Table for Two (7 page)

3

Mandy is sitting
on a
couch in a corner of the dark crowded club, sipping her Vanilla Rum carefully,
trying to look like she’s having fun, or at least fitting in. Beside her, Gio
knocks back one beer after another, taking breaks only to shovel forkfuls of
lechon kawali
into his mouth and make loud crunching noises audible
over the headache-inducing hip-hop beat. Penny and Diane are dancing and
laughing hysterically, and every two minutes, one of them announces to nobody
in particular, “Ohmigod, I
love
this song!”
Mandy catches a couple of guys eyeing Penny and Diane blatantly—they are
tall and tan and scruffy in a way that looks calculated; they look like they
drove red convertibles and went wakeboarding on weekends, and their arms are
crossed in a manner that shows off their biceps beneath their tight shirts.
They look like the kind of guys who always got what they wanted. Sure enough,
the two guys—Mandy has nicknamed them Dude and Bro in her head—inch
their way towards Penny and Diane to introduce themselves. Pretty soon, they
are all dancing and laughing and shouting and touching, and Dude’s and Bro’s
hands are everywhere. Mandy feels like throwing up, and she’s not even the one
who’s been chugging alcohol all night long.

“Do something,” Mandy tells Gio.

“Why should I?” Gio asks, in
between crunches. “They’re just dancing. Let them be. Better yet, join them. At
least pretend you’re having a blast.”

“You’re useless,” Mandy says. Gio
replies, “I know. Thank you.”

Mandy does not want to get up, go
to the dance floor, and get to know Dude and Bro. She does not want to try to
impress them with how pretty her smile is and how funny she can be, or with
flirty small talk and a few suggestive comments. She does not want to try
anything, but more importantly, she does not want to look like she’s trying.
Her dad has made it clear that he does not want her making the first move on
guys, no matter how small or subtle that move is. He told her, only once, but
with enough purpose and force so that it is permanently etched in her memory,
“I fell for your mom because she was absolutely not interested in me.” This,
Mandy always hears at the back of her mind every time she is presented with a
situation such as this one.

Diane comes over and drags her to
her feet. The dancing seems to have sobered her up a bit, but she is grinning
widely, too widely, and Mandy finds this suspicious. “One of the guys thinks
you’re cute,” Diane informs her. “Penny called dibs on him, but I figure she’s
just doing this to get a reaction out of Gio, so technically, he’s all yours.”

“Uh, no thanks,” Mandy says,
trying to pull away. Diane digs her fingernails into Mandy’s wrist, refusing to
let go. A two-minute tug-of-war ensues, until Penny, Dude, and Bro make their
way towards them. Somehow, when the introductions have been made (she does not
hear the guys’ real names) and everyone is seated, Mandy finds herself squished
between Penny and Bro on the couch, and she does not know whether she prefers
this to being squished between Penny and Gio in the backseat of the car. Diane
and Dude are whispering and giggling on the other side of the couch, and Gio is
pretending none of them exist.

Bro asks, “So, Mandy, what do you
do?”

“You mean besides lurk in dark
corners and will myself to be invisible?” Mandy says.

Bro takes this as flirting, and he
grins at Mandy like he’s satisfied both with her for being so available and
with himself for being so irresistible.

“She’s a writer,” Penny chimes in.
“She wants to put up a bookstore for kids and teens. Isn’t that the cutest
thing?”

“Yeah,” Bro agrees, his gaze fixed
on Mandy. “Very cute.”

“That’s our Mandy!” Penny coos.
“Always busy being so artsy and idealistic and role model-y.”

“Role model-y,” Mandy repeats
dryly, and Bro takes this as a question and nods, like he knows her enough to
be reassuring her that yes, she is in fact very role model-y.

Penny flips her hair and rests a
hand on Bro’s knee. “I bet Mandy here has never been a bad girl, ever,” she
says, laughing like being a bad girl is the status quo, like
not
being a bad girl is something downright ridiculous.

Bro turns to her, finally. “Why,
babe, when have
you
been a bad girl?”

