Chapter 16
Chapter
At night, it’s painfully obvious this house is too big for one person. The silence is so loud, it drains all my energy the moment I get home.
I don’t know how Mom could make whole meals after work. I pull together some rice and sardines—my comfort food, the thing Mom would make whenever she was exhausted. Which meant she made it a lot when I was a kid, in the years after Dad left.
After I wash the dishes, I collapse onto the couch and google Mark Winterson again.
I keep thinking about how he looked at me at the reunion. It’s been a long time since I felt desirable—a couple years, at least? It’s hard to remember. All the dead-end app dates that may as well have been job interviews blur together.
Apparently Mark Winterson launched and sold his first company in college. He’s on the board of several philanthropic organizations. One of the first autocomplete suggestions for his name is mark winterson girlfriend, followed by mark winterson height, which makes me snort.
sampaguita72:
Ruby, what are you doing tonight?
I hope you’re not staying out late
That must mean she can’t see what I’m doing on my personal phone. So that’s a relief, at least.
sampaguita72:
Roobs, I see why Erica said your copy was missing something
I see where you went wrong
You have to—
I swipe the notification away before I can read the rest. We used to do this when she was alive.
She’d dissect all my failures from the day to help me improve—ask me about every little thing my boss said, every sour note, turn it over, examine it.
Like we could prevent more of them by doing that, eradicate disappointment at the source.
Without knowing exactly what she said, I write back:
ruby.ocampo:
Okay, I’ll try!
I take a deep breath, hold and release it, guilt surging raw through my veins.
A knock on the door outside makes me jump, and on the Ring, I see Greg standing on the front steps, holding another casserole dish.
I try to channel some Greg-style nonchalance before I open the door. “Seeing an awful lot of you lately.”
He slips off his shoes, brushes past me, and heads for the kitchen. “You shouldn’t be alone with a ghost.”
“She must be haunting the server, right?” I trail behind him, trying not to think anything in particular about the width of his back. “My house feels haunted, but technically the haunting is cloud-based.”
Greg closes the fridge and grabs the phone out of my hand. “You know what I mean. Too much screen time.” His eyebrows go up. “You’re googling Mark Winterson?”
I snatch it back from him. “It’s normal to google the people you work with. It’s just, like, due diligence.”
“Sure, you work with him.” Greg plops down on the couch and peers at me over the back. “Is he…your person in a higher tax bracket?”
I cross my arms. “Why, you don’t approve?”
“Is he your type?” He looks at me searchingly. “Or is he your mom’s type?”
I know what he’s talking about—how badly Mom wanted me to end up with a rich white guy. It’s uncomfortable. She never said it in so many words, but a clear pattern emerged from the examples she picked out, whenever she’d pointedly say, That’s the type of guy you should be dating!
Mom had some kind of complex about being Filipino—an ugly thing I never wanted to examine too directly, like a floor stain you throw some carpet over.
She’d avoid the sun, wear whitening cream, strive to stay as pale as she could manage.
Sometimes when people asked where she was from, she’d tell them, “Taiwan.” (I guess, to her, that was somehow a step up?) Tita Wendy overheard once, elbowed her, and said with a belly laugh, “You’ve never even been to Taiwan!
” And then they both laughed so hard, friends despite themselves, an odd couple.
But I don’t feel the same way Mom did. If anything, growing up around Mom and Greg and Tita Wendy, I wanted to be more like them.
If I disliked something about myself, it was the part that looked like my dad, the part that made me “not quite the same, but close.” (Just ask Erica how close.) Being Filipino always felt like a positive thing to me.
Something aspirational I could never fully earn.
And a snide comment Greg made once, years ago, about the white guys I dated in college also bothered me. Let me live! It’s hard enough to find someone you like who likes you back! Even aside from the whole I was kind of in love with you and you broke my heart of it all.
“I don’t have a type!” I protest. “He’s kind of fun.”
“Okay! I’m just saying—” Greg faces the TV again and hugs a throw pillow. “Dude seems like he’d talk to you for twenty minutes about the texture of his business cards.”
Greg’s phone starts vibrating, and he frowns at the screen. “I should get this,” he says, hopping off the couch and going into the far corner of the kitchen, by the back door.
I crane my neck to peek at him. He’s talking in a low voice, and his smile gets wider, like the person on the other end said something funny.
He’s gesturing with his hands, looking like he has new enthusiasm for life.
Is he seeing someone?
Greg ends the call and I turn back around, pretending I’ve been engrossed in my phone the whole time. He climbs over the back of the couch and lands next to me.
“Who was that?” I ask, eyes on my phone.
“Oh, just, um—my mom. Reminding me about a thing this weekend.” His hand goes to the back of his neck like it does when he’s nervous. I recognize it from when he’d lie to his mom in front of me, back when we were close.
He’s definitely seeing someone.
Does he assume it would hurt my feelings? Does he feel bad for me? God, I hate that.
“So what’s next?” Greg asks. “On your list.”
I grab my own pillow to hug. “You seemed to think it was a bad idea. The whole list thing.”
He gives me a long, steady look. “I’ll admit I don’t love the concept. Number five seems like a bit much.”
“There’s a lot to rule out first.”
Greg goes quiet for a while, like he’s arguing with himself in his head. He did this when we were younger. Whenever we were having a tense conversation, he’d sit there silent, like he was composing the whole thing he wanted to say—and then he’d scrap it and make a dumb joke instead.
