Page 1 of Between Here and There

PART ONE

What happens in New York,

stays in New York

(Or not)

CHAPTER ONE

Emily

Two months ago, I had a Wall Street Job, a Manhattan apartment, and a “perfect” boyfriend who didn’t cheat on me. Today? I’m in a sticky apron, behind the counter at a poorly lit cafe, and making lattes for a teenager who thinks giving out weird names is peak comedy.

If you told me this would be my fate in New York City, I wouldn’t have believed you. I would’ve told you to shut up because there’s just no way that I left the Philippines, fresh off becoming a registered accountant (ranking seventh in the national exams too), only to end up juggling three part-time jobs. No way.

But life has a funny way of kicking you (me) in the face, because all I did was blink, and then two years have passed and my life changed. All of it. My apartment, the job, and Rob—my asshole ex-boyfriend.

Yep. My past two years consisted of events that normal people usually go through in a lifetime.

But that’s fine, because I did it for myself. I resigned because, for some insane reason that HR and my bosses don’t seem to believe, I have self-worth. Or at least that’s what I tell myself as I serve a large latte order for “Hugh Jass”. I wish I could roll my eyes. Just this once. I pray to the espresso gods that my manager, Frank, isn’t looking just so I can give a snarky comment about this order. Not that Frank is strict. He’s a decent guy, just divorced, balding, bitter, and coasting on a permanent wave of indifference. Just as I’m thinking about it though, my eyes meet Frank’s—peeking from the staff room as if telling me to suck it up and think about my responsibilities.

I plaster on my best customer service smile. “Will you be taking that here or to go?” I ask the gangly teenager who’s snickering with his equally gangly friends. Are they even old enough to drink coffee?

“Wherever you are, beautiful,” the teenager replies. On second thought, maybe I’ll throw in an extra shot.

I keep my emotions in check, take a deep breath, and put on that picture-perfect, chirpy tone. I whip up his disgustingly sweet drink without the extra shot, because, let’s be honest, I don’t need a teenager’s overcaffeination on my conscience.

As I hand over the coffee, I say, “Enjoy your latte, Hugh Jass.” I try to keep my voice chirpy and upbeat, even though inside I feel anything but. The teenage boy and his friends snicker as they get their orders. Ugh. There is no way that servers are being paid enough to deal with this bullshit.

I glance at the clock. Ten minutes until my break. Then, another look at Frank. The café is practically empty. He glares at me but gives a small nod, signaling I can take my break early. Thank goodness.

I slip out the back door, leaving behind the faint chatter of the customers that are in the cafe. The air hits me. It’s that strange mix of too-cold-in-the-shade, warm-in-the-sun that never quite lets you settle. I look around, taking in the typical alley ambiance: a smattering of crumpled coffee cups, last year’s graffiti layers, and an abandoned bike wheel propped against the brick wall, like a sad reminder of someone’s unfortunate day.

To my right, beyond the alley, there’s a noisy construction site. A giant crane looms, swinging a heavy load in slow motion. The sound of jackhammers hangs in the air, and the smell of cement mixes with the natural stench—I mean, scent—of New York City, making the whole scene feel too industrial.

I pull out my phone and see that I have a message from my best friend Bon, asking to call her immediately. Unlike me, Bon has her life figured out. She’s doing really well at work and she’s getting married to the love of her life in three weeks. Whereas I’m… nevermind. Before I slide down into my classic overthinking spiral, I call her.

“Em!” Bon says from the other line, her voice sleepy but still bright as ever. “So glad you could call, I’m about to sleep,” she adds.

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing serious. Just a heads up that KuyaJosh is on the same flight as you. I didn’t know until today because, surprise, surprise, he only calls when he feels like it,” she says, annoyance obvious in her tone. “I heard he got a car straight from the airport, so I told him to bring you along. I gave him your number, so expect him to contact you soon.”

Bon’s brother Joshua also lives in Manhattan. He’s an engineer in their uncle’s construction company. He’s actually been living in New York since he was nineteen, when he studied engineering at Cornell. Bon and I were only fourteen when he left, but we had enough memories with Josh to last us a lifetime. He was our designated babysitter and chaperone wherever we went.

I haven’t seen him since he left, though. Ten years ago, he looked like those gangly teenagers who ordered earlier. Even at nineteen, Josh looked younger. I wonder what he looks like now.

“Thanks, Bon. See you in two weeks!” I say, trying (and failing) to match her energy.

“Seeyou, you big shot Wall Street queen!” I only manage a silent chuckle as she says those words.

As we end the call, a bundle of emotions washes over me. I’m excited to go home after two long years, no doubt about that. Magnolia Heights might be nosy and suffocating at times, but it’s still home. It’s the home that New York failed to be, so I can’t wait to go back. I’m looking forward to seeing my friends and family again. But beneath that excitement, there’s a growing knot in my stomach.

First, because home is where Rob is.

The last time I saw him—if you can even call a FaceTime call seeing someone—I caught him cheating. Boldly, unapologetically cheating. There was a woman in his bed. His coworker, of course, the one I ‘didn’t need to worry about,’ the ‘just a friend.’ I vaguely remember seeing a woman’s head within the frame, and I asked him who she was. He panicked and dropped the phone, waking her up. She was just as shocked about me as I was of her.

The virtual equivalent of a slap to the face was that Rob didn’t even deny it. He didn’t apologize. He just told me it had been going on for a year and had the audacity to blame me. Apparently, long-distance relationships are doomed from the start, and he wished me well. And that was it. Just like that.Asshole of the year.

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