Chapter 38
Thirty-Eight
KIERAN
We arrive at the fine dining restaurant just in time.
Up here in the penthouse of a high-rise office building with floor-to-ceiling plate glass windows, we have the perfect view of the city and the blue mountains beyond, the setting sun swathing the sky in shades of pink, orange, and purple.
Manila is stunning; the twinkling city lights dot the landscape as far as the eye can see, and the illuminated roads are the arteries of this living, pulsing city.
All around us, people are living their lives, falling in love, falling out of it; making a living, taking breaks.
There is so much wonder, so many stories—good and bad.
The sight is breathtaking. It’s a close second to the most beautiful view, sitting right across me at the table.
“I didn’t even know this place existed,” Isabel says, looking around.
“Neither did I,” I joke, “until Google recommended it like, five hours ago. I was not above begging for a reservation.”
Isabel snorts and laces her fingers with mine.
“I’m really sorry for springing Blue Moon on you,” I say. “I got too excited. I should’ve talked to you first.”
She drops her gaze to the table. After a beat, she kisses my knuckles. “It’s okay,” she says. “I’m—I just don’t know what this means, exactly. You’ll come back in October?”
I shake my head. “Ideally,” I start, “I stay past summer. And even after the show.”
“Like, permanently?”
I draw in a deep breath. Steel myself for a possible rejection, then nod.
“But what about your show? In New York?”
“I mean, I’d probably have to fly back for that. But I’ll come back home. To you.”
Isabel is silent. She gazes out at the window, a wistful look on her face. “Most people really do want to move away from here, you know. I don’t. But a lot do.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not most people. I want to be where you are, always.”
“But it’s such a big step,” she says. “And you have a show in August. How are you sure you want to uproot your whole life for me? What if this is just a fling?”
“Well, it’s not. And even if it started out that way, which it didn’t, we have more of a say as to how this will go.”
“That still doesn’t answer my question.”
I sigh. “How am I sure?”
“Yeah.”
How can I not be? Loving Isabel is just a fact of my life, the way needing to breath to stay alive is; the way I took to art more than any other activity out there. It was never a question; it just was.
I love her opinions. Her perspective. Her eyes, that shine as if they were the source of the sun’s light. Her laugh, which rings in my ears like the most harmonious melody. I couldn’t dream of strumming more beautiful notes than when she says my name.
I love that she isn’t like anyone I’ve ever met. That she strives to be good, not better than anyone—an aim that comes from pride rather than love.
“Sabs,” I start. “It’s difficult for me to question it. Too many things had to go right for me to end up here, with you. God divined it. How about that?”
She presses her lips together. She lets my words sit on the table between us, this ball of sentimental fluff that I mean but now worry comes across as too lofty.
She rubs her thumb against the back of my hand. “I’m just worried you’ll regret it. This. Me.”
I scoot closer and pull her into my side. I kiss the top of her head. “Never.”
“You don’t know that. Maybe one day you’ll get sick of me. Rocío says I’m too neurotic sometimes, and Mama tells me I can have a really mean temper.”
“And I’ll love you even then,” I say. I’m prepared for the worst of things and the best of them.
“I get manic sometimes. Mildly now, with my meds, but still. And I fall into depressive episodes. Not as bad as before. Being with someone with Bipolar II isn’t easy, Kieran. Even my mom struggles. Even Rocío. So, you know—fair warning. I’m giving you an out.”
“I’m not taking it.”
Isabel relaxes in my arms. “Did the reviews on Google say what we should order?”
I grin and move my seat back across her. “I hear the honey cinnamon salmon’s great.”
She smiles at me. “Let’s get that, then.”
* * *
I’m still on a high when we return home with Cisco and Chiara. It’s a pain to not be touching Isabel after such a romantic date, but we only have to get through these last few weeks before she and I are each other’s forever. There would be no need to hide, not anymore.
The house is dark. Quiet. Where is everyone? A shrill scream comes from outside. Cisco doesn’t hesitate; he rushes to its source and we race after him.
The pool house door is open. Our friends, maids, and Shirley linger outside of it. My blood runs cold. I push past the crowd and find Natalia rampaging inside: throwing my artworks, kicking tables, sending paint flying everywhere. I’ve never seen so much fury in her face—in anyone’s.
“You.” My heart stops, but Natalia blows past me, jabbing a finger at Isabel’s chest. Isabel flinches.
“You are the sneakiest, most conniving bitch I’ve ever had the displeasure of knowing.
