© 2017 Ji Hye. All Rights Reserved.
| T W O |
She's crying; I just know it.
But it's not until I'm a couple of feet closer that I realize the reason as to why. It's today. Well, what this day signifies.
Valentine's Day
For the first time in a long time, Claire does not have any special plans for this evening. In the past, she always spent it with her boyfriend, Xavier, but alas, with them calling it quits last year, that is no longer an option. After having been in a relationship with the guy since our high school days, the thought of being alone on such a sentimental occasion must kill Claire on the inside. I'm sure of it. Sigh. Such a sad possibility, even if it has nothing to do with me, still manages to cut so deep that even I begin to feel an ache in my chest.
I turn away, unable to see her so down in the dumps, and head over to where the maître d' is posted.
The guy appears to be around my age, stands about three or four inches shorter than me, and is clean-shaven with sandy-blond hair and irises as green as my own.
He scans me from head to toe and within seconds a disinterested look crosses his features. "Bienvenue dans L'Jardin," he says with an undeniably fake French accent. "How may I be of service to you?"
I clear my throat, and with the most professional and stern voice I'm able to muster, I tell him, "Eight o'clock reservation for Montoya."
"I see . . . " He shifts his sights down to the large, leather-bound book in front of him, and begins to looks through the pages.
As his finger scans the seemingly never-ending column of names, I feel a chill of sweat run down my spine. By the looks of things, there must be over a hundred reservations for just this evening alone. This can only mean two things: there are going to be over a hundred people dining here tonight, and all but one of them are lacking in originality. Me. Because unbeknownst to everyone here, aside from the restaurant's management and myself, I have a little trick up my sleeve, something to set me apart from the seriously 'romantic dinner on Valentine's Day' cliché.
I continue to watch the maître d' as he looks over the list, and not before long, I see his finger pause at what I can only assume is my reservation. "First name?" he asks as the edge of his nail digs into the page.
"James," I tell him.
His eyes sweep over the list once more and moments later his brows knit together. "Hmm . . ." he mutters to himself before meeting my gaze. "I'm afraid I do not have a reservation for a 'James Montoya'."
My sights dart from the guy down to the book and back again, and from within, I feel a wave of panic surge through me, quickly foiling my calm exterior. He can't be serious. He can't be. I just know that he can't. I confirmed the reservation with the manager myself, countless times, so I just know that he can't be right. My persistence leading up to this night has been so steadfast I'm sure the employees were all beyond annoyed with my efforts. None of it fazes me though because when it concerns important things, like tonight's dinner, I'd rather be safe than sorry.
"If it isn't too much trouble, could you double ch—"
"Monsieur Montoya, I can assure you—"
"Cut the crap, man, and just check the list again!"
The guy stills, his mouth slightly agape, his eyes wide.
". . . please?"
He blinks, his senses sharpening once again, his refined demeanor restored. "As you wish."
As he looks through the list again, a key detail crosses my mind.
Shit.
My bad . . .
Earlier today, the manager reminded me that the reservation would be listed under another name: my second name. As a last minute safety precaution (for the one-in-a-million chance that someone I knew would happen to see my name on the list and, God forbid, decide to ruin the surprise without my consent), the manager suggested that I save the reservation under an alias or a name that most people wouldn't associate me with. Luckily for me, that just so happens to be my middle name. "Antonio," I tell the guy.
"Pardon?"
"The reservation," I clarify. "It's listed under my middle name, Antonio."
The dude looks at me and then grumbles something inaudible to my ears. It's clear that his patience is wearing thin, but in all honesty, I couldn't care less. I just disregard his remark and dig into my back pocket for my wallet. Once I fish it out, I pull out my driver's license and show it to him.
He inspects the plastic card for its authenticity. "Alright, it appears to be authentic," he then says, a near-imperceptible smirk tugging at his lips. He's just doing this to get a rise out of me, I swear. "Follow me."
"One moment, please. I just realized I forgot something."
He gives me a look, like, are you for real? but remains silent.
"I'll be right back."
I walk back to where I left Claire and find her in a completely different state. The tears streaming down her cheeks, the sadness filling the air around her . . . they're . . . they're all gone.
"I see that you're feeling better now."
Claire eyes me, her dark coffee-colored irises slowly raking over me. "What are you talking about?"