“I can’t answer that,” Penny says
in a silky voice, “I’m
always
a bad girl.”

Bro raises his eyebrows at Mandy
like he is expecting her to step up the game and come up with a sluttier
response, like he is a competition both girls are dead set on dominating. But
Mandy just shrugs, and Bro chooses to take the easier target and starts
stroking Penny’s thigh. Mandy wants to throw up, this time for real, and
excuses herself to go to the bathroom. Penny calls out after her, “Oh, honey,
there’s no need to be upset!” Bro takes this as a joke and laughs.
 

In the bathroom, Mandy inspects
her reflection. Despite the harsh fluorescent lighting, she thinks she looks
more than okay, and she should, because she actually spent time wrestling with
her hairbrush and blush brush earlier tonight. Her hair is shiny, and her
cheeks have a healthy flush to them. Meanwhile, when you look at Penny—really
look at her—she’s actually not that pretty. Mandy feels bad for thinking
this, but it’s true: Penny’s eyes are too far apart, and her nose is too big
for her face, and she lacks that characteristic, confident glow only happy
girls give off. Yet boys flock to her because she wants them to, and because
she lets them, and Mandy is glad she doesn’t need that much attention. She
wonders how much effort it takes to be Penny. Then she feels guilty for
thinking all these judgmental thoughts and decides she should go back out to
check on her friends.

4

Lucas is, when
you
get right down to it, a romantic. He used to be the active type—one who
passionately pursued the object of his affection, one who believed in the power
of persistence, one who had an arsenal of grand gestures such as driving three
hours to see someone for ten minutes, and bringing someone breakfast at five
AM
every day, and
organizing a surprise party for someone he had just met. But then he had his
heart broken, and all these grand gestures suddenly seemed rather silly. So he
retreated into his shell, and although he remained a romantic, transformed into
the other type, the passive type. All that trying turned into hoping, and all
that doing turned into wishing. He couldn’t see the point of putting himself
out there anymore, so he decided he’d wait for someone to come and find the
point for him, or simply to come and find him. These days, he feels like he is
always waiting for someone or something to sweep him off his feet and change
his life. But perhaps he has been waiting for too long that every time someone
or something comes along, he is suspicious:
Does that girl really like him? Is she just being
polite? Is he assuming too much?
Worse,
he is reluctant to prove himself wrong, so he embraces his suspicions, clinging
to them tightly, obsessively, because it is the only way he knows how to hold
on to himself—if he expects very little and doesn’t risk too much, maybe
it will be harder for the world to hurt him. These days, he is content writing
his stories, where nothing is perfect but at least everything makes sense;
every rejection fits into the bigger picture and every heartbreak builds up to
the greater scheme of things. These days, he is content admiring someone from
afar, the way he did years ago in high school, when everything still felt brand
new. He is content imagining various scenarios in which they would meet,
various twists and turns that could lead to a sort of happy ending. He is
content writing, and admiring, and imagining—anything more than that
seemed superfluous. Lucas is, when you get right down to it, a romantic. But
these days, he would rather have the innocent futility of a baseless crush than
the fragile balance of the real deal.

He does not want people to feel
sorry for him. He keeps himself occupied, and on the best and busiest of days,
he does not even have time to feel alone. He has become quite adept at keeping
the loneliness at bay, but sometimes, it manages to sneak up on him. The
loneliness finds him in idle moments like this one when he is driving home
alone (Franco has gone off to a party with the college freshman and her
friends), when he realizes that he is always working on weekdays and writing on
weekends, but has nobody to share the success or the stories with. He thinks
the heartaches may have hardened him into someone who is more comfortable going
through life on his own, and he knows this is not something to be proud of. He
thinks he may have given up on too many things, including himself, and he wants
so badly to be wrong about this.

He checks his watch: eleven
PM
, much too
early to head home, change into his pajamas, turn off the lights, and climb
into bed, even by his standards. He is only a few blocks away from his house
now, and although he is tempted to go straight, he makes a detour. Home can
wait; he knows exactly where he wants to go first.

