It was late in the evening of a long, tiring day sorting orders; unpacking, repacking and hauling boxes; and taking calls, but Ling felt the bone-deep satisfaction of a good day's work. The new orders pouring in were encouraging. Word was spreading that her prices were at least 15% lower than her competitors, thanks to Tita Emma's contacts. Even Hera seemed to have perked up--she'd been very helpful fielding their orders from their social media accounts, and had been careful filling up their inventory form. Ling only had to re-do three of her entries!
She couldn't believe it, but she might be warming up to the girl.
"I'll go upstairs, Manang," Hera said, emerging from the bathroom, hair wrapped in a towel and smelling strongly of bath soap.
Ling wrinkled her nose as she caught a whiff of her own shirt--she needed a shower. Urgently.
"Go ahead. Thank you for today, Hera. You were great."
The girl beamed, like she wasn't used to being complimented. Maybe that was the trick? Positive affirmation?
Hera's tongue poked into her cheek, and Ling knew the angelic streak was about to end. She flounced into the seat across from her and squealed.
"He called you palangga!" There was a ringing sound in Ling's ears. "Manang!!! Did you see his face? Ka-cute sa iya. Oh my god, that was the most kilig moment ever!" She pressed her fists into her cheeks and let out another ear-splitting squeal.
"Hera, please, you'll wake the neighbors," she tsked, pulling at her earlobe. Was unintended deafness going to be a side effect of living with her?
Hera waved a hand, dismissing their neighbors' concerns. "Tell me about him, manang? When did you date? Why did you break up? Now that you've found each other, will you go out with him again?"
Ling held up her own hand and started ticking fingers. "Not tonight; a long time ago; we didn't exactly break up; and I don't know. Now will you please go to sleep like you said?"
Hera spun around the room, hugging herself. "Fine. Good night, Manang Ling! Be a good girl!"
Ling had to smile as Hera practically floated up to their shared bedroom loft and shut the newly installed door behind her.
Finally, peace and quiet.
She tidied up the last of the scraps of paper, tape, and scissors, and nudged boxes aside to make a path to the bathroom. Finally, a long, leisurely shower.
But she was only halfway through shampooing when knocks sounded against the door to her office/apartment.
"Wait lang!" she called out, hurrying to rinse her hair and get the door. She remembered re-ordering recyclable bags for the smaller deliveries–the bags were supposed to arrive tomorrow, but sometimes the supplier delivered early. Still, safety first: she pulled the chain bolt on before opening the door to peek at her visitor.
"Sino po–"
She coughed as the words stuck in her throat.
SJ San Joaquin stood behind her door.
"Good evening, Ling."
"Oh. Oh!" She realized she was in a ratty bathrobe, hair haphazardly wrapped in a towel, back still mostly wet because she hadn't been able to dry it thoroughly in her haste to answer the door. She shut it closed and ran back to the bathroom. "Wait there! I need to finish my shower!"
"Take your time."
Ten minutes later, properly dressed in her favorite pajamas (and bra; it was a work visit after all), she opened the door.
"Good evening, Ling," he said again.
"Good evening, Chef SJ."
"So you do remember me."
He smiled, and it was the same pilyo-innocent grin she'd known so well. It was like she was 12 years old again–a new student in a new city where she only knew her aunt, and never mind the language. The teacher introduced her to the class and told her to sit in the vacant seat beside the boy in the back row. He had beamed up at her the way he did now: like he was looking at a gift.
"Of course." She cleared a few boxes from the dining table so that he could sit. "What can I do for you?"
He looked vaguely disappointed at the professional tone she was taking.
"Is there anything wrong with the order? Did you need something else?" She did a panicked mental tally of the remaining inventory–if he needed something in bulk, he'd have to wait until next week; most of their on-hand supply was now reserved.
"No." He looked around the cramped first floor of her loft apartment and perked up when he spotted her mini chest freezer. "May I?" He lifted a plastic bag up at her.
"Oh."
