
The first annual Central California Barbecue Food Truck Festival is about to start but my cohost is nowhere to be seen. He spent the night at his sister’s and was supposed to meet us on Main Street, which the city shut down an hour ago, and now has various food trucks parked along both sides of the road. I’d waited as long as I could, but I’d started to meet the truck owners without him and even arranged to tour one during the segment.
While the trucks pump out the delicious smells of fried foods, of onions and garlic and sugar and cinnamon, guests have started to filter in from local towns and the big Army base a half hour away. The sun has risen above the mountain range, and the temperature is already in the nineties, but the lights and the decorations on the trucks paint a festive scene against the stark mountains and the lack of foliage.
I studied all night—or I tried to anyway. I’d researched the trucks that were coming, read a little about the entrepreneurs running them. I called my future cousin-in-law Camille, who owns a food truck, so we could chat a little about her challenges as a mobile restaurateur. I’ve lined up some generic questions. In between reading about the myriad of ways meat is smoked, and a bit about the history of the town, my mind had wandered to yesterday’s emotional roller coaster, from the flat tire to the revelation of Joel’s past. I realized that everyone has a limit, a limit of what they can give. Luke ignored and lied about his. He fooled me and hurt me. Shouldn’t I be glad that Joel is always clear about his limits? I should be thankful, right?
Instead, my skin is crawling with anxiety. I told Joel my limit yesterday, or lack of one, but I’m not ready to say goodbye. I know it’s foolhardy and naïve; I’m falling back on the memories of our intimate moments, our banter. Those moments felt real and lasting. Last night, I never said what I truly wanted. I couched it in terms that I was ready for the future, ready to find love. What I didn’t say was that I wanted him.
But then that would have meant opening myself up to a direct shot at rejection.
I’m palming a cup of coffee and leaning up against a guardrail, sifting through my notes on my phone when giggles filter up the street. A group of teenagers wave at me and hold up signs. One says: Alford High School rocks! Another: Alford is hot!
I wave back and give them a thumbs-up. Now that we are at our fourth destination, and the website’s advertising has proliferated through social media, we have bona fide fans. Tara mentioned that there’s buzz of a bigger crowd coming out for us at the San Diego Pitmaster Competition tomorrow. “We can handle it,” I said to the crew, but what I meant was that Joel and I could handle it, together.
We have become a team.
“He just sent a text. Should be around here somewhere,” Lowell says from behind me, camera in his hand. “Tara says that we should start filming right in the middle of the festival grounds, in the courtyard area.”
“Okay.” Adrenaline shoots through me, and I spin around to catch the first sight of him. From the corner of my eye, I see a Wrangler stop at the corner of Main and Patton streets, and the door opens. A shock of black hair peeks out, then a body in a gray V-neck. Joel. He raises his hand above his eyebrows. I know he’s looking for us, and I have the gumption to wave like a madwoman to get his attention. Eight hours without him was too long.
Tomorrow might be the last day you’ll see him.
I push away the thought and walk toward him, and he meets me halfway across a patch of lawn. My heart threatens to burst from my chest despite myself, and his smile widens at my approach. The next second, something unrecognizable passes over his eyes, crushing my instinct to launch myself at him.
I wish I knew what he was thinking.
His eyes dart behind me, to me, then to the people walking by. Flustered, he says with a shaky voice, “Hi. Sorry, my sister and I got caught up with something.”
“Is everything okay?”
“No, and yes. I’m going home with them again after the show. I’ve got some loose ends to tie up, and I promised Seth I would pick him up from school.”
“I’m sure Seth’s going to love having you pick him up from school.” Again, with the “loose ends.” I tamp down the suspicion of what this means and I nod toward the middle of the street, where Lowell is standing. He flashes his pointer finger and signs the number zero. Ten minutes before showtime.
Which doesn’t leave any time to talk about us.
We step toward Lowell. “Do you want to go over what we should talk about?” I ask.
Joel lets out a breath as we walk up the line of trucks. “I know these guys already. Bacon Junkie over there? They started out smoking in their backyard, and they love oranges in everything—their marinade, in the smoke. Hot to Touch? They slather so much sauce over their meat that it drips. It’s disgusting in my opinion, but people love it . . .”
There’s an excitement in his voice. In his true element now in his hometown, he’s acting like the mayor, waving to passersby and stopping occasionally to speak to a vendor. As we discuss the details—I negotiate taking the first interview because I’d already spoken to the owner earlier that morning—I notice a distance. Joel’s acting like he was the first day of our trip, polite but curt. He’s avoiding direct contact with me; he stands a step too far away.
He’s disengaging emotionally, which hollows out my chest and raises my hackles all at once. I need to be on my toes today. Despite our own drama, Joel’s still out for blood, and I’m not going to let him take mine.
“These truckers are pretty gruff, but don’t let them get to you, okay?” Joel fixes the neckline of his shirt.
“I think I can handle myself. I’ll be fine. Good luck to you.”
He opens his mouth to retort, but Tara shows up with the phone against her ear. She snaps her fingers for us to get started.
Once we get our cue, Joel begins. “Welcome to another segment of West Coast BBQ. I’m Joel.”
“And I’m Victoria,” I say with a smile.
