Taming Romeo Read online

  Smiling, I flip him the bird, which is our way of teasing each other. Carlos has had a crush on me since the day he met me. His mother, Tita Gloria, was Mama’s schoolmate, ring-leader of the barkada she hung with that’s tighter than family. But then, Romeo’s mother, Tita Elena, was Mama’s first friend in San Diego, the one who helped her find her first apartment, apply for her first job, fill out immigration paperwork and took her disco dancing. She also favored Mama with her discarded boyfriend, my father, and for that service, she was given the honor of being Mama’s maid-of-honor to Tita Gloria’s great displeasure, a rift that was only healed when Mama asked her to be my godmother. Years later, after Carlos graduated from culinary school in Manila, guess who gave him his first job?

  I grab an extra mop and bucket from the closet and plod toward the kare-kare room to get it ready for the nighttime activities. Some evenings we have live bands whereas other evenings are open-mic karaoke. I walk by Papa lighting the torches in the patio dining area.

  “You took a long break, Anak.” He rubs his mustache, a sure sign of disapproval. “Choco says you were sneaking a smoke.”

  “Choco’s a busy body. I was taking out the recyclables.”

  He grunts and flicks the stick lighter several times before shaking his head and walking away from me. I know he’s disappointed at me for taking a break from medical school. He’s ashamed because my leave of absence was triggered by an emotional breakdown. Being dumped by the man you thought you were marrying could have that effect. On weaker specimens, that is.

  Shock socks my stomach when I open the door to the kare-kare room. Broken plates are scattered on the parquet floor and the tablecloths are smeared with noodles, sauce, and spilled drinks.

  Genie looks up from scrubbing a stain on the wall. “Romeo’s paying for all this. He’s not a bad guy.”

  Why is she defending him? I look at her from the side of my eye. That secretive smile on her face means she’s keeping something from me.

  “How much is he paying?” I grab a broom and sweep the plate fragments into the dustbin.

  “He’ll bring a cake from Tita Elena’s bakery. What happened to you?” She wrinkles her nose. “You stink. Did Carlos throw you in the dumpster again?”

  “No, he didn’t.” I sniff myself and wipe the grease from my pants. Apparently Genie never gets sick of rubbing that embarrassing incident in my face. I’d lost a bet concerning not mentioning Romeo’s name for twenty-four hours. I choked at precisely twenty-three hours and forty-nine minutes, hence baptismal by garbage.

  “I’m glad you’re messed up,” she says. “You can take over the mopping and scrubbing. I have to fold napkins and dress in my hostess outfit.”

  I mouth her last sentence and bob my head at her departing back. Born with fair skin and curly brown hair, she’s the one all the relatives compliment as the most beautiful of the Sánchez sisters. While Choco and I stay in the background in our nondescript black uniforms, Genie gets to wear a colorful baro’t saya, a form fitting dress consisting of an intricately decorated collarless blouse with bell shaped sleeves.

  If I sound like I’m jealous, I’m not. There were benefits from being the smart one of the family. I got to stay home and study while Genie was paraded around with my parents’ busy social life. I was also free of any suggestive innuendo from jealous cousins that I might be part American, a jibe that used to bring Genie to tears.

  I wring the mop in the water and settle into a comforting rhythm. After the floor is clean, I replace all the chairs, collect the glasses and debris, then roll the table linens into the hamper. Choco joins me, her face flushed from the heat in the kitchen.

  “Do you think I’m chubby?” I ask her on the way to the linen closet.

  “You’re not a stick.” She stacks tablecloths in my arms. “Men don’t like the anorexic look.”

  “Hmmm… You have a point there, but what did you think about the blonde who was with Romeo?”

  Choco rolls her eyes and makes an I-don’t-believe-you’re-still-crushing-on-him face. “I thought you grew out of him long ago. Weren’t you with Eric all these years?”

  At my sour face, she pats my shoulder. “Sorry, forget what I just said. If you think you’re fat, then I’m huge. Besides, it’s hard to lose weight around here.”

  “Genie has no trouble staying thin.”

  “She smokes.” Choco pushes her way past me to the kare-kare room. “Let’s get these tables made up. We’re already filling the bangus side and part of the patio.”

