“If people think that I’m betraying my family, they’re dumber than I thought,” he says. “Which is saying something because I think the human race has a chronic case of idiocy.”
Jack takes a breath. “We’re doing this then?”
“How fast can you get the contract to me?” Charlie asks. “I’d like to start as soon as possible.”
Jack nods. “I can have it for you to sign in about five hours.”
It’s in this moment that it hits me…
I’m about to be around Jack Highland a hell of a lot more. There’s no avoiding him. No ignoring him. In fact, I have to schedule a meeting with him. A one-on-one.
I cross my arms over my chest, tensed beyond belief. “Highland,” I say. “Whatever time you’re thinking of stopping by. Arrive an hour early.”
“Sounds like a plan,” he says, but his voice is suddenly stilted and lacks the natural warmth it usually carries.
Awkward.
This whole fucking thing.
Charlie’s phone rings. A quick glance at the screen elicits an eye roll. Has to be one of his brothers. He silences the call and slides his cell in his back pocket. “See you tomorrow,” he tells Jack.
And just like that, we’re out of Jack’s apartment.
“Where to?” I ask my client as we take the stairs.
There’s a long moment of silence before he sighs heavily, almost in defeat. “Home.”
4
JACK HIGHLAND
Here’s one thing I can always count on: structure. Every great film, every cinematic plot has structure. Even with the docuseries that I work on—which isn’t scripted—there is a story structure. We take our footage and make sure the narrative is in order.
A beginning, middle, and an end.
My life has always had structure. I’ve known how it’d start, where I’d go, and where I’d end up. That is, until Oscar…
My life has never been more jumbled. Confusing. Messy.
God, I spent three hours in the shower after Oscar and Charlie left my apartment. I just stood there! The hot water ran cold, and I stared at the tile walls in a daze. And I confess, I was thinking about Oscar Oliveira.
I kept replaying how he came into my apartment like a frozen wind. He basically coldshouldered me. Treated me like a co-worker and not a friend.
Were we friends?
I thought we were friendly…maybe too friendly. I don’t know. But usually when I fuck-up a conversation, I can work my magic and rewind the reel, like nothing ever happened.
Oscar is different. No amount of charm is getting me out of what happened at the wedding reception. I can’t flash a smile and expect him to go back to how we were.
I’m terrified of our dynamic changing into something uncomfortable, or worse—something cold and empty. Especially now. When it’s looking like we’re about to be around each other a hundred times more.
I try to take a breath.
Relax, dude.
I’d say I’m rarely uptight. I grew up surfing. Patiently waiting for that perfect wave. Breathing in and out, but fuck if I know anything right now about oxygen and patience—because I’ve never felt more asphyxiated and unbalanced.
I’m in my Mazda. By the time I got out of the shower, I threw on dark jeans, a white crew-neck, and left my apartment, then jumped in my car. No sleep tonight, I’m driving to New York for the early-morning meeting with Oscar.
My cell is docked on the dashboard, traffic a nightmare and the sun isn’t even out yet. So I’m even more caught off-guard when my phone rings for FaceTime and the caller is from California.
Long Beach is three hours behind East Coast time. It’s basically the middle of the night there.
I answer fast.
Not able to look at the screen while I change lanes.
“Kuya,” my mom calls out to me, using a Filipino term that means big brother.
I rotate my wheel and check over my shoulder. “Po.” I usually say po instead of yeah to my mom, out of respect.
“Have you heard from Jesse? I can’t get ahold of him. He’s not in his bed.”
Jesse. My seventeen-year-old brother.
I frown, more at the street as a car tries to cut me off. “No, but he’s probably just at the beach.” And giving our mom a heart attack. “I’ll call him, Mama.”
“He shouldn’t be at the beach. He’s already been grounded. No surfing for two weeks. And it’s too dark outside. It’s late.”
I glance down at the cellphone. My protective, sweet-natured, generous mom fills the screen on FaceTime. Short black hair molds her heart-shaped face, glasses perched on her nose, and she’s in a robe like she hurriedly woke up out of bed.
I smile at the sight of her features. I like talking with my family, but nothing beats seeing their faces. It makes it feel like we aren’t split apart on either coast. We try to FaceTime as much as possible. Even when we all should be asleep.
She sees my smile. “This isn’t funny, Kuya. He could be in trouble or hurt.” Worry is etched in her voice. “What if he’s not at the beach? What if it’s drugs?”
“It’s not drugs. I’ll find him, rest assured.” I’m more confident than concerned.
My brother spills his whole life story to me when we talk on the phone. I literally know when he took a shit yesterday, and not because he called me while he was on the toilet, which he’s also done before.
So I’d know if he were snorting coke or shooting up heroine because he can’t keep his mouth shut, and he’d tell me in a bout of word vomit.
“You never broke curfew. You told us where you’d be,” she says, “and you always came home on time—are you sleeping? Why are there bags under your eyes?”
I glance from the phone to the road. She tries to inspect my face through the screen, but I’m further away from my cell’s camera.
“It’s dark in the car right now, Mama. The sun hasn’t risen yet.”
“You’re working too much?”
I want to say no, but again, my life has
