18. Chapter Seventeen Gloria
Chapter Seventeen: Gloria
W hen London said he would cook dinner for me, I was scared of food poisoning or breaking a tooth.
That's why I made sure to eat a big breakfast this morning— tortang talong , a kind of Filipino eggplant omelette, with rice—before I came over this afternoon.
I also brought backup ingredients for fried rice with eggs and spam. Just in case.
"Oh, ye of little faith," London says when he greets me at the door. He wears an apron that says KISS THE COOK and a smile as he sees my grocery bag filled with food.
"I'm hedging my bets," I say as I walk past him. "There's also egg waffles and bubble tea in here."
"Never mind, I take it all back," he says with a grin as he takes my bag from me while I untie my Keds.
He takes out the two cups of bubble tea, the still-hot egg waffle, and two straws, setting them on his small counter. Though his apartment is tinier than mine because it’s only a one-bedroom, it's clean and tidy.
"What dish are you preparing, Master Chef?
" I ask as I survey his empty kitchen island before stalking over to his fridge.
Its contents are pretty sad: a six-pack of energy drinks, protein shakes, ketchup, and a bruised apple.
I also spy a steak defrosting in the bottom compartment and a warty green vegetable that I know is bitter melon .
"That's a surprise. Also, you brought your own rice? What kind of Asian do you take me for? Of course I have rice in my pantry," he says.
"Hey, all your lunches are boring sandwiches or takeout," I say. "Where did you get your apron, by the way? I can't imagine you willingly buying a 'kiss the cook' apron."
"Troy gave it to me for Christmas," he says with a beleaguered sigh. "He said it would come in handy one day if I ever brought a girl back to my apartment to cook for her."
“Has it?” I wonder if he’s cooked for any of his previous short-term flings.
“So far, you’re the first.”
An unwelcome blush suffuses my cheeks. I unload my grocery bag. "Am I allowed to help you cook or do I just have to watch quietly while drinking bubble tea?"
"Have you ever sat and watched me do something quietly before? " he says with a chuckle.
"There's a first time for everything," I protest. "Besides, I'm sick of talking. All I've done this week is make first-date conversation."
His laugh is strained this time. "You're a lawyer. Your job is literally to talk."
"Don't bring that up either, please." I drop my head into my hands, my voice muffled. "I think my romantic life is falling apart."
London pauses, sticking his head out of the fridge. "What was that?"
I mumble, “My love life is falling apart.”
He closes the fridge and walks over to me, leaning in. "Again."
"I think my love life is falling apart. Why does every man who’s nice on paper turn out to be one of Satan’s minions?" I lift my head from my hands. Maybe I’m exaggerating by calling them Satan’s minions. But they definitely aren’t Prince Charmings. Or is it Princes Charming?
London is quiet for a moment, then places a gentle hand on my back.
Through my thin t-shirt, I feel the warmth of his fingers, the callouses on his hands.
I'm struck by the memory of him taking off his hoodie last week and handing it to me.
When I thought he wasn't looking, I secretly buried my face in the soft fabric and took a whiff of his scent.
I kept it and have been using it as a pillow.
He rubs soothing circles on my back. I want to melt into my chair—into his touch—and never leave.
"You're incredible, and any man would be lucky to have you.
Just because you haven't found anyone yet doesn't mean you won't. Honestly, Gloria, I admire you for having the guts to go out and meet people even though all of these guys turned out to be duds so far.
" London's voice still bears the same tension as his laugh did earlier, like he's holding something back.
I latch onto his words like a newborn fawn flailing for balance. "You admire me?"
"Of course. I just can't tell you that all the time in case you get a big head," he says, laughing. It's lighter, freer this time.
"Are you saying you don't have the guts to go out and date?
" I prod. He hasn't made any progress on our bet that I know of. Maybe his so-called family dinners are just dates and he’ll swoop in and surprise me at the last minute by saying 'hey, actually I have a girlfriend I've been seeing this whole time! '
Then again, what woman would be happy with her boyfriend cooking dinner for his female coworker, dancing with her, or giving her his hoodie?
"Maybe it's not that I don't have the guts. Maybe I just don't think I'll find anyone who wants to be with me."
"Come on, London." My voice feels heavy with the shock of his admission, my response an automatic denial. "You have so much going for you. You're a fantastic lawyer and a wonderful friend, and you're definitely not hideous. "
Not hideous ? Is that the best I have to comfort him with? I’ve seen way too much of him to say any part of him is anything close to hideous. More like gloriously sculpted and handcrafted by God to be my kryptonite.
He shakes his head. "That's what Troy said to me too, the other day."
"See, we're both right. Troy is my favourite of your siblings already."
"He said that when I told him I didn't want kids. He didn't understand why."
I've never asked him why. "I can try to understand."
London gives me a small, sad smile. "I don't want kids because I'm terrified I'll ruin their childhoods like our parents did to us, with their constant arguing, manipulation, and passive-aggressive behaviour.
Everything in my house just felt like a fight waiting to happen.
Every word was fuel for yet another conflict.
You were either on my mom's side or my dad's side, and it feels like all my siblings took my dad's side. "
He's never given me this glimpse into his family. When I went over to his house for Thanksgiving that one year, they were all on their best behaviour. Though there were some awkward moments and snarky comments, I figured they were typical of any big family.
"I'm sorry," I say, reaching over to give him a side-hug. To my surprise, he wraps his arms around me and pulls me into a full embrace.
My face rests in the crook of his neck and shoulder. One of his arms wraps around my waist while the other lands on my upper back. I breathe in his scent of cedar and eucalyptus, hearing his shuddering breaths like he's trying not to cry.