I know better than to fall for the front she's trying to put up though. Appearances are deceiving after all, and I know very well that beneath it all she's still upset about celebrating Singles Awareness Day. But rather than outright call her out on it, like I would usually do on any other day, I just offer her a sympathetic smile. "Being single on Valentine's Day . . . I know you're still upset about it."
She raises a brow. "Why would think I'd be upset?"
"I saw you earlier. You were crying."
Her lips part, ready to refute, but instead of doing just that, she just pauses and averts her gaze. "Sorry about that," she says, her voice low and faint, practically a whisper. "I didn't mean for anyone to see that. I was just—"
"You're not actually apologizing for it, are you?"
She steals a glance around the place and gulps at the sight. "It's embarrassing. People might think—"
"Who gives a damn about what they think or say?" I point out. "You don't know them and they don't know you."
Her eyes flick up to mine. "Yeah, I guess you're right."
"Always am," I joke. And then, before Claire is able to say anything else, I grab a hold of her wrist and pull her toward the entrance of the restaurant. She tries to free herself from my grasp, digging her nails into my skin, and yet I still don't budge.
"What do you think you're doing, Jay?" she hisses through gritted teeth, panic clear in her voice. "Your date is going to be here any minute now."
"Don't you think I know that?" I throw back. I'm not angry or frustrated, contrary to how annoyed my response may seem. In fact, right this very second, I'm feeling quite the opposite – and it's all thanks to what I'm about to do. The next time I walk out of this restaurant, the deed shall be done. While it may not seem like a big deal to others, for me it is. For the past five years, I've kept this secret to myself, and after this confession, my conscience will finally be cleared and the tremendous weight I carried all this time will be no more. I sigh, relieved by the prospect.
"Since you seem to have an answer to everything, please Jay, tell me why in the world are you dragging me in here?" Claire asks, motioning to our hands (well, more specifically, our intertwined fingers). "It's Valentine's Day. People are going to get the wrong idea about this – and us."
"You're my best friend, right?"
She tips her head to the side, a tad unsure. "Of course I am," she says. "What kind of a stupid question is that?"
"You promised that you'd always be here for me, no matter what, right?"
"Yeah, I did, but what does that have to do with any—"
Without much of a warning, the host suddenly comes to a halt in front of me. Fortunately, thanks to my quick reflexes, I stop on a dime. But Claire . . . oh, Claire . . . she isn't so lucky. She wasn't paying much attention to begin with and winds up walking straight into my back.
And, as if the entire thing couldn't get any worse, it does, and soon afterward, Claire loses her balance, falls to the floor, and inadvertently brings me down with her.
Hundreds of eyes are trained on the two of us as we take in—well, more like crack up—at our current situation. With all of my weight pinning her to the ground, I am literally lying on top of her, leaving our faces mere inches apart.
"Jay?" she rasps, her voice strained.
I lift my head away from hers. "Yeah?"
She coughs. "I . . . I can't b-breathe."
What?
Oh.
Oh . . . "Sorry." I pull myself up from the ground and brush off my clothes. As I turn back, I notice Claire is still on the ground and . . . laughing? "Um, Claire, you good?"
She snorts. "Of all people . . . of course this would happen to me," she says between bouts. "Just my freaking luck!"
"Regret breaking that mirror now, don't cha?" I tease. Back in high school, Claire attempted—and ultimately, failed—to hang a gigantic full-length mirror on her bedroom wall all by herself. "The whole 'seven years of bad luck' superstition really is a bitch."
She shoots me a look, every bit of lightheartedness now wiped clean from her face as shock masks the soft contours. "I didn't break that mirror," she states, her eyes narrowing a smidge. "It fell."
I laugh. "No shit, Sherlock. You used duct tape to hang it up. What else did you expect it to do?"
She shrugs. "Stay put—" I level her with a look that says are you serious right now? and she immediately backtracks on her words. "—well, at least for a little while."
Wow. For someone who has never received a grade lower than an A-minus in her entire life, my best friend sure is an airhead when it comes to things that aren't academically related.
"I was decorating on a budget," she goes on like it's no big deal. "I had to make do with what I had."
"You're such dork."
Her face scrunches up. "You know that word's synonymous for male genitalia, right?"
". . . what?"
"In a sense, you just called me a penis," she adds, amused.
"A what!" And just like that, I find myself joining in, no longer able to suppress the burst of laughter brewing within.