It’s not enough that you come here, spreading your stink around and trying to steal my friends.
You—God, you haven’t changed a single bit.
You’re such a whore, just like your mother. ”
“Natalia!” I yell. This is too much. She’s taking things too far.
Natalia scoffs at me. “Don’t fall for her goody-two-shoes act. I know you’re under her spell, but you’ll thank me later.” She steps toward Isabel, but I stand in her way, glaring at her.
“What?” she taunts Isabel over my shoulder.
She picks up a notebook from my desk. “You’re a stupid idiot, writing everything down in your stupid, cheap little notebooks, thinking no one would find it.
” She tears the cover, and then a page, and then another, until it’s all shredded and snowing at her feet.
“It’s not enough for you to write your shitty little comments about me and my friends, you have to sleep with Kieran, too?
Flash him your tits and get him to do whatever you want?
You’re pathetic,” Natalia says. “I know you were raised to sell your body to men, but you can go fuck yourself, Isabel. We’re not buying. ”
“Natalia,” I say, willing my tone to stay even despite the rage that’s boiling inside of me. “You don’t want to do this.”
Another scoff. Bitter and feigning amusement. “Get out of my fucking house,” she says. “Both of you.”
“Nat—”
Natalia grabs a paintbrush and stabs a painting of Isabel with the dull end of it. She drags it across, tearing the canvas, splitting Isabel’s painted body in two. I cringe at the sound.
“Out!” she screams. “Get out!”
I wrap an arm around Isabel. I have to push her to get her to move.
Nobody dares to say anything when we step out of the pool house. They wear confused, nervous expressions on their faces. In a split second, Isabel and I have become personae non gratae. Not even Cisco and Chiara are coming to our defense.
So be it. I walk Isabel out the front door and past the gates.
I don’t care about my things, my art, or anything else.
It doesn’t matter that there will no longer be an exhibit at Galerie Riboulet at the end of this summer because I have zero paintings to show for, therefore no Zubrzycki and no illustrious career for me in New York. I just want to get Isabel to safety.
“Where’s your phone?” I ask. Rocío’s words ring in my head. Call me if anything.
Isabel doesn’t move.
“Baby. Where’s your phone?”
She bursts into tears. She won’t move, just stands there crying. I want to hold her, but first I need to get us out of here.
I take her purse and root inside for her phone. I hold it up to her crying face to unlock it, aware of the absurdity of the action, and quickly comb through her contact list to call Rocío. It rings twice before she picks up.
“Rocío,” I say. “It’s Kieran. We’re back at Natalia’s. Can you come pick us up? I’ll explain everything later.”
Rocío doesn’t hesitate. “Wait for me. I’m on my way.”
Kieran
I fume in the car. I rage. My words fall out of me burning hot and venomous. Isabel sits crying between me and Rocío. Rocío says nothing, just listens intently, her hand gripping Isabel’s.
I’m pissed. I’m infuriated. Why did nobody speak up? Why did no one stop Natalia? How could they let her get away with that? Have we just been letting her get away with her misdeeds all along?
I should’ve known better. I shouldn’t have let Isabel fall on Natalia’s knife. There’s so much I should have done, so much I should have known, even long before I first laid my eyes on Isabel.
We take main roads and side streets away from Makati.
Here, the houses are smaller and sit closer together.
The roads are cramped, made even smaller by the cars parked along the curb.
A stray dog crosses the street. Motorcyclists weave between the procession of cars we’re part of.
It’s a different side of Manila, not any less beautiful, but definitely a stark contrast to what I’ve seen so far.
“That fucking bitch,” Rocío mutters under her breath. This triggers another round of sobs from Isabel, who drops her head on Rocío’s lap. We lay her down, her legs on my lap. Rocío pets her hair, cooing comforting words at her.
We stop in the driveway of a compound of townhouses.
Isabel is sluggish as she steps out of the car.
With her arm linked with Rocío’s, we walk to the backmost house farthest from the gate.
Rocío rings the bell. A chair scrapes from inside the townhouse and the door opens.
The woman in the doorway is identical to Isabel, only older.
She has the same dark hair, the same full lips.
Isabel chokes out another sob and rushes into her mother’s arms. “What happened?” her mother asks, cradling her.
“Tita,” Rocío says. Isabel’s mum throws me an uncertain look. We’re ushered in and made to sit on the couch. Isabel’s mum holds her the whole time.
“Ma’am,” I start to say.
“Please. Call me Vanessa. Tita Vanessa.”