Taming Romeo (2 page)

You go, Romeo.

My heart throbs despite the stench of garbage oozing from the greasy container. I’m going to need a long, hot bath with disinfectant after this.

“I’m not carrying that coconut shell,” she complains.

“It’s
buko
.” He enunciates clearly as if she were a small child. “They’re not easy to come by.”

You’re darn right, Romeo.

Buko
is a young green coconut we Filipinos take pride in, using its soft meat and pure juice in pies, cakes, gelatin, and salad. Okay, the salad is more like a custard made with condensed milk, no lettuce in sight. Take that, Vegan Barbie.

A shot of pain bursts on the top of my head.

“Ow!” I yelp and fall on my behind onto something squishy. The dessert laden coconut shell bounces off me, showering me with
ube
, or purple yam bits, jelly cubes of many colors, shaved ice, tapioca balls, mango pieces, red bean, and ice cream. Boy am I glad Mr. Dee got his golf cap back before I came out here.

My lower lip quivering, I wipe the chilly ooze off my face, unable to resist a lick. Maybe he didn’t hear me. Maybe he’s getting on his bike. Didn’t his friends say to meet and set up for a film shoot? The coast will be clear soon.

“Evie.” A masculine, brown-skinned hand sweeps gelatinous hair from my face. “Are you okay?”

Dreamy eyes soften into luscious pools of dark chocolate as the signature Romeo grin slides across his,
gulp
, chiseled, manly face.

Five years ago, he was cute. Now, invincible.

“Let me help you out.” His voice croons, low and sexy.

Before I can respond, he lifts me out of the dumpster as if I were a rag doll and puts me on the motorcycle.

“Who’s she?” Beach Slapped Blondie sneers. “Eww… you’re dirtying the seat.”

Romeo tips his finger in a ‘one-minute’ gesture and turns to Blondie. “I’ll call you a cab. Take a nap before meeting us at the shoot so you won’t be so cranky.”

“I’ll call my own cab.” She stalks off, making sure to drive her displeasure home by kicking gravel onto the shiny fender of Romeo’s bike.

We both wince in unison.

Romeo examines my head. “I’m really sorry. I had no idea you were in the dumpster. What were you doing there?”

“Looking for my contact lenses?” I squint and avert my eyes from his shining lip ring. Dang, he’s hot.

He puts his arm around me. “You should have said something. We could have shared the dessert together. Now it’s wasted.”

If my heart was palpitating earlier, now it’s practically in arrest. “I’ll get you another. Let’s go in.”

“Later.” He traces the side of my sticky face and licks his finger, touching his lip ring. “I could eat you right now, but first, answer my question.”

“Sure.” I suck in a shuddering breath as visions of tonguing his lips and handling his man parts raise my core temperature.

“Why did you ditch me at the prom?”

“Evie, we need your help in here.” Choco’s voice sails from the kitchen door, rescuing me from Romeo’s intense scrutiny.

I shrug and shake tapioca balls from my shirt. “It’s nice seeing you, Romeo. I have to help my family clean up or the next body you find in the dumpster will be my dead one.”

Romeo’s jaw twitches and he clears his throat. “This isn’t over by a long shot.”

I hop off the motorcycle and wipe the seat as best as I can with my grimy hands. “Sorry I messed up Juliet. I have to go.”

With as much dignity as I can muster, given the dessert sloughing off my clothes, I stride purposefully down the alley and step into the kitchen.

It’s pandemonium. Five pigs are rotating on the spit, and Carlos is precooking all the noodles and vegetables in preparation for the dinner crowd. The assistant cooks are slicing squid, wrapping
lumpia
, and butterflying
bangus
onto skewers.

“What happened to you?” Choco shakes me. “Did you get caught in a food fight?”

“Hey, we need another bucket,” my younger sister, Genie, yells. “What happened to Evie?”

“Yeah, Evie, where were you?”
Kuya
Carlos wipes his hands on his apron and grabs a cleaver. “Did the Sunshine Ladies pile on you? Let me have at them.”

He pantomimes chopping motions and grins. “If you ever need a hero, I’m all that you need.”

I grab a kitchen towel and wipe my face. “I better help Genie with the cleanup and get changed for the dinner rush.”

“Too bad I have to cook, cuz you’re one nOmnOmNom chick.” He winks and blows me a kiss.

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.”

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?