Chapter 11
eleven
LILIANA
“Are you guys fucking?”
Noodles get caught in my throat. “Rosalie!”
Normally I would amount Rosie nonsensical comments to her brash personality, but by her straight-faced stare, I think she’s being genuine.
Crazy, but genuine.
I roll my eyes, pushing the boiled egg I always save for last through my noodles and past my chashu. “Don’t you think I would tell you if we were?”
Her stare crinkles, smile widening. The last time I saw that glimmer in her eye, Rosie was video calling me while flirting her way into a sold-out concert. It’s a mischievous look that means she’s up to no good.
“You didn’t say it was gross or gag when I mentioned it.” She giggles, biting a fingernail between her teeth. “Does that mean you like the idea?”
"No.”
She’s insane. The thought is so ridiculous it almost has me wishing I did choke on my ramen.
It’s partially my fault she’s become so bold with her accusations. Encouraging me to talk to Grant because he’s good-looking is one thing, but since I recapped Thursday night’s events, she’s gotten worse.
I recited Grant’s explanation, and when Rosie asked how I felt, I told her the truth.
It aligns with the Grant I remember from undergrad, and changes so much of what I thought I knew.
Learning that he didn’t have ill intentions, but instead was dealing with something so heart-breaking and personal, leaves me confused.
Questions about my perception of him are resolved, but harder questions arise about what it entails going forward.
Was I wrong to be critical of him for so long?
Is it cruel if the disappointment that’s dug itself so deep hasn’t completely vanished?
Am I partially at fault for blocking his number and not giving him the chance to explain?
Can I sympathize with him, while still validating my own feelings based on what I did—or didn’t know—until now?
These questions have flooded my mind since he opened up about that finals week. Days later, I have no solid answers. I’ve only established that the Grant who stole my heart wasn’t an illusion. I’m unable to process what that could mean.
Rosie is the sole person I trust with this information. And when I shared it with her, she squealed, claiming she knew this was going to happen.
For my sake, I brushed over that part of our conversation.
A voice in my head encourages me not to fall back into the mindset of fawning over Grant.
Traces of my resentment linger, but there’s a part of me that lives in lecture hall corners and library study rooms. One that clings to the best parts of Grant and longs for that again, after thinking it was dead and gone.
Adoring him took almost no effort when we met. If I forgive him so quickly—despite the shaking reality of why he did what he did—I’m not sure I can undo those feelings again.
Both sides fight each other in my head, neither fully convincing me of their logic. I do my best to ignore both completely. Rosie refuses to make that easy for me.
I engross myself in my suddenly stunning $10 bowl of ramen and refuse any eye contact with my best friend still giggling under her breath.
“Lil. Does that mean you don’t hate the idea of it?”
“The idea of what?’
She smirks. “Sleeping with Grant McCarthy.”
Inadvertently, the sentence awakens my imagination.
Grant’s left forearm, inked with his long tattoo, tracing up the curves of my body through the thin silk of a nightgown.
He pauses, taking two drawn out seconds to caress the side of my breast before reaching higher to cup my face.
With low breaths, our eyes meet, but there’s barely a moment to appreciate his distinct shade of green.
He leans towards the side of my ear, his hand shifting to the back of my head and tugging roughly.
My breath catches when imaginary Grant whispers, “I always knew you were going to be like this, so fucking good, so pretty...”
I cough to clear my throat, and heat rushes up the side of my neck. I haven’t had thoughts like these since that communications class. Back when Grant, those eyes, and his tattoo occupied my subconscious 24/7.
I shake my head and snap back to the hold-in-the-wall restaurant, only to see Rosie glimmering again.
Gulping down my nerves, I scoff. “Don’t be gross. I would never do... that with him.”
“Oh yeah.” Sarcasm drips from her tone. “It’s a coincidence that you were mind-fucking Grant just now.”
I gasp, hands meeting to clasp over my mouth. A new emotion emerges behind her eyes. Success. I just gave myself away.
“I was not!” I move my hands to my throat in slashing motions, as if that’ll help my case. But Rosie is the smartest person I’ve ever met, and I can never fool her.
“Oh please. It was the same look you have when you see Mark Ruffalo in 13 Going on 30.”
