Page 132 of The Fallacy of True Love
“Is this yours?” she asked.
Immediately, I worried about bills. And then I recognized the handwriting.
“Yep. Thanks, Inang,” I murmured, taking in the pen scratches that formed my name.
“Who calls you Maya?”
My lips twitched. “Some weirdo. Did you take your meds already?”
“Yes. Stop nagging me,” she grumbled and shut the door on me.
Laughing, I sank back into my chair, but my humor faded as I studied the envelope. In its place was a heady anticipation that mounted with each passing second. Heart pounding, I carefully opened the envelope and took out a slip of paper. A receipt.
My breath caught in my throat. I wasn’t just any receipt. It was from that all-day breakfast place Alonzo and I ate at during my first night in Manila. I couldn’t believe he kept it.
On the back, he’d written:
Maya—
I’m mailing this tomorrow (Thurs) & hope it gets to you by Sat. Maybe you’ll stay here longer so it’s there when you arrive.
I hope you will.
We’re going on our first date-date later, but this dinner at Tagpuan felt like our version of a blind date. I learned a lot about you that night.
I want more dates with you.
x Alonzo
I exhaled loudly, my disbelief amped up.
We hadn’t even been on a real date when Alonzo sent this. How could he have known then that he’d want another one?
With fingers that weren’t quite steady, I called him. His phone rang three times, and I realized he was probably in class. I cancelled the call and spent the next few minutes rereading his note. I’d thought nothing would beat the one in his food pack, but this?
It was another level because he’d planned for it.
My phone rang, his name on the screen. I picked it up.
“Maya? Are you okay?” His voice came out hushed.
“Are you in class?”
“I stepped out. Is anything wrong?”
“No. I just got your note and?—”
“Finally,” he said on an exhale. “I was worried it got lost since you didn’t mention it.”
“It didn’t.” Talk about stating the obvious. “Let’s talk later. You should go back to class.”
“Did you like it?”
Like was an understatement. “It’s not a poem or anything.”
He chuckled. “Tough crowd. I’ll try again.”
“I loved it,” I whispered.