Was this why he was at her house at 10 in the evening? For freezer space? She...guessed she could do that, for a client. "Sure, you can leave that in there. What time do you need it tomorrow?"
"Huh?"
"For your shop. What time should I tell Hera to take that back to Nomnom Commons?"
He looked puzzled, and then pulled out a container from the plastic bag. It was a pint of cheese ice cream, which he dropped into the freezer. "This is for you."
She clapped a hand to her mouth.
He bit back a grin. "You thought I went here so late at night to use your freezer?"
"But...why else would you be here?"
"To visit an old friend," he said solemnly. "And to thank her for the pinasugbo." Out came another container, a clear plastic one. When he shook it, she could see tiny shards of dark brown powder.
"That's the pinasugbo?" It bore little resemblance to the hardened slices of banana, coated in syrup and wrapped in paper, that she was finding so hard to sell.
"Frozen in nitrogen and crushed to powder. Your 'sorry I screwed your order up' gift gave me the idea to add it to my barquillos cannoli, and maybe for a special dessert just for the launch. But I need to test it before I serve it."
"So that's where I come in. Taste-tester." She grinned. "I won't say no to that."
"Good. But we need to wait."
Her face fell as his pilyo look intensified. "Why?"
"Ice cream needs to firm up in the freezer. It's so humid outside it melted a bit."
"Okay. I guess I'll make us some tea."
She puttered around the cramped kitchen, getting out mugs and Lipton tea bags, boiling water in her electric kettle. She was conscious of his gaze following her around, but couldn't think of anything to say. His presence made her feel buzzy, like she had a horde of tiny, happy bees making honey on top of her skin: pleasant, exciting, but not exactly calming.
When she sat down with the steaming mugs, he looked exactly the same way.
He searched her face for a long moment. She wanted to look away, but there was something in his gaze that pinned her down.
"It's been so long, Ling." His voice was low, coiling and settling in her belly and making her feel...funny things.
"It has." She took a gulp of the tea, forgetting it was scalding hot. "Shit!" The mug slammed on the table as she fanned her mouth.
SJ was at her side in a flash, taking her hand and tilting her face to his. "Pobrecita. Did you burn yourself?"
There it was again. His penetrating gaze, deep in those large eyes of his, framed in lashes so lush she envied them. He'd always had such expressive eyes. They'd been her clue that he was not the black sheep everyone told her he'd been.
"You...got tan," she said, and winced. What a witty thing to say!
But if SJ found her repartee lacking, he wasn't letting on. He smiled, instead, and looked away, like he was feeling kilig at being noticed. "I took up surfing when I left my last job."
"It suits you."
He moved back to his seat and sipped his tea. "How are your parents?"
"Still working. Ma is a real estate agent and has an online shop. Pa is still at it with the MLMs."
"I'd hoped he stopped, after losing his money all those years ago." He patted her hand.
"You remember?"
"Of course I do. You told me that's why they had to take the job in Singapore and leave you here."
"Yeah, well...he still hasn't learned his lesson, clearly. He still hopes one of these will be his ticket to riches."
"That's why you dreamed of opening your own business, so you could help them out."
"When did I tell you that?" She took a careful sip of the tea.
"It was at our recollection. You said, one day you'll have your own successful business, and you would buy your parents anything they wanted. They would retire in a house they would own, not rent; and that you would take care of everything."
Her cheeks heated up at the unlocked memory. She did tell him all about that. At their grade 6 recollection, they'd found a mango tree with a cement planter behind the church. They'd planted themselves there and talked, blissfully uninterrupted by malicious teachers and disapproving priests. She'd innocently shared with him the one hope she had in her heart–the hope to grant her parents the financial security they'd so desperately chased all her life. They were good people, and they tried so hard. They deserved to rest.
"Look at you now, Ling!" He beamed at her. "You have your own company. I'm so proud of you."
"It's small, but it's my baby." She cast a glance at her cramped apartment and felt a surge of that same pride within her: pride mixing with apprehension and a heady dose of wanting to succeed so badly, she could almost taste it. "It took so long to get here, and I still have so far to go..."