I want to defend myself, because the way Mark’s character is hopelessly in love with Jennifer Garner justifies any thoughts I may have of him, but I’m cut off.
“Besides, with that story you told me, I don’t blame you. I didn’t know he had lines like that. ‘I didn’t forget about you, Liliana. Not for a second.’” She sighs dreamily, and the reminder almost pulls one out of me, too. “It makes sense why you’re horny for Grant.”
“Rosalie!”
I knock over the soy sauce and chili oil dispensers in shock. We use our government names in dire, serious situations. Despite that, her laughter continues to grow.
I react quickly and pick up the glasses before they spill anything, but the damage is done. People are looking, and Rosie is doubling over, uncaring of my red face and prickling skin.
“I am not... that... for him!” I’m not sure if she’s really listening to me, or if she can even hear me over her laughter. Annoyed, I latch onto her arm. “And I told you not to use his name when we’re in public.”
“Oh my gosh.” The sentence makes her laugh harder. From my peripherals I see customers whispering and glancing at us, and I ask myself if it’s possible to choke on ramen, on purpose.
“Lil, my stomach hurts.”
Her laughter is barely evening out when she takes account of my grip, smacking my hand away and leaving crescent moon impressions in their place. She giggles a few more times before clutching her chest.
“That was so fucking funny.”
“I’m mortified.”
“And hilarious.”
And considering drowning myself in the Charles river if the people three tables down continue talking about us.
With the small relief from her torment, I bite into the depleting noodles. I cringe. They’re lukewarm, and soggy. I sneer at her over my bowl, and thankfully, it’s enough to bring her back to earth.
She apologizes a few times, swears she won’t allude daydreams of any kind, and asks how progress on my short story is going.
“It’s good.” Maybe a little better than good, because at the very least, I’m not dreading every time I have to sit down to write. “I told you about my first act grade already.”
“Yes, I’m so proud of you, girl.” She lightly claps and nods like there was any reason to doubt me to begin with.
“It was only a B.”
“B could stand for ‘Better Than Everyone Else In Class.’”
“It doesn’t.”
“Well, now it does. To me,” she says assuredly. Rosie is always so confident in me and my abilities, no matter what the evidence against it proves.
I hold onto the feeling of support when I say, “Well, the grade was nice while it lasted. Next week my story’s second act draft is due.”
“Okay. So write the second draft.”
My head tilts, eyes squinting in annoyance. “Thank you so much for your advice. Why didn’t I think of that?”
“You’re welcome. What would you do without me?”
“Save at least fifteen dollars a month. You buy too much popcorn.” My roommate doesn’t argue, shrugging while I continue. “I’m serious, though. I’m happy I got that grade. It gave me a little bit of a boost. But what goes up, must come down.”
These pessimistic thoughts have been circling back since I saw the purple-highlighted due date in my planner. There are ideas for what comes next in my story. I can reference the outline I created too. I know it’s possible for me to replicate the success I’m still high from.
On the other hand, the possibility of falling back into failure gnaws at me. Rosie doesn’t seem to comprehend that.
“We need to unpack why you think the world is going to implode if you fail a college class.”
I groan. We’ve had this conversation before. “I don’t think the world is going to implode.”
“You act like it is!” Lukewarm noodles get shoved into my mouth in favor of rolling my eyes. “Not wanting to waste the tuition money, I get. That’s valid. But beating yourself up like this because of a grade isn’t worth it.”
It’s another variation of what she’s tried to get through my head: I’m too concerned with grades. It’s not normal to feel like the floor is going to swallow me whole if I can’t reach every expectation I’ve set for myself.
When I don’t respond, Rosie’s lecture continues. “You care about school. You always have. That’s fine. But Lil.” Her hand reaches across the table to softly grasp my wrist. “You have to give yourself some grace.”
“I’m trying.” I sigh.
I am. My success rate has just been in the negatives for everything in my life lately.
She sighs, too, squeezing my arm. “Is this about your parents again?”
I push the egg around my bowl to avoid eye contact. Rosie’s hand lifts away from me, and I hear her utensils clanking against the table.
She knows me better than anyone else. Responding with silence is as effective as answering.
“Lil. Your parents aren’t going to love you any less if you fail a class.”
“I know that.” Looking up, her arms are crossed, back straight and stare pointed. I do know my parents’ love isn’t attached to a grade or a degree. Everything they’ve done for me reinforces that.