Claire has always had this effect on people. Thanks to her random quips and overall quirky persona, she has been able to win over everyone she meets without much effort. And while, in the past, many people have tried to resist her ways, in the end, they always found themselves falling for her hard. It's strange, I know.
I hold out my hand again, and this time, she cooperates.
"Thanks," she says once she manages to steady on her own two feet.
I rub the back of my neck. "Um, yeah . . . uh, no problem."
Forcing out a cough, the maître d' immediately reminds Claire and I that he has been waiting on us the entire time. There's a jovial expression on his face but I can tell it's forged. From the outside, most people would take him for someone who loves waiting hand and foot on others, but I, however, am not one of them. I can see past the façade he's putting up. Seeded deep within his eyes is the utmost disgust and annoyance. He loathes his job; there's no doubt about it. And while on any other occasion, I would've excused his behavior and sympathized with him, this time, I refuse to do such a thing. There's no way I'm not letting his piss-poor attitude bring me down. It is my day after all—correction: it's our day (hers and mine).
So, I do what has to be done: I dismiss him.
When he leaves, I pull out a chair and motion Claire to sit. "Help me practice," I tell her. "I really care for this girl and I really don't want to screw this up."
Once she takes her seat, I do the same and settle myself into the chair at the other end of the table. I peer up and just as I do I catch her watching me with a closed-lip smile. "What?" I ask softly. "Is something the matter?"
She shakes her head and a faint chuckle parts her lips.
"Then what's up?"
"I don't know," she says. "I just . . . I guess I just never thought I'd ever see this day come."
"Yeah, I know what you mean. I never saw it coming either. It—she . . . she blind sighted me."
Resting her elbows on the edge of the table, Claire leans forward and steadies her eyes on me. "You're really into her, huh?"
I nod. "But it's more than just a physical attraction. She's independent. She's ambitious . . . intelligent, kind . . . I could go on and on about her really, but I guess what sets her apart from the rest is how she makes me feel."
Claire raises a brow, and suspiciously, she asks, "And how does she make you feel, Jay?" Given my past, she's probably assuming it has something to do with sex. And when I don't answer, she presses on, "Wow, she's that good, huh? Looks like the great James Montoya has finally met his match in between the sheets—"
"Knock it off, Han. It's actually pretty G-rated." I give her a once over. "Christ, you really gotta do something about that dirty mind of yours, you pervert."
She gapes, and then from under the table, she kicks me straight in the shin. When I yelp, she grins. "Why don't you repeat that a little louder, Montoya. I don't think everyone in the room heard you."
"Well, you did start it first."
"And I'm going to finish it too." She glances away, and then back, adding, "You never answered my original question."
"And whose fault is that?"
She huffs.
"Ok. Ok. Since you're just dying to know, I suppose I'll tell you." I pause, and I can tell the anticipation is eating away at her.
"James."
I laugh. "Cálmate, Claire. I was only teasing. No need to get your panties in a twist again." She glares, but I just ignore it and go on, "To sate your curiosities, I guess what sets her apart from the rest is that she . . . she makes me happy."
"Happy?"
I nod. "When I'm with her, life is just better—no, scratch that, whenever I'm with her, life is . . . life is amazing. Because of her, the way I look at everything has changed. Like, the glass is no longer half-empty, the grass is greener than ever, the sky bluer . . . you know, that kind of stuff. We don't really do anything out of the ordinary whenever we're together, and we don't need to. Being with her . . . it's . . . it's like a breath of fresh air. Every day I spend with her, it's never the same thing. She loves to challenge me constantly, and I love that about her. She knows there's potential to grow, to become a better person, and she never lets me forget that despite whatever hardships come our way. And whenever we're apart . . . I . . . I miss her terribly. It's not a big deal, though, 'cause even through the separation, I know that she is always with me." I pat my chest. "She's like that missing piece I didn't know I needed, you know? She's been a lover, a mentor, a friend, and so, so much more." Claire leans back, silent. "This is all new to me, but I know deep in my heart that I'm . . . I'm in love with her."
"Oh, I have no doubt about it," Claire says. "I can see it all over your face. You're head over heels for this girl."
"Yeah . . ." I can't seem to fight the smile tugging at my lips.
Reaching over the table, Claire takes my hand in hers. "You know what they say, the best kind of love is the one you never see coming."
"You really think so?"