"You'll make it. I just know it."
He said it with such conviction, too. She wished her heart would stop leaping about in her torso. She was starting to feel it would swell up like a balloon and that she'd float up to the ceiling with it.
"What about you? Your shop looks so cool!"
He looked away for a moment, his expression turning somber. "Some people would say it's a downgrade."
What could she reply to that? "Um...how are your parents?"
The moment the words left her mouth, she wanted to take them back.
"Still disappointed in me." He gave her a sarcastic thumbs up.
They were quiet for a couple of minutes. Their eyes met over their mugs of tea, and both burst out laughing.
"Well. That was awkward," he said.
She nodded. "I'm pretty sure that ice cream is firm now."
"Right!" He perked up as he extracted the container from the freezer. "Can I...?" He motioned to their mugs. She assented, and he proceeded to dump their tea and rinse the mugs. He pulled another container from his bag, this time containing thin wafer discs.
"What else is in there?" she laughed.
"A whole bunch of tricks."
He filled their mugs with alternating layers of the wafer discs, cheese ice cream, and powdered pinasugbo, all the while talking about the ingredients, how he learned to make them in pastry school, and what 'flavor profiles' he hoped to achieve. She could barely follow the conversation, but he looked so animated–so different from a few moments ago–that she couldn't help but feel swept away by his enthusiasm.
"Here we go," he said, presenting her the mug of his concoction with a flourish. "Azucarera de Papi sweet-savory parfait, made with muscovado stroopwafel, roasted quezo de bola ice cream, and pinasugbo dust." He was so excited, he didn't wait for her to take the mug; he grabbed a spoon, and, mumbling something about "the perfect bite," scooped a big spoonful for her. "Taste it!"
She dutifully opened her mouth and let him feed her. At the first contact of the cold spoon with her tongue, she shut her eyes. A complex meld of flavors danced inside her. "Mm!" she moaned, allowing him to give her a second spoonful. "I didn't expect the ice cream to have that smokey undertone. It plays off so well with the muscovado. And the pinasugbo dust is genius!" She opened her eyes, excited. "It's miles away from that sticky, chewy pasalubong wrapped in paper that's impossible to peel."
She caught her breath as his gaze caught on her mouth. Their eyes met, and suddenly the mood shifted. The appetite she had, awakened by his dessert, turned from a desire for sweets to a deep and vast wanting. She was suddenly uncomfortably aware of how close he was, of how thick and veiny his hands were; she pictured them on her bare skin and shuddered.
"Ling," he said softly, the lilt of his Ilonggo accent coming through to her like a gentle, seductive swing of a hammock. "You remember the braided bracelet I gave you, the day before you left for Manila?"
"Yes." She was conscious of whispering, overcome with a feeling that anything louder than a breath would break this spell.
"Did you wear it everyday until the thread wore off and broke?"
"I'm sorry. I took it off to play volleyball at school and forgot where I placed it."
"That's alright." He tucked a strand of damp hair behind her ear. "I didn't call and text after you left."
"I didn't either."
"I thought you'd forget all about me once you were back in Manila."
"I didn't. I thought you'd forget all about me."
"Huh. Funny how that worked out." He leaned closer and touched a fingertip to the corner of her lips. He lifted a tiny bit of ice cream and licked it. "I thought about you almost every day since you left."
She swallowed a sudden attack of the shakes. "Same."
He looked at her, satisfied. He reached into his bag again, pulled out a card, and handed it to her. It was an invitation.
"Azucarera's launch is tomorrow. It would mean a lot to me if you came."
"I'll be there," she said.
He stood, pushing the other mug at her. "I'll make sure to serve that. Since you enjoyed it."
"So very much."
They paused as she opened her door. The roar of a passing tricycle broke the weird mood that had fallen over them, and SJ rubbed the back of his neck, just as he did as a boy.
"See you tomorrow," he said, and left before she could bid him goodbye.