12. Chapter Eleven Gloria
Chapter Eleven: Gloria
I appear at London’s front door at seven am on Saturday. Too wired to sleep in, I got up at five, went for a run, made breakfast, worked on a case for a bit, then drove to his apartment so we could carpool to pick up his nieces.
He doesn’t answer my knock. I get that I’m early, but I figured he would be awake by now—
The door flies open and a bleary-eyed London appears at the door, yawning. “Come in.”
I blink, needing to distract myself from the fact that I’ve never seen him dressed so… casually .
He’s shirtless, in a pair of dangerously low-slung joggers.
I still regret squeezing his bicep on Monday after we got ice cream! I can’t handle seeing him shirtless!
London definitely has enough muscles to be a lumberjack on a Christmas tree farm.
I take back everything I said. I would definitely move onto his Christmas tree farm and ditch the big city business fiancé that I don’t have for him.
All of his muscles are in full display as he leans over to grab a hoodie on the couch and pulls it over his head.
He has back muscles that flex as he tugs the hoodie on. Like they’re taunting me with a glimpse before disappearing under soft terrycloth .
“Good morning,” London says. “Can I get you anything? Coffee?”
If I have coffee, my heart will explode. I think the image of him shirtless was enough to keep me awake for the next thirty-six hours.
“Do you have instant milk tea?” I ask hopefully. He doesn’t drink it—I mean, I assume he doesn’t, since it’s full of sugar and I now have incontrovertible proof that he has a six pack—but I like it.
“For you? Of course.” He strolls into his kitchen, like he didn’t just answer the door shirtless and flash his immaculately sculpted body at me.
Stop objectifying your friend, Gloria!
I clear my throat. “Thanks.”
“You can take a seat.” London gives me a pointed look, like he can’t tell why I’m awkwardly standing in his doorway with my knee-high boots on.
I stand, unzipping said boots—they were the closest thing I could find in my closet to cowboy boots—and plop onto the barstool by the kitchen island.
I smooth my hands over my dark-wash jeans, which I paired with a white peasant blouse for a cowgirl vibe.
Fiddling with the tassels on my shirt, I fix my gaze on the fridge instead of him.
He has a LIVE LAUGH LOVE magnet on it, holding up a picture of him and his family on a beach vacation.
Some of his siblings grin playfully, one of his brothers not looking at the camera. London stands obediently between his parents, smiling a smile that looks forced.
“That was taken when I was ten,” London says, as if reading my thoughts. He slides a cup of instant milk tea in front of me, complete with tapioca pearls that he keeps in his fridge. I’m in heaven.
Ladies, get yourself a man who makes you bubble tea.
I mean, a friend . A friend who makes you bubble tea.
“Thank you.” I sip the milk tea. “Where was it taken? ”
“On vacation in Cuba,” he says. “Brooklyn is making bunny ears behind Savannah. Troy’s holding the bucket of sand and the shovel. Then there’s Perry, looking away from the camera.”
“Do you know what he was staring at?” I ask.
“Probably a cute girl. I think he was seventeen.”
I examine all their features. Troy looks the most like London. London bears a startling resemblance to his father, while Perry and Savannah look like his mom. Brooklyn has a blend of both parents’ features.
“Did you ever feel overlooked in your family? Your parents had so many children,” I ask without thinking. It was just me and Paulo growing up, which meant I had plenty of opportunities to be compared to him. Maybe it would be worse to feel invisible in a large family.
“Never. I was the baby, remember? The youngest. My mom doted on me.” He scans the picture as he takes a sip of his own black tea. “Sometimes I think my siblings resented that. I was the favourite child, so they had to act out to get attention.”
“What about your dad? Are you his favourite?”
He snorts. “No. Brooklyn would be his favourite.”
I don’t ask him to elaborate. He’ll open up when he wants to. We finish our beverages in silence, then leave to pick up his nieces.
As we pull up in front of Brooklyn’s house, I’m struck by its grandeur and size. London told me he’s an engineer, but I didn’t think he did that well for himself.
The house is flanked by two tall palm trees, gently swaying in the wind. Made of what I would bet is real marble, columns tower over us as we ascend the steps to the porch, supporting a sleek, flat roof that has a built-in pool.
“Did your brother win the lottery or something?” I whisper to London as he keys in a code and we walk into the house.
“No. He married into money,” he replies .
London’s nieces, Queenie and Hattie, are sitting by the front door playing with Polly Pocket dolls, their backpacks by their sides. Queenie is bossing Hattie around. I chuckle as I see them.
