Page 16 of Not That Into You

I smirk. “Sure.”

When I was growing up, my mother insisted I learn how to make all her favorite dishes from her homeland—pork and chicken adobo, kare-kare, beef caldereta. She made pancit regularly because I love noodles.

Although I enjoy the sweet and sour flavors of Filipino food, I also inherited my father’s penchant for putting hot sauce on everything, much to my mother’s dismay. Admittedly, sometimes I doused my food with extra Cholula just to hear my mother’s gasp of horror.

I lean back in the couch. It really is quite comfortable. “How was your day?”

Hayley blows a raspberry.

“That bad?”

“Long.” She grimaces. “We had a photoshoot at a newly renovated brownstone in Brooklyn. Thomas wanted to move some of the furniture around and change out the rug in the living room, and the owner didn’t appreciate the changes. So, of course, I had to mediate between Thomas and the owner, and the owner didn’t stand a chance.” With a frown, she adds, “Thomas always gets his way.”

Thomas is a well-known stylist with a well-known reputation for being exacting and impatient. As his assistant, Hayley is often forced to smooth the feathers Thomas ruffles.

“I still think you should go freelance.”

Hayley has the connections, and she’s good at her job. She could transition to a freelance photoshoot stylist with relative ease, but she’s hesitating. While I understand and respect her desire to make her own way and not trade on her family’s name, I think she’s more than proven herself, so I’m not sure what’s holding her back.

Personally, as a freelance graphic designer, I wouldn’t hesitate to use my last name if it helped me get clients. A girl’s gotta eat.

And pay bills.

However, before I can say anything more, my phone rings, and a picture of my mom appears on the screen.

I pick up the phone. “Hi, Mom.”

Hayley stands and walks into the kitchen, while I go to my room and close the door.

“Nica, I’m sending a box to your Tia Gloria. What was that thing she liked?”

I sigh. “Mama, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, that thing. You know the thing.”

“I don’t know the thing.”

“It was the thing I put in the box I sent last year.”

I roll my eyes. Every year, my mom sends a huge box of presents to the Philippines, which can include anything from toys, clothes, and shoes to canned goods, chocolate, and makeup. The box sits just inside her closet, slowly filling up month after month as she purchases items she thinks her family will enjoy. Once it’s full, she sends the box to her sister Gloria, who still lives in Angeles City.

I have no idea what she put in the box last year, much less what Tia Gloria specifically liked. “Was it food? Toiletries? Something canned?”

“Oh! It was for wrinkles!” My mom cackles with delight. Her sister is only two years older than her, but she always treats her as if she were a decade older.

“A wrinkle cream?”

“Yes. I need to get her more.”

I silently groan. “Can you get it there, or do you need me to buy it here?”

Occasionally, there are things my mom can’t get in Dayton that I can get here in New York. Theoretically, she could order the cream—or anything else, for that matter—online, but my mom believes online shopping is lazy. She insists on purchasing directly from brick-and-mortar stores.

When I once suggested it would be easier to order a specific pair of pants in a hard-to-find size from The Gap’s online store rather than having me track it down at the store in Queens, she gasped before infusing her voice with disappointment. “Effort counts, Nica.”

“I can get the cream here,” my mom says. “Do you need anything?”

“No, Ma. I’m fine.”

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