  “Genie smokes?” I grab one side of the cloth while she spreads the other. “What do Mama and Papa think?”

  Choco twists her lips. “Best not stir that one up. They’d blame you for bad influence. So, why are you interested in Romeo?”

  “I’m not.” My face flushes so much I can feel the heat waves radiating from me like a beacon. “How long has he been back? How come no one told me?”

  “Didn’t think you’d care.” My sister’s face is too expressionless. She’s hiding something. I follow her to the supply cabinet and bring out the candles. She rearranges the spice caddy and napkin holders while I set a globe candle on each table, lighting it as I go.

  When we finish preparing the tables, she turns to me, a concerned expression on her face. “You’ve got nothing to worry about. Eric’s an idiot. You’ll be back on your feet before you know it. Now, get yourself cleaned up.”

  Chapter 4

  Monday is our family day off. Everyone sleeps late and we don’t have breakfast until noon. Instead of pulling my covers over my head and hoping for sweeter dreams, preferably the kind with a man’s warm body, I swing my legs off the bed.

  I wish I have as much faith in myself as my elder sister has. Mornings are always the worst. I wake with my heart thudding, hard and fast. Anxiety grabs my throat and I’m sweating, but there’s no nightmare I can recall. My mind is blank, but I’m afraid. Of what? Being alone? That won’t happen with my family. Mama and Papa would just as soon have me live with them the rest of my life. While the rest of my siblings procreate and pass on the family genes, I would play cards with them and check their blood pressure, remind them of their medications and exercise with them.

  I have to put away the negative self talk. I am not a failure. I can achieve my goals. I am worth it.

  But when I stand in front of the mirrored closet, I turn sideways and pinch my tummy. All the pity eating has settled right below my belly button. My fingers itch for a cigarette, knowing that the reason nicotine makes me lose weight is that it is slowly poisoning my cells. Maybe there’s a healthier way. Maybe Vegan Barbie has a point. I can try anything at least once.

  Little did I know when I crunched on the lechón last night that it was the last time in my life I would ever savor that delectable, crispy skin. My stomach rumbles over the memory of pork binagoongan, a dish of fried pork belly with bagoong. Wait, certainly I can have eggplant binagoongan. Although shrimp paste is not strictly vegan, it is a condiment, and condiments don’t count.

  I change into a pair of running shorts, a tank top with the words “I’m hottest…” on the front and “when I sweat” on the back. Pulling my hair into a pony tail, I secure it with a rubber band and don a wide brimmed baseball cap.

  Sunscreen, sunscreen. My mother’s voice harps in my ear.

  I spread a thick dollop over my face and extend it to my neck and the top of my chest. As a medical student, I know all about the harmful effects of UV rays, but the chemicals in sunscreen could cause the very skin cancer it’s supposed to protect you from.

  Once again, I run through all the symptoms I’m experiencing. Heart palpitations, sweaty palms, hot flashes. Anxiety and impending doom. I could either have a blood sugar problem or a heart valve issue, maybe even cardiomyopathy. Joyful thought, Evie. Keep it up and you’ll master the art of hypochondria and be the bane of medical insurers everywhere.

  Enough time wasted. I pour myself a large glass of water, down it, and strap an iPod to my
waistband. Five minutes later, I emerge from my family’s new home on the west side of Rancho Santa Fe, quite a change from the La Mesa neighborhood I grew up in. They moved during my first year of medical school, so I wasn’t around when they went house hunting. The first time I returned home, I couldn’t keep my mouth closed. Acres and acres of white horse fences, orchards filled with oranges and lemons, and gigantic mansions with long private driveways were scattered along bucolic, gently rolling streets. My parents’ house is a fixer-upper close to long, tree covered stretches of country roads. Ideal for a leisurely stroll, or in my case, a brutal run.

  I stretch my five-foot-four frame and do a few warm-up exercises before walking up my parents’ curved driveway. I turn left to start by going uphill. Traffic is light, as it always is, and I’m glad my neighbors are not the kind to be out and about in their gardens. Once or twice, gardeners in their pickup trucks slow and pass me. My jogging must amuse the day workers in the back and a few whoop and wolf whistle. Only a few. Either the workers are polite in this neighborhood, or more likely, I need serious work.

