Between Here and There (Magnolia Heights #2)

CHAPTER ONE Emily

Two months ago, I had a Wall Street Job, a Manhattan apartment, and a “perfect” boyfriend who didn’t cheat on me. Today? I’m in a sticky apron, behind the counter at a poorly lit cafe, and making lattes for a teenager who thinks giving out weird names is peak comedy.

If you told me this would be my fate in New York City, I wouldn’t have believed you. I would’ve told you to shut up because there’s just no way that I left the Philippines, fresh off becoming a registered accountant (ranking seventh in the national exams too), only to end up juggling three part-time jobs. No way.

But life has a funny way of kicking you (me) in the face, because all I did was blink, and then two years have passed and my life changed. All of it. My apartment, the job, and Rob—my asshole ex-boyfriend.

Yep. My past two years consisted of events that normal people usually go through in a lifetime.

But that’s fine, because I did it for myself. I resigned because, for some insane reason that HR and my bosses don’t seem to believe, I have self-worth. Or at least that’s what I tell myself as I serve a large latte order for “Hugh Jass”. I wish I could roll my eyes. Just this once. I pray to the espresso gods that my manager, Frank, isn’t looking just so I can give a snarky comment about this order. Not that Frank is strict. He’s a decent guy, just divorced, balding, bitter, and coasting on a permanent wave of indifference. Just as I’m thinking about it though, my eyes meet Frank’s—peeking from the staff room as if telling me to suck it up and think about my responsibilities.

I plaster on my best customer service smile. “Will you be taking that here or to go?” I ask the gangly teenager who’s snickering with his equally gangly friends. Are they even old enough to drink coffee?

“Wherever you are, beautiful,” the teenager replies. On second thought, maybe I’ll throw in an extra shot.

I keep my emotions in check, take a deep breath, and put on that picture-perfect, chirpy tone. I whip up his disgustingly sweet drink without the extra shot, because, let’s be honest, I don’t need a teenager’s overcaffeination on my conscience.

As I hand over the coffee, I say, “Enjoy your latte, Hugh Jass.” I try to keep my voice chirpy and upbeat, even though inside I feel anything but. The teenage boy and his friends snicker as they get their orders. Ugh. There is no way that servers are being paid enough to deal with this bullshit.

I glance at the clock. Ten minutes until my break. Then, another look at Frank. The café is practically empty. He glares at me but gives a small nod, signaling I can take my break early. Thank goodness.

I slip out the back door, leaving behind the faint chatter of the customers that are in the cafe. The air hits me. It’s that strange mix of too-cold-in-the-shade, warm-in-the-sun that never quite lets you settle. I look around, taking in the typical alley ambiance: a smattering of crumpled coffee cups, last year’s graffiti layers, and an abandoned bike wheel propped against the brick wall, like a sad reminder of someone’s unfortunate day.

To my right, beyond the alley, there’s a noisy construction site. A giant crane looms, swinging a heavy load in slow motion. The sound of jackhammers hangs in the air, and the smell of cement mixes with the natural stench—I mean, scent—of New York City, making the whole scene feel too industrial.

I pull out my phone and see that I have a message from my best friend Bon, asking to call her immediately. Unlike me, Bon has her life figured out. She’s doing really well at work and she’s getting married to the love of her life in three weeks. Whereas I’m… nevermind. Before I slide down into my classic overthinking spiral, I call her.

“Em!” Bon says from the other line, her voice sleepy but still bright as ever. “So glad you could call, I’m about to sleep,” she adds.

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing serious. Just a heads up that Kuya Josh is on the same flight as you. I didn’t know until today because, surprise, surprise, he only calls when he feels like it,” she says, annoyance obvious in her tone. “I heard he got a car straight from the airport, so I told him to bring you along. I gave him your number, so expect him to contact you soon.”

Bon’s brother Joshua also lives in Manhattan. He’s an engineer in their uncle’s construction company. He’s actually been living in New York since he was nineteen, when he studied engineering at Cornell. Bon and I were only fourteen when he left, but we had enough memories with Josh to last us a lifetime. He was our designated babysitter and chaperone wherever we went.

I haven’t seen him since he left, though. Ten years ago, he looked like those gangly teenagers who ordered earlier. Even at nineteen, Josh looked younger. I wonder what he looks like now.

“Thanks, Bon. See you in two weeks!” I say, trying (and failing) to match her energy.

“See you, you big shot Wall Street queen!” I only manage a silent chuckle as she says those words.

As we end the call, a bundle of emotions washes over me. I’m excited to go home after two long years, no doubt about that. Magnolia Heights might be nosy and suffocating at times, but it’s still home. It’s the home that New York failed to be, so I can’t wait to go back. I’m looking forward to seeing my friends and family again. But beneath that excitement, there’s a growing knot in my stomach.

First, because home is where Rob is.

The last time I saw him—if you can even call a FaceTime call seeing someone—I caught him cheating. Boldly, unapologetically cheating. There was a woman in his bed. His coworker, of course, the one I ‘didn’t need to worry about,’ the ‘just a friend.’ I vaguely remember seeing a woman’s head within the frame, and I asked him who she was. He panicked and dropped the phone, waking her up. She was just as shocked about me as I was of her.