"Don't be sorry, Ria. It's not your fault," he murmurs.
I take a deep breath. “Maybe if you found the right person, you’d want to have kids with them. They might change your mind.”
“I don’t know if that person exists.” He sighs, and my heart splinters.
Because I’m right here, and he still doesn’t see me as anything more than a friend.
"I shouldn't have told you that anyways.
I didn't bring you here so I could complain about my home life. We had a lot more than most people do."
"But it sounds like you didn't have love," I whisper.
He stiffens, seeming to realize that we're holding each other. As if he had done it instinctively, unconsciously. London's arms drop from me and he takes a step back, stuffing his hands in his pockets.
"My parents loved us as best as they knew how," he says simply. "We never wanted for anything, whether it was extracurriculars or the latest toys or video games."
"You can't just throw money at your children and expect them to be happy if you're fighting all the time," I say.
I can't imagine my parents treating me and Paulo that way.
I can't imagine anyone in my family treating their children that way, even if we are all relatively well-off since most of my family is comprised of doctors or other medical professionals.
"I was happy," he says. "I am happy. Happy enough."
"Everything you just told me suggests otherwise," I say, folding my arms across my chest. Cold air replaces his touch.
"I don't want to talk about this anymore. I'm sorry I burdened you with my problems." He opens his pantry and measures out rice into the rice cooker. "You have enough going on in your life."
It sounds like a dismissal. Yes, my life has its own issues, but what's going on with his family sounds draining. "That’s why I want to hear about your life. I need the distraction."
"Let me cook dinner for you," he says abruptly, rinsing the rice. The intensity burning in London's dark eyes sends a shiver down my spine. "I’m done talking about my family. Just let me—let me do something nice for you, okay?"
"Why?" I murmur.
"Because I…" He takes a deep breath and shuts off the faucet. "I want to do something nice for my friend, who's going through a hard time, and I want to feel like something in my life is going right. Our friendship is all I have that isn’t a wreck at the moment, Ria."
London sounds exasperated. Guilt gnaws at me for pushing him to this point.
"I'm sorry. I really do appreciate you, London," I say. I get up and cross the kitchen, hugging him before letting go again. He doesn't hug me back since his hands are wet with rice water.
We settle into easier, safer conversation topics.
He finishes washing the rice and puts it in the rice cooker; I help him by slicing the bitter melon in half and scooping out the seeds.
He marinates the beef for half an hour in soy sauce, oyster sauce, sugar, cornstarch, and water and a few cloves of minced garlic.
I'm surprised he doesn't use the jar of minced garlic from the grocery store.
Then again, he probably doesn't cook enough to need one.
"Do you miss your family in the Philippines?" London asks me when we're situated on the couch, waiting for the beef to marinate and the rice to cook.
We flip through a few shows, unsure of what to watch.
Sometimes I watch mind-numbing reality shows, but my favourite are historical dramas.
London prefers the actual history channel and shows about aliens.
So when we watch TV together, he tells me all the historical inaccuracies in Outlander and I shush him.
Or I try to stay awake during an episode of Vikings .
"All the time," I say. "We talk on the phone, but it's not the same as actually seeing each other, you know? I miss my little cousin, Eddie, a lot, especially."
"How old is he?"
"He's… he's almost seventeen now.” It’s hard to believe it’s almost been ten years since his mom died and he was adopted by his uncle. "I miss him. He’s basically been a little brother to us since his mom died. ”
London yawns, then stretches and places his arm around the back of the sofa.
Why is that move so distracting? He's not even touching me.
.. but if he moved an inch forward, he would be.
The promise of that touch, the warmth radiating from him, makes it hard for me to think straight, so I lean forward.
"That's so sad. How did his mom die?"
"It was during a hurricane. She got pulled under when she was on the beach with Eddie," I say. "I was supposed to be babysitting him that day, but I went out with my friends instead."
Eddie misses his mom every day. So do I.
"I never knew that, Gloria. I'm so sorry," London says, turning to face me. His dark eyes seem to pierce through mine.
"I blame myself all the time for that," I say, the guilt choking my words with tears. "If only I'd agreed to go babysit him instead of going out with my friends, maybe she would still be alive."
"And maybe you'd be dead, Gloria. You can't think like that." A furrow deepens between London's brows.
"Why not? I'm not important. That was his mom ."
"You were just a kid. You couldn't have known. You can't blame yourself for what happened. Yes, Eddie's mom is dead, but it was a natural disaster that took her life, not you."
I shake my head. "I don't want to talk about this."
I realize with a start that I'm echoing his words from earlier, but I don't care. If it wasn't my fault—if I'm not responsible—then it will simply have been a tragedy. An unpreventable tragedy. And in my life, nothing is unpreventable if you prepare hard enough.
I don't realize that he’s turned the TV off until silence blankets the room.
Instead of trying to persuade me like others have when I've discussed this topic, London lets his arm fall from the back of the couch to rest on top of my shoulders.
I lean over and rest my head on his chest. The rise and fall of his breathing soothes me, like white noise lulling my mind into contented comfort.
Yet every nerve in my body sparks at the weight of his arm around me.
Even though we just hugged moments ago, even though I've touched him before, it’s not enough.
His fingers rub soothing circles on my upper arm, and I wish I was wearing a tank top instead of a t-shirt so I could feel his skin against mine.
I wish we weren't just friends, and that he wasn't cooking me dinner as a favour or a friendly gesture.
But loving London would be disastrous for my neatly organized life and five-year plan. Because there's no way, after what he's told me, that he'll ever want what I want.
And I’ll have to live with this kind of heartbreak, of never knowing him the way I want to, instead of the heartbreak of loving him and having my dreams shattered.