  Increasing my pace, I trot up the hill to the intersection. My breathing is getting labored. I check my watch. A full six minutes. Trot, trot, trot. Think how much weight I must be losing. I pump my arms harder. Someone once told me if my arms were moving, my legs would move too. I swing them harder and stumble. Okay, maybe I should walk a little. Didn’t they say interval training strengthens the body faster than a steady monotonous pace?

  I mark the next crossroad and walk to it. Now I start running. It’s a slight downhill. Good show. I stretch my legs and pound my way down the hill. The theme song to Chariots of Fire plays through my mind before I realize I haven’t turned on any tunes in my music player. Actually this is Genie’s iPod and I have no idea what’s in her playlist.

  Another excuse to take a walking break. I turn on the iPod and scroll through her playlists. One is marked Romeo García. Incredible. My sister has every one of his singles. Admittedly, some are too sappy for my taste. Cheesy love songs for preteen girls. Now that Genie is eighteen, she should be outgrowing this teenybopper stuff. Come on. Even when I was secretly dating Romeo, I never listened to this sugary, empty calorie fluff. Give me Three Days Grace or Breaking Benjamin any day.

  Nevertheless, I select her Romeo playlist and crank it up. His voice back then was too boyish, cute. I’m sure as all-get-out he doesn’t sound so sugary now. Maybe it’s me, but there’s something really sexy about a strong, booming voice shouting with the blasts of an electric guitar. I’m working up a sweat, gawking at the mansions and elaborate landscapes, energized at the thought of the new powerful Romeo. That shit-eating grin alone could topple a row of pretty boys like dominos at a nursing home. Okay, I’m here doing the my-dog’s-better-than-your-dog thing with Romeo. Must be lack of oxygen to my brain. How much time have I been jogging, er running? Thirteen minutes.

  A sharp pain spears my right side. Yeoch. And here I thought I’d get a runner’s high by now. The pain rips through my rib cage and has me gasping for air. I’m about to slow down when I hear the roar of a motor behind me. What if it’s one of the rich boys in my neighborhood? Didn’t my parents mention Olympic snowboarder Shaun White used to have a house here? Fake it until you make it. I swing my arms harder and lengthen my stride, taking deep, gasping breaths. Run through the pain. No pain, no gain. But my calf muscle has other ideas. It seizes and when I grab it, the roar rushes by me too close and I fall into a ditch.

  Some asshole on a motorcycle zooms by. Jerkowitz.

  My medical school self assesses the damage. Scraped knee, second-degree abrasion, slight bleeding, not deep, probably won’t scar. First-degree abrasion on palm and strained calf muscle. Hands on my knees, I blow out my carbon-dioxide laden breath and check my phone. Nineteen glorious minutes of running translates into how many calories?

  The motorcycle whirrs toward me from the opposite side of the street.

  Romeo. What art thou doing?

  He circles around and stops in front of me. “Hop on.”

  “Excuse me?” I yell to be heard above the sputtering motor.

  He does that tilt of his head, and like the silly teenaged girl I used to be, I place one hand on his shoulder, step on the foot peg and swing myself onto the long banana seat. Romeo removed the sissy handle long ago, for obvious reasons. I gather he doesn’t let anyone ride unless he wants to make a move on them. Well, I’m twenty-three going on twenty-four. I’m not the quivering teen groupie wannabe. I’m not holding onto his waist, because dangit, if I got my hands under his tight t-shirt, oh yeah, I can see the dips and planes of his laterals and obliques, there’s no telling where my fingers might wander.

  The engine revs and whoosh, Romeo kicks off, throwing me backward. My baseball cap is history. No sissy bar. My inner thighs clench and I throw my arms around his waist, my face pressed to his broad back. He leans and corners around the hairpin turns, almost scraping my knees, but I hang tight, quivering and shuddering.

  There’s nothing quite like the feel of a vibrating bike between my legs and the chill of the wind slapping my thighs. But most of all, I feel young and free again, melding to the rippling warm man I once knew and wondering if things might be different this time around.

  Chapter 5

  Romeo takes the roundabout way back to my parents’ house. After all, my almost twenty minutes of running would have been but a split second on his bike. He loops around the Rancho Santa Fe golf course and navigates the twists and turns through eucalyptus-lined lanes before depositing me on my slanted driveway.

