For someone who’s hopelessly obsessed with love stories and romance books, I seem to be falling terribly behind.
“Don’t be so blue,” Ria drawls, nudging my shoulder with hers. “You’ll find someone one day. It might take a while though, but it’ll happen, eventually.”
I lower my phone and reach over to pinch at her knee.
It’s then that I notice what she’s wearing
“Excuse me!” I exclaim, taking in the blue-gingham, spaghetti-strapped dress I’d been searching all morning for.
“That’s mine! I was going to wear that today!”
“Shhh, you wear this all the time,” Ria counteracts, waving her hands dismissively, “Besides, the blouse you’re wearing is nice. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you wear it, like, ever.”
I cross my arms in a huff.
So what if I recycle the same style constantly? It means I’m getting my money’s worth, aren’t I? And besides, I like gingham clothing. Call it my brand.
After noticing the dress I planned for my Tita Lucillia’s birthday today was gone from my wardrobe, I’d found this pink sweetheart blouse instead. Ria is wrong, Ihaveworn it before. But only once. Two years ago.
Whatever. It compliments my lighter hair, which has now settled into an auburn tone after dying it a couple of weeks ago, after graduation.
Loud footsteps sound, pounding against the floor