“Do you have something to add?” I ask testily.
“If you think this is the best thing…” Those gold-flecked eyes turn on me. “I want to help your mom move on.”
Up close like this, I can see all his old familiar imperfections.
Scar high across the bridge of his nose from when he fell off his bike.
Tiny dent on his cheek from when we were nine and he got chickenpox, and Mom forced me to go over so I could catch it from him.
Small dark mark on his hand where a firework singed him, one Fourth of July.
I glance at the version of the list that I’ve transposed into my notes app.
“Do you think I ruled the first thing out?” I chew on my thumbnail. “Be social and normal and make more of an effort with your appearance.”
“You seem social and normal to me.” His head bobs contemplatively. “And, um. Good appearance, as always.”
He doesn’t mean anything by it, but I have to smile despite myself. “Then the next thing is getting a promotion.”
“Hmm.” Greg rests his head on the back of the couch, peering up at me and smiling like this is all a joke. But that’s how he is—he holds his life lightly.
When we were in high school, his mom begged me to get him to study because he was failing everything except math. Numbers always just made sense to him. (Must be nice! I thought more than once, staying up late sweating over my pre-calc homework.)
“Is this all a joke to you?” I asked, standing in the doorway of his room when I came over to tutor him.
“Life is too serious to take it too seriously,” he said, barely glancing up from the book about housing policy that he was reading. I was surprised that he ended up at TKCORP, in the end, working such a sensible, boring job.
“I mean, I’m sure you’re great at what you do,” he says now. “But you’ve been here for a few weeks? Maybe it’s not realistic that you’d get promoted yet.”
“Right, but—what if I can at least convince Mom that I’m in line for it? If I can show her…”
“And Erica’s tough,” he adds. He listened to me complain about her years ago, long before I worked here—how she would never give Mom a shot in her department. “And it’s not exactly all under your control. Moving up.”
“What are the things under my control?” I cut in. “Maybe if I show Mom how hard I’m trying—that I’m taking initiative, getting in Erica’s good graces—”
“Like if you had a project.” Greg nods to himself. “You could volunteer to take on more responsibility? Try to make her life easier.”
“I’ve been raising my hand for everything I can.”
“That’s good, but…maybe a more personalized approach would help?” He chews on his bottom lip. “What stresses her out the most? Where can you swoop in and offer something?”
“Okay,” I say, surprised that Greg has ever given any thought to getting ahead in the workplace. “Much to consider. Thanks.”
Greg tucks his feet up under him, pulls the remote from between the cushions, and turns on the TV.
“Oh sure, make yourself at home.”
“I thought we could watch something for a bit. Spending all night and day thinking about”—he drops his voice to a whisper, like my mom will be able to overhear—“a ghost, it can’t be great for your mental health. Maybe you could use more distractions.”
He puts on an old episode of The Simpsons, like we’ve slipped back in time ten years. We sit next to each other largely in silence, making jokes here and there. It’s been so long since we did nothing together.
But my body didn’t forget how comfortable I am with him, even though all this time has passed. It’s like slipping into an old familiar sweatshirt. After a few minutes, it feels like we do this all the time.
It makes me remember something Greg said, back before we kissed. We were talking about the future after high school, and he asked me, “What would you do if you didn’t have to work?”
It gave me heartburn. As though it’s even worth considering! “I don’t know, what would you do?”
He shrugged. “Nothing. Hang out. I think hanging out might be my purpose in life.”
I could feel my stress rising, like I needed to clap my hand over his mouth to stop Mom from hearing about his lack of ambition! And in the years we weren’t talking, I’d see him post about the lying-flat movement and how he doesn’t dream of labor.
But there’s such an easiness to him now, beside me on the couch. Maybe this is his calling.
In his lap, his phone buzzes a few times again, and peeking at his screen, I see multiple notifications saying Message from Sarah Ng.
Oh. Is that why he’s always on our floor? Coming up to make Sarah laugh?
I try to stay very still until the feeling passes. Mom is right—I’m too old for this shit.
Eventually it seems like Greg’s fallen asleep beside me, and I watch him for a while.
Why did I want more from him when this is so comfortable? So what if he’s not attracted to me? Why can’t you be satisfied with what you have? Mom said that a lot. You always seem dissatisfied. You don’t know how lucky you are.
Then my own phone buzzes. A message from my cousin in San Diego.
Trisha:
are you coming on sunday?
“You texting Mark Winterson?” Greg elbows me, suddenly awake again.
“Yes, he’s proposing marriage right now.” I tap out a reply to Trisha with my thumbs: i don’t think i can this time, but please say hi to everyone for me.
“With a text!” Greg clutches at his heart dramatically. “And they say romance is dead.”
I poke the side of his head, and he bends way over, exaggerated, like I’m stronger than I am. “Go sleep at your own house.”
He rubs his eyes, and I can feel the jolt of his laugh through the couch. “Give yourself, like, thirty minutes without looking at your phone before you go to sleep, okay?”
It annoys me and warms me up inside at the same time. He actually thinks Mom and I are staying up late talking? Does he think we braid each other’s hair too?
“Thanks for your concern,” I say, getting up to see him out. And as I watch him go, I tell myself over and over like an incantation: I can be satisfied with what I have.