“Queenie! Hattie! It’s time to go,” London calls as he steps into the entryway.
The entryway is even more magnificent than the outside. A massive spiral staircase greets us, and behind it a window with ocean views and breezy drapes. Above the staircase is a skylight that lets in natural light. The house seems to stretch on forever.
Then again, London is probably used to places like this.
His dad is a successful attorney on par with Rob Kardashian (minus the friendship with a famous murderer and reality show).
When I went to his family’s for Thanksgiving, the opulence of their mid-century modern home made me scared to touch anything lest I break it.
Still, Brooklyn’s house, despite its shiny surfaces, feels more lived-in.
Children’s toys litter the foyer, and tacked-up crayon drawings line the walls.
The two little girls scramble up, discarding their dolls in a bright pink toy chest that clashes with the all-white and blue decor of the house. “Uncle London!”
They throw themselves at London, flinging their arms around his legs, or waist, then let go and jump up and down.
“This is my friend, Gloria,” he says, introducing me.
I crouch down to shake their hands. “It’s nice to meet you guys.”
“I’m Queenie,” says the girl wearing a purple shirt. Her dark hair is slightly longer than her sister’s, and tied into two pigtails instead of one braid.
“And I’m Hattie,” says the other one more shyly.
“Can you guess their real names?” London asks me as he takes the girls’ backpacks and carries them to the car. Queenie and Hattie run ahead of us, clearly excited to go horseback riding .
“Aren’t those their real names? I guess Hattie could be short for Harriet…” London’s family’s names are all weird. I mean, who names their son Paris , like they’re in a Greek tragedy or a Shakespeare play?
“Queenie is short for Queens and Hattie is short for Manhattan,” London says in a stage whisper. “Because having a dad named Brooklyn isn’t enough.”
I snort-laugh as I open the back door of the car to buckle the girls into their booster seats. I haven’t hung out much with little girls—almost all of my younger cousins are boys—so I’m slightly apprehensive about today.
In the car, we don’t end up listening to the Frozen songs on repeat. To my surprise, they request the Lord of the Rings soundtrack.
“You guys have seen Lord of the Rings ?” I ask, turning around in my seat and craning my neck to face them.
Queenie nods, folding her arms across her chest. “Duh. I’m not a baby.”
I chuckle. Still, the score lifts my spirits and puts me at ease. Raina and I once spent a rainy afternoon watching the whole movie series together, since she insisted it was part of my cultural cinematic education. I miss our movie nights.
“What kind of music do you like listening to?” Hattie asks. She has her face pressed up against the window like she can’t wait to see the horses.
“Oh, I like bands you guys have probably never heard of from the Philippines, like SB19 and BINI. Or Ryder Black.”
“Did you guys know she’s related to Ryder Black?” London says, making eye contact with me in the rearview mirror.
I roll my eyes. “He’s married to my cousin, Isla. That’s not technically related.”
Sure, I get free VIP passes to all of his concerts, but I keep that between me and Raina.
The girls squeal with excitement and request that we turn on Ryder Black songs instead, which ignites a groan from London. He reluctantly acquiesces.
It’s funny to see him wrapped around his nieces’ fingers. I wonder what he would be like as a father. Then I shake my head at myself. He’s made it abundantly clear that he never wants to start a family.
“We’re here!” London declares as I’m about to fall asleep on the drive, lulled by an acoustic Ryder Black ballad and the gentle rocking of the car. So much for the instant milk tea.
I jolt awake, bleary-eyed. Flipping down the visor, I check my reflection in the mirror: slightly messy hair and a seatbelt imprint on my cheek, but otherwise, I should be fine.
We help his nieces out of the car. The ranch is beautiful, all desert landscaping and sagebrush.
It’s so unlike where I grew up, and lacking the oppressively stultifying humidity, but it’s filled with natural beauty.
Leafy acacia trees shade the dusty paths and in the far distance, I can see the mountains.
We get introduced to the horses—Thunder, Ember, Honey, and Misty—by an employee named Eli. He seems to recognize London and his nieces, but when his eyes land on me, he says to London, “Is this your girlfriend?”
“We’re just friends,” London and I blurt out at the same time.
Just friends. Who share ice cream. And see each other shirtless. I mean, not that he’s seen me topless .
“My bad,” Eli says, and makes no further comment. The girls, however, latch onto it and start teasing London and asking him why I’m not his girlfriend.
“We just don’t like each other that way,” he says, his tone clearly exasperated .