Page 2 of Between Here and There

But Rob isn’t the only thing weighing me down. It’s been a month since I quit my job, and I haven’t told anyone back home yet. Whenever my family or friends ask how things are going, I keep up the charade—pretending that Wall Street is just as chaotic as Leo DiCaprio made it out to be. I make excuses about being too busy to snap photos, and when those excuses start to wear thin, I take mirror selfies in corporate attire, posing in front of office buildings, or arrange my desk at home to look like I’m still grinding away in finance. Yes, it’s that pathetic. I’ve hit rock bottom.

I’m scrolling aimlessly through my emails, my finger moving with robotic precision, when my phone suddenly pings. It’s a text from my sister and my mom.

LILA: Ate! My laptop broke! Pretty pretty please send me money for a new one! :)

MOM: Emily, your sister's laptop is broken. She needs it for her online classes. She's been using her phone, the poor thing. Also, bills are due tomorrow. Thanks, Anak!

I stare at the messages, my stomach sinking as the familiar pressure creeps in. I let out a long sigh, swallowing the lump that’s been forming in my throat. Of course. No “Hi, Emily,” no “How are you?”—just straight requests. It’s always the same.

I know the bills and responsibilities are non-negotiable. I’ve long accepted that. But sometimes, it feels like that’s all I’m here for. The fixer, the problem solver, the giant, walking dollar sign. The one who “made it” and got to live the big ol’ American Dream thattheydreamed forme.

And that’s just one more reason why the thought of going home feels suffocating. How could I admit to all of them that I’ve failed at my career? That I’m not the success story they think I am?

The right, logical thing to do would be to move back to Manila, pick up the pieces, and find an accounting job there. It wouldn’t be hard—I ranked nationally in the exams, and in the Philippines, that credential alone could land me a solid position. It would be steady, sensible, and safe.

But it’s not whatIwant. I have bigger dreams for myself. Dreams that don’t include moving back to the place I fought so hard to leave. Living in that same house, surrounded by ghosts of my late father and the suffocating weight of responsibilities I’ve carried for years, is not the life I envisioned for myself.

But there’s also a voice in my head that tells me to stop reaching too high. Dreams don’t pay the bills, and responsibilities don’t pause for self-pity.

Going back to my emails, I frown. Still no interview invites from the gazillion job applications I filed in the previous month. Which is unsurprising, because the only reason why I got hired at Titan Financial Group in the first place was because of my father’s connection with a director there—a director who took Ben David’s side when things got messy. I don’t blame him, though. I’m the new employee who’s been there for ten months, and Ben is tenured, important, and well-liked. Leave it to the Brads and Chads (in this case, Bens and Matthews) of the world to team up against a lowly female. Other than having the same accounting credentials as every other applicant, I had nothing to give me leverage.

I try to shake off the frustration and check the rest of my inbox. A few emails from my independent clients catch my eye. Since quitting the corporate grind, freelance accounting has been my saving grace. Filing tax returns, preparing financial statements, and managing the bookkeeping for a couple of small businesses and individuals back in the Philippines keep me busy. Those hours are my redemption—moments where I feel like I’m still using my skills, like I have some purpose.

I always imagined myself as an accountant. I know, what kind of boring kid imagines that? Most kids dream of professions they encounter on a regular basis, like doctors or teachers. For me, it’s always about puzzling through numbers. My mother used to joke that I could count before I could crawl. Coming to the city, it seemed like those childhood dreams were finally within reach. Until they weren’t.

I’m about to put my phone back when I see a new email pop up. It’s one of the jobs I applied for. I stand up, ready to celebrate, when I open the email and see the words ‘We regret to inform you…’

“Seriously?!” I scoff in disbelief. That’s it. The last straw for today. I just can’t handle it anymore. I walk a few feet away from the back entrance, turn to an empty alley,and let loose.

I throw a full-blown tantrum.

Yes. Tantrum as in stomping, screaming, squirming, the whole nine yards. I curse Ben Davids, the reason for my sudden resignation. I curseThe Man. I curse Hugh Jass. I curse Rob. I curse the entire universe for good measure.

I try to keep my outburst to a solid minute since I still need my voice for my second job later tonight—singing in an acoustic club. Screaming feels cathartic but it’s also hard on the vocal cords.

When I finally stop, I take a deep, shaky breath and try to pull myself together. “Okay, Emily,” I mutter, smoothing my apron like that’ll somehow fix the chaos in my life. “You’ve had your moment. Now, grab your lunch and—”

The sound of rustling leaves cuts me off mid-pep talk. My heart lurches. I freeze, slowly turning toward the source of the noise.

And that’s when I realize I’m not alone.

CHAPTER TWO

Emily

“Ididn’t know adults still threw tantrums.” A deep male voice says behind me.

No. It’s not possible that someone heard me. The clinking metals and the machinery from the construction site next to the café should’ve drowned out my mini-meltdown. I mean, I thought it through, and I picked the alley for a reason. A private space where no one could see or hear me. I guess I miscalculated. Great.

Time to face the consequences of your actions, Emily.

I whip around, and my gaze lands on a man stepping out from behind a massive tree that separates the construction site from this small back alley. I feel my stomach dropping as he comes closer.

Oh no. Did he see everything? Does he think I’ve completely lost it? Is he going to pull out his phone and show me the video he took of me? ‘Crazy Barista Lady Screams at the Sky!’ trending by lunchtime. I’ll become a meme. My face burned into the internet forever. The mortifying possibilities spiral in my head, and my hands start to feel clammy.

Should I just run? Deny everything? It’s not like there are cameras back here. I glance up at the walls, scanning for any telltale lenses. Nope. Nothing. I could totally make a break for it.

But before I can decide, the man steps closer, and my escape plan disintegrates under the weight of sheer intimidation. He’s tall. Like, really tall. As he walks toward me, I squint my eyes and notice that his right arm is covered in tattoos. His short black hair is tousled, strands sticking to his forehead from sweat. His muscles are defined, and not even a utilitarian reflector vest can hide that he’s ripped to shreds. He has a rugged charm about him, thanks to the outfit and stubble on his jaw. I can admit that he’s decent-looking. No, scratch that. Let’s be real here, he’s attractive as hell.

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