Page 13 of Between Here and There

“Alright, fine, I do need this.” I take a sip of my wine, ignoring her prideful smile.

“I feel like ten days is too long,” she says as our orders arrive, both served in those absurdly oversized portions. She’s having lasagna, while I go for spaghetti. I can’t help but think that this spaghetti doesn’t come close to how my mom used to make it—sweet, with slices of hotdogs mixed in. All the other nationalities probably hate the Philippines for our love of pineapple on pizza and hotdogs in spaghetti, but honestly? They taste better.

“You gonna miss me?” I tease, trying to keep the mood light.

“Yes! And after that, you’ll only have a week left until you leave my place,” she says with a pout. I almost choke on my food at her words. I totally forgot that my lease is about to be up, and I told Jenny I was fine finding a new place. I think I even told her I already found one.

“Do you want to extend? I can tell the next tenant to—” she starts, probably catching the shift in my expression.

“No, no. I already found one,” I lie, forcing a smile.

This is easy, I tell myself. Let’s say there are a hundred available apartments in New York City. Half of those are too expensive, so that leaves me with fifty. And then half of that? Too far from work or in neighborhoods I wouldn’t feel safe walking alone at night—so now I’m down to twenty-five. Of those, half probably have issues like a closet masquerading as a bedroom or roaches as permanent tenants. That leaves about twelve.

Maybe six would actually have decent natural light, and from that, three might have the elusive combination of in-unit laundry and a building that doesn’t look like it’s from the last century. And out of those three, how many will still be available by the time I get around to looking? One? If I’m lucky?

I am screwed. But I make a mental note to call apartments even when I’m in Manila.Who am I kidding?I pull my phone out and set an actual reminder because I’ve had enough mental notes that got flushed down my rotten brain.

As I tap away on my phone, setting the reminder with a sense of urgency that borders on panic, I can feel Jenny’s eyes on me. I can only hope she’s buying my act—that I’m just being diligent, not desperately trying to avoid the impending disaster of homelessness.

“Are you sure you’re okay Em? You seem stressed,” Jenny asks.

“Stressed is my version of okay, Jen,” I remind her with a chuckle.

Thankfully, apartment talk did not resurface for the rest of the evening. As we return to our apartment, I go over my list of things I need for my flight. Yes, I always list things on my phone. Important things, irrelevant things, rambling thoughts, all kinds of stuff. In fact, I think my Notes app holds more secrets about me than my memory ever will. So if I ever wind up mysteriously murdered, do me a favor: don’t worry about solving the crime. Just delete my Notes. Seriously, it’s a matter of posthumous dignity.

Once I finish, I go to bed and allow myself to calm the panic in my brain. I’m ready to leave behind the daily grind and immerse myself in the warmth of old friendships and familiar faces, even for just a short while.

I may be confused, hurt, and misdirected for now, but at least I would be home.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Emily

Taylor Swift is wrong. Karma isn’t the breeze in my hair on a weekend. Karma is the breeze in my hair on a Monday as I wait for another taxi because the one I’m currently in breaks down on the way to the airport.

I’m not even surprised by my misfortune anymore. I’m genuinely convinced someone is stabbing my voodoo doll to death, and this is just a bit of torture before the big blow. Honestly, this is what I get for shoplifting that pen when I was a senior in high school. In my defense, I had an exam in ten minutes, and the sales clerk was on a bathroom break.

My flight leaves in two hours, and I’m still twenty minutes away. I flag down cabs like a madwoman, but it’s like I’ve suddenly become invisible. Just as I’m about to resign myself to missing my flight, already worrying about the costs of booking a new one, a cab finally pulls over.

“JFK?” the driver asks after rolling his window down. When I nod, he starts loading my bags into the trunk and says, “There’s another passenger, same destination.”

Would’ve been nice if he’d mentioned that before turning my suitcase into a projectile, but whatever—I just need to get to the airport. I slide into the backseat, completely ignoring whoever’s sharing this ride with me. That is, until they speak.

“Hello there, where are you off to?” says a voice that’s way too familiar.No, this cannot be happening.

I turn to my left, and sure enough, it’s happening. Sitting there with a grin is the same guy I’ve bumped into twice in the last two weeks—the same guy I made out with during one impulsive, mystery-fueled night. He’s rocking a black shirt, dark jeans, and a hoodie, with a baseball cap that lets a bit of his hair peek out just right.

“Hey. Look at you, already part of my reality,” I mutter, trying to sound cooler than I feel. I’m definitely not about to ask him why he didn’t come back for me—that would be weird, especially since I was the one who insisted on staying nameless for the sake of ‘mystery.’ But, come on, a tiny part of me expected him to show up at the café or the club like some hero. Not that I want a relationship right now, but it would be nice to feel liked. Ugh, I’m such a loser. He probably doesn’t even remember me.Does he?

“It’s only a matter of time, Tantrum.”Okay, he does. He chuckles and takes a glance at my crumpled, slightly coffee-stained itinerary. “No way. Manila too? That’s where I’m headed,” he says, pulling off his baseball cap and ruffling his hair like he’s in some kind of shampoo commercial.

“You’re from the Philippines?” I ask, trying to process the increasingly bizarre turn of events. I guess, now that I think about it, hedoeslook Filipino. His tan skin, jet-black hair, and warm brown eyes should’ve tipped me off.

“Yup. Born and raised,” he says, leaning back casually. “Moved here when I was nineteen. I usually head back for the holidays, but my sister’s wedding is in five days, so I’m staying longer this time.”

He says it so easily, but my stomach twists. Sister’s wedding. Five days... Could he–? No, I’m overthinking again. There are millions of people who would get married in five days.

He pulls out his phone and glances at it. “Speaking of which, I need to call her friend. We’re riding home together. Excuse me.”

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