5

Mandy is sitting
beside Gio in the backseat of Diane’s car. The driver has not switched on the
radio, and nobody is speaking, so they are left listening to the humming of the
air-conditioner, the whirring of the engine, and Diane lightly snoring in the
passenger seat. They have just dropped off Penny (who was not so happy about
having to say goodbye to Dude and Bro after Diane downed three shots of tequila
and almost passed out), and are on their way to Gio’s house. They stay silent
until the car pulls to a stop.

“Are you sorry you ever dated
Penny?” Mandy asks. She has to know—she has to know if girls like Penny
linger in guys’ minds long after they should, if the fact that they are all
over the place means things are never really over between them.

“Sometimes,” Gio admits. “The
thing is, I kind of wish it has always been Yas. I know this is hard for you to
believe because it’s only been weeks, but we’re serious about each other. She
gets me. But I don’t like having to explain to her that I was a completely
different person before I met her.”

Mandy is surprised to hear this,
and because she and Gio have never really talked about their
feelings
, she tries to cover up the awkwardness. “
Completely different
person
meaning
asshole
, right?”

Gio laughs. “Hey, at least I’m
trying to be a better guy now.”

Mandy laughs too. “Yeah, you were
pretty awesome back there, protecting Diane when Dude and Bro were insisting on
bringing her home. I think you may have even stood up for Penny at some point.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t interfere
sooner,” Gio says.

“Yeah, well, you did when you had
to,” Mandy tells him.

They say goodnight, and Mandy is
left alone in the backseat. She wonders how it’s possible for Gio to be nearing
his happy ending while she is stuck somewhere in the middle of her story. She
doesn’t need much. She doesn’t need someone to change for her, the way Yas
does, or someone to challenge her, the way Penny does. She doesn’t even need
someone to take care of her, the way Diane does—she can very well take
care of herself. It’s the little things she needs someone for, like someone to
hold her hand at the end of a long day, or someone to watch stupid comedies
with, or someone to curl up with on the couch on a lazy Sunday morning as she
reads the newspaper and eats her cereal. Which probably means she doesn’t
“need” someone in the strictest sense, although at the end of a long day, or
while watching a stupid comedy, or on a lazy Sunday morning, having someone
would be very much appreciated.

A few minutes later, the driver
parks the car in Diane’s driveway, and Mandy has to get out, fish Diane’s keys
from her bag, get her into bed, place a glass of water and some aspirin on her
bedside table, and make sure she’ll be okay. She thinks she hears Diane say
thank you
before she closes the door, but she can’t be certain.
By the time Mandy is sitting in the car again, she is exhausted and a bit
resentful: tonight did
not
turn out to be a good night, and she
feels cheated. She checks her watch. There is still time, and maybe there is
still hope. The driver asks where she wants to be dropped off. “Ma’am,
maaga pa,
” he says, and Mandy can’t tell whether he’s being
sarcastic or sympathetic. Then she remembers—there is a small coffee shop
nearby, the one in between the Korean grocery and the appliance service center.
Whatever remains of the night, she can spend there.

6

Lucas sits alone
, as
usual. He has grown so accustomed to being alone that perhaps his loneliness
suits him, fitting into his life the way hustle and bustle fit into other
people’s. He’d like to believe he can be alone and not look like it’s the last
thing in the world he wants to be. He’d like to believe he can be alone and look
as if he belongs somewhere, like the girl who just walked into the café.

He thinks she looks familiar, but
he can barely place how or why. And then she takes a seat near the counter,
brings out a book from her bag, and starts reading, and he remembers. She used
to be here all the time, absorbed in a novel whose title he was never near
enough to see, her eyebrows knitted in concentration as she flipped page after
page. That was more than a year ago. She would lose herself in the story
(sometimes, he’d even catch her smiling), until the door opened and disrupted
her peace. Every time someone entered the café, she would glance up, and her
forehead would wrinkle with disappointment almost immediately after. When there
have been too many interruptions, she would stop reading altogether. He used to
watch her watch the door every single day—whoever she was expecting never
came. He wonders if she’s still waiting.

He is inexplicably, inadvertently
smitten with this girl now, as he was more than a year ago.