“We’ve made the trek inland to the first annual Central California Barbecue Food Truck Festival.”
I jump in, although we’d agreed for him to take the introduction. “Just think of the deliciousness: BBQ Frito pie. BBQ French fries. BBQ pulled-pork tacos. And can you imagine eating all that good food with this view? It’s like we are in the Wild West. I did a once-over of the trucks this morning, and though we can’t feature all of them today, I want you all to think about how creatively these truckers have to transport their food. C’mon, let’s go inside and visit one.”
Joel physically steps in front of me, practically pushing me out of the camera’s view. “But before we do, let’s discuss the festival. Although this is the first annual, the food truckers you see lined up here have been hitting the streets for years. These tiny central California towns are full of way more foodies than you think.”
The gall of him taking over is fuel for me to interrupt him right back. But Joel rides this wave in the segment like a play-by-play sportscaster, in a fluid, conversational way. He knows his stuff, and he’s positively glowing. Even I get caught in his spell.
I know at that instant he deserves the next job, and the passion I see in him now is exactly how I feel about writing, despite my lack of it these last weeks.
The sun shines a smidge brighter, and the sounds behind me mute to white noise. My writing. I have to fight for it as hard as Joel’s fighting for this job now. He said he’d let life pass him by, and this job is the thing that brought him from the side of the road.
I can’t let my writing go.
I’m nudged by Joel, and I realize we’re in front of Superpig’s door. Right. My turn.
I knock, introduce the truck crew to the camera, and enter. Lowell can’t come in all the way because the space is minuscule, but he zooms in as Frank, the owner, gives me a tour and I talk about the features of the truck.
Joel jumps into the truck and extends his hand to me. I take it and he twirls me around once, the breath whooshing out of my body. “Talk about putting Baby in the corner; there’s barely enough room for two people to dance. This is a tight space, ten by fourteen feet. Bravo to our food truckers.”
By the end of the segment, my throat is parched, I’ve exhausted my vocabulary, and my cheeks hurt from smiling. My and Joel’s teamwork was off the charts, and it shows in Tara’s beaming smile and Lowell’s excitement to get the footage sent over to be edited.
I pull off my microphone and spot Joel with a crowd of women, who part when they see me coming.
“This is the better half of our show.” Joel cheeses it up.
I grin in response to the comments and questions. After I’m handed a pen, I sign arms and take selfies. Normally, I’m down for this. I love the attention, but I want time alone with Joel. I’m chock-full of pride in the both of us, and whether it’s the high of today’s segment, or my naïveté calling once again, I want to know the answer to the question I posed to him last night. Would he ever be ready for more than a casual affair? Am I just imagining this deep connection between us?
Joel puts his hand on my lower back and guides me toward a woman. “Victoria, this is Jocelyn, my sister.”
I freeze. His sister.
I have a huge high-maintenance family. They’re loud and rambunctious and opinionated and nosy. They’re a part of me that my friends and love interests have to accept, but there’s so many of us that the pressure is less, I think. Knowing Joel only has Jocelyn and his nephew, Seth, I’m pressed to make a good impression.
I want her to like me. I’m not his girlfriend, but I’m his partner in this gig. If he’s as close to her as I am to my sister, then she already knows we were together and are now in competition.
Jocelyn’s a couple of inches shorter than Joel, though she has the same dark, thoughtful eyes and full lips. Her hair’s painted with soft highlights that give dimension to her thick, dark shoulder-length cut. She greets me with a smile that immediately puts me at ease, so I offer my hand.
Instead, she hugs me. “Joel’s told me so much about you.”
I’m taken aback by the affection. It’s usually me who’s more forthcoming, but after a beat I return the embrace. “Oh, God, hopefully it’s only good things.” I peek up at the man next to me. My heart races as I wonder what he said.
“Joc. Don’t even.” To me, Joel says, “I mentioned that you’re a cutthroat cohost.”
She steps back and gives me a once-over, grinning. “He said that you’re amazing and talented and beautiful, and I completely agree.” She turns to Joel. “We’ve got a few minutes before we have to pick up Seth. Meet you at the Jeep?” When Joel nods, she turns to me, hugs me once more. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I hope I see you again.”
Amazing, talented, and beautiful. What is that supposed to mean? “Likewise.”
My brain is muddled with my shift of emotions as Joel and I handle the last of the meet and greet. As soon as we’re alone, he turns to me. “That was a great segment. You were awesome.”
“It was both of us. We totally flowed. I especially loved the Dirty Dancing reference.”
“Couldn’t help it.” His lips quirk up. “You’re definitely making it hard for me to beat you.”
“About that. Tomorrow . . .”
“Tomorrow. The final test.”
“In more ways than one,” I mumble, then lift my eyes to meet his. To figure out what he’s feeling. “It’s our last day.”
“I know,” he winces. “Listen. I need to go, but I’ll be back at the campground tonight. Can we talk then?”
Worry floods me. “Of course.”
He leans down, catching me off guard. When the warmth of his lips brushes against my cheek, I’m jolted with panic. He’s risked the crew seeing us—is this the final kiss?
As I watch him walk away one thing becomes clear: I don’t want it to be our last.