The virtual equivalent of a slap to the face was that Rob didn’t even deny it. He didn’t apologize. He just told me it had been going on for a year and had the audacity to blame me. Apparently, long-distance relationships are doomed from the start, and he wished me well. And that was it. Just like that. Asshole of the year.

But Rob isn’t the only thing weighing me down. It’s been a month since I quit my job, and I haven’t told anyone back home yet. Whenever my family or friends ask how things are going, I keep up the charade—pretending that Wall Street is just as chaotic as Leo DiCaprio made it out to be. I make excuses about being too busy to snap photos, and when those excuses start to wear thin, I take mirror selfies in corporate attire, posing in front of office buildings, or arrange my desk at home to look like I’m still grinding away in finance. Yes, it’s that pathetic. I’ve hit rock bottom.

I’m scrolling aimlessly through my emails, my finger moving with robotic precision, when my phone suddenly pings. It’s a text from my sister and my mom.

LILA: Ate! My laptop broke! Pretty pretty please send me money for a new one! :)

MOM: Emily, your sister's laptop is broken. She needs it for her online classes. She's been using her phone, the poor thing. Also, bills are due tomorrow. Thanks, Anak!

I stare at the messages, my stomach sinking as the familiar pressure creeps in. I let out a long sigh, swallowing the lump that’s been forming in my throat. Of course. No “Hi, Emily,” no “How are you?”—just straight requests. It’s always the same.

I know the bills and responsibilities are non-negotiable. I’ve long accepted that. But sometimes, it feels like that’s all I’m here for. The fixer, the problem solver, the giant, walking dollar sign. The one who “made it” and got to live the big ol’ American Dream that they dreamed for me.

And that’s just one more reason why the thought of going home feels suffocating. How could I admit to all of them that I’ve failed at my career? That I’m not the success story they think I am?

The right, logical thing to do would be to move back to Manila, pick up the pieces, and find an accounting job there. It wouldn’t be hard—I ranked nationally in the exams, and in the Philippines, that credential alone could land me a solid position. It would be steady, sensible, and safe.

But it’s not what I want. I have bigger dreams for myself. Dreams that don’t include moving back to the place I fought so hard to leave. Living in that same house, surrounded by ghosts of my late father and the suffocating weight of responsibilities I’ve carried for years, is not the life I envisioned for myself.

But there’s also a voice in my head that tells me to stop reaching too high. Dreams don’t pay the bills, and responsibilities don’t pause for self-pity.

Going back to my emails, I frown. Still no interview invites from the gazillion job applications I filed in the previous month. Which is unsurprising, because the only reason why I got hired at Titan Financial Group in the first place was because of my father’s connection with a director there—a director who took Ben David’s side when things got messy. I don’t blame him, though. I’m the new employee who’s been there for ten months, and Ben is tenured, important, and well-liked. Leave it to the Brads and Chads (in this case, Bens and Matthews) of the world to team up against a lowly female. Other than having the same accounting credentials as every other applicant, I had nothing to give me leverage.

I try to shake off the frustration and check the rest of my inbox. A few emails from my independent clients catch my eye. Since quitting the corporate grind, freelance accounting has been my saving grace. Filing tax returns, preparing financial statements, and managing the bookkeeping for a couple of small businesses and individuals back in the Philippines keep me busy. Those hours are my redemption—moments where I feel like I’m still using my skills, like I have some purpose.

I always imagined myself as an accountant. I know, what kind of boring kid imagines that? Most kids dream of professions they encounter on a regular basis, like doctors or teachers. For me, it’s always about puzzling through numbers. My mother used to joke that I could count before I could crawl. Coming to the city, it seemed like those childhood dreams were finally within reach. Until they weren’t.

I’m about to put my phone back when I see a new email pop up. It’s one of the jobs I applied for. I stand up, ready to celebrate, when I open the email and see the words ‘We regret to inform you…’

“Seriously?!” I scoff in disbelief. That’s it. The last straw for today. I just can’t handle it anymore. I walk a few feet away from the back entrance, turn to an empty alley, and let loose.

I throw a full-blown tantrum.

Yes. Tantrum as in stomping, screaming, squirming, the whole nine yards. I curse Ben Davids, the reason for my sudden resignation. I curse The Man. I curse Hugh Jass. I curse Rob. I curse the entire universe for good measure.

I try to keep my outburst to a solid minute since I still need my voice for my second job later tonight—singing in an acoustic club. Screaming feels cathartic but it’s also hard on the vocal cords.

When I finally stop, I take a deep, shaky breath and try to pull myself together. “Okay, Emily,” I mutter, smoothing my apron like that’ll somehow fix the chaos in my life. “You’ve had your moment. Now, grab your lunch and—”

The sound of rustling leaves cuts me off mid-pep talk. My heart lurches. I freeze, slowly turning toward the source of the noise.

And that’s when I realize I’m not alone.