"I know so," she says. "I've been lucky enough to experience it first hand." Glancing away, she shifts her sights down to the table setting in front of her and lets go of my hand. "It's almost time," she then mutters ruefully under her breath. "Let's, uh . . . let's get this over with already."
I lean over and lay my hand on hers. "You want to know something?" Her palm is frozen in place, unmoving beneath mine. "I never thought I'd ever admit this aloud but—uh, I . . . I really don't deserve to have such a wonderful best friend like you."
Tears pool in her eyes. "Oh my gosh, Jay," she says, pulling her hand away to rummage through her purse. "You really do have horrible timing." Old habits die hard I guess. "My makeup is going to smear again, just so you know."
"I'm sorry." I don't know what else to tell her.
Unable to find the pack of Kleenex she usually stashes away in her bag, Claire begins to blink over and over again. "I'm going to look like a raccoon," she says as she fans her face with her hand, attempting to keep her tears at bay.
"At least you'll be a beautiful raccoon," I counter.
She sniffs. "Thanks, Jay."
I wink. "You know it."
She rolls her eyes. "Ever so modest." She's being sarcastic again, but I just go along with it.
"It's just like what I told you earlier, I'm your BFF," I say, using air quotes for emphasis and earning a giggle from her. "It's in my job description."
"I can't take you seriously when you say 'BFF'. It sounds so weird coming from you."
I shrug and then clap my hands together. "Right-o, let's get things started." I straighten in my seat. "I already have a speech planned out, so yeah . . . all you've gotta do is just sit there and let your emotions take control."
She nods. "Sounds easy."
"I want to see if this will make her understand how much I love her."
Claire doesn't say anything in response, and I take that as my cue. I summon one of the waiters to our table, and a few moments later, a server dressed in all white arrives and asks me if I'm in need of any assistance. I nod and motion him to come closer. He shoots me a bewildered look but obliges nonetheless, inching his face closer to mine. Faintly, my voice a mere whisper, I ask him to fetch me the acoustic guitar I stashed in the back room this morning. You see, tonight's dinner has been planned for some time now and I practically have every detail covered—well, now that I think of it, not every detail. The only thing I have no control over is her reaction, and honestly, that uncertainty is the most nerve-wracking thing about tonight.
When the waiter eventually returns with my guitar in hand, I stand from the table.
Once I'm ready to go, I glance over to the restaurant's manager and give her the go-ahead, cueing her to dim the overhanging lights. Within seconds, the entire place dims, with the exception of the single light suspended over my table. Everyone around me falls silent and all eyes land on me, including Claire, who just so happens to be staring at me with her eyes wide and her mouth slightly agape. I don't know what it is about her reaction, but it spurs something inside of me as everything about tonight and what I'm about to do settles in.
I will tell her how I feel.
Mark my words.
I will.
Swallowing the lump in my throat, I ask, "Do you believe in love?" I'm not expecting an answer, but much to my surprise, Claire nods along, lightly biting down on her bottom lip. "I didn't. Truth be told, I didn't believe in many things before I met you." My fingers strum the strings of the guitar. "I just want to sing you a song to show you how I feel."
Tonight will truly be a night of firsts: the first time I tell a girl that I'm in love with her (and mean it), the first time I sing in front of an audience, the first time I pour my heart and soul out for the world to see, and most importantly, the first time I reveal my true self.
As I conclude the final lines of the song, the entire restaurant erupts with praise as both diners and workers applaud my acoustic cover of the timeless Beatles song, Till There Was You. Well, everyone . . . except for Claire. Judging by the look on her face, she's too in shock to do anything other than stare, and honestly, I don't blame her; I'm beyond astonished that I even did this myself.
Setting my guitar aside, I offer her my hand. My heart is racing, pounding in my chest. The sensation resonates throughout my entire being, and the instant my fingers interlace with Claire's, I'm positive that she can feel it as well. "You've shown me what true love is," I tell her, holding her gaze with my own as I get down on one knee and gently press my lips to her hand. I'm not sure what's so different now, but when our eyes steady on one another this time around, everything and everyone around us seems to wither away—all doubts, all worries are gone—until all that remains is just the two of us. "I've never felt this way before, and it scares me. But in spite of that, all of this will be worth it, so long as you know . . ."
I'm not sure what the future has in store for us, but there is one thing I am sure of: no matter what follows, everything will be okay.
"I love you, Claire."