  “Thanks for the ride.” I’m more breathless than I was while in the throes of running uphill. And my heart? It has left the realm of normal EKG results somewhere back on La Granada. I wave and walk backward toward my front door.

  He removes his helmet and hangs it on the handlebar, then cuts the engine.

  “Come closer.” He jiggles his finger. “I told you I’m not done with you.”

  I punch my hands onto my hips and glare. “You haven’t even apologized for sending me into the ditch.”

  He cocks a lopsided grin. “As I recall, you were grabbing your calf and falling before I passed you.”

  “Well, I have to irrigate my wound and dress it.”

  He gives me that look, a halfway wink, a single brow lift, and a tilt of his jaw.

  The prepubescent teenybopper in me melts; the adult narrows her eyes and purses her lips, adding a hostile nostril flaring for good measure. I turn my back and my teen self whimpers, he wants a kiss, can’t you tell? He’s into you.

  “Evangeline María Apostol Sánchez. Are you dating anyone?”

  I whip around so fast my hair slaps my face and I advance two steps. “What business is that of yours?”

  He crosses his arms, his biceps flexing and raises his eyebrows. “Are you seeing anyone?”

  “Well, no.” I’m in his face now. “But you don’t get to—”

  He ropes me in and crushes my lips against his. My teeth clack on his and I let out a cross between a grunt and a moan. Oh, shit. Teenage me already has her arms around his neck, running her hands through his hair. I let out a sigh, an involuntary one caused by fight and flight hormones and momentary hypoxia, and the rascal takes the opportunity to slip his hot, wet, luscious tongue between my lips. Iridescent butterflies and shaved ice and fairy dust jelly and sugary shivers render my resistance futile.

  While my mind’s reeling, Romeo draws back ever so slightly, his lips tenderly caressing mine. The ball on his lip ring jiggles my lower lip, and his tongue dips and darts, barely slivering into my mouth.

  Hungrily, I press into him with whimpering, mewing kisses, like a woman on a deserted island presented with a coconut shell full of halo-halo. This is how it should have been. Romeo and I. His kisses are forever seared in my soul, ruining me for every man who came after. Especially Eric. Scratch the thought.

  What am I doing kissing Romeo? I’m passing out. Temporary insanity. So
meone resuscitate me, shock me with the defibrillator. Nine-one-one what seems to be the emergency? Oxygen saturation below eighty percent. Change in mental status. Oh, what a wonderful, soul-sucking kiss. I pass my tongue between his lips, slurping, drinking him in, making up for all the missing years. My fingers fist the back of his shirt and he tugs me closer, still seated on his motorcycle.

  He whispers against my mouth. “You’ve always been mine.”

  My eyes pop open and I’m sucked into the dark inky pools of his. He looks at me so sincerely, both hands cupping my face, his thumbs stroking my cheeks. If I could stop time… It. Would. Be. Now.

  Bang! The garden gate slaps and we jolt apart.

  Genie claps her hands to her face and screams, “How dare you kiss Romeo?”

  Behind her, my parents advance like armed guards, one on each side of Genie. How much did they see?

  My father’s jowls are shaking and my mother wrings her hands.

  What did I do? I glance at Romeo, but his expression is stony. He lowers his forehead and peers from under his eyebrows. “Tito, Tita.”

  They don’t extend their hands for the traditional mano-po blessing. Oops. Something is seriously wrong and I feel like I walked onto the set of a soap opera.

  “Heya, thanks for the lift.” I give Romeo a tiny wave. “I have to fix my boo-boos, owies, abrasions, lacerations, whatever.”

  “Sure, get a helmet, okay?” A silent message passes between us. “Tito Rey, Tita Anna, I’ll see you later.”

  My cheeks are hot as I brush past them and storm to my room. I’m a consenting adult. I lived with a man for two whole years, although my parents pretended he didn’t exist. What is the problem with one little kiss?

  Don’t lie to yourself, Evangeline María Apostol Sánchez, that one little kiss is attached to one big badass man, and guess what? You didn’t ask if he was seeing someone before plunging your kissy bits onto his.

  Chapter 6