“You’re not a bad daughter for failing a class, either.”
Cold washes over me.
That’s what it boils down to. Being a good daughter—the best daughter. Sometimes, I selfishly wish that my parents were harder on me. Aside from bragging to family members and colleagues, and gushing over how much I’ve accomplished, chasing success is rarely a topic of conversation with them.
They don’t push. They don’t pry. Before they knew who I was or what I would become, they gave up everything to give me opportunities they thought I deserved. All things considered, I have the best parents anyone could ever ask for.
I’ll never stop being grateful. I won’t stop feeling this overwhelming pressure of being worth those sacrifices and kindness, either.
“I can’t fail this class. They gave up their retirement plans so I could go to grad school, Rosie.” My voice tapers into a guilt-ridden whisper. The weight of their love for me squeezes at my chest.
My best friend’s stern expression falters. A soft smile of admiration creeps in.
“I know. And that was so kind of them.” My shoulders sag, getting heavier the longer I think about what they’ve done for me. “But you didn’t ask them to. They decided that on their own.”
“That makes it worse.” I hate talking about this. It feels like I’m ungrateful or I’m scolding my mom and dad for loving me too much. “I have a responsibility to make that sacrifice, and every other one, worth it. How am I supposed to live up to that expectation if I can’t even secure my degree?”
Rosie pushes her bowl away and I follow. I’ve lost my appetite.
“I know it’s not exactly the same, but sometimes when I think about my parents immigrating from the Philippines, I can’t breathe.
They were comfortable there. But they left because they had a son, they were planning for me, and they wanted a new life for us.
It feels like I stole something from them.
“Then I remember how they cheered at my volleyball games, even when we lost. I see them support the small business my brother chose to invest in with money that was meant for college. Do you know what that tells me?”
Rosie stares me down, waiting for an answer I can’t produce while her words sink in.
“It tells me my parents didn’t leave what they knew behind because they expected me to shift the world on its axis. Everything they’ve done was to see their kids be happy. That’s what it was for. That’s why it was worth it, because I’m so fucking happy, Lil.”
The inside of my cheek is raw and pulsing where I’ve chewed on it.
By definition, it’s not the same. My parents moved from state-to-state, and not to an entirely new country like Rosie’s did. Their challenges probably differ, too. Where gentrification forced my parents outside of the islands, Rosie’s mom and dad probably had different reasons for moving.
But my best friend’s perception of her parents, and the way she loves them, mirror mine. Her logic clicks. I don’t doubt that my parents want nothing more than to see me happy. But a lifetime of telling myself to do more, and give more, can’t be so easily undone.
I’m too accustomed to chasing this idea of perfection for them. I don’t know anything else.
“And, can I just say,” Rosie says, not giving me time to fall into my self-sabotaging mindset.
She motions for the check to the waitress while speaking.
“You spent years shoving yourself into this guaranteed sense of success with your planned out future and a degree you think is practical. But now you’re studying something you actually love. ”
My instinct is to be negative and remind her—or, myself—how badly that’s going. I don’t.
“Applying for the grad program was completely irrational of me.”
“I know.” She grins. “I loved it. That’s what you should be going after. Happiness.”
Rosie’s smile shifts into a knowing smirk, and I shake my head, but smile back.
When the check comes around, I slap my card down before she finds hers.
“It’s on me. The tips were really good last week.”
She smirks wider. “Which tip? The money tips, or Grant’s-”
“Stop talking.”
My best friend is ridiculous at times, but most importantly, she gets me. She’s the pillar I didn’t know I needed until we found each other. And even after she lectures me and sends my mind and emotions whirling, she brings me back down to earth.
“Fine, you get dinner, but on our way home let’s stop and get boba. My treat.”
She understands my need for a post-meal sweet treat, too.
“Yes.” Joy floods back into my tone. “Can we go to the shop with the hazelnut mocha cake I like? I feel like I’m going to need it as a pick-me-up while I force myself into this second draft.”
“Did you think there was anywhere else we’d go?”
Later that night, with one arm balancing my dessert and the other linked with Rosie’s, it dawns on me that beyond being my parents’ daughter, I’m a girl who loves her friends, her city, and the life she’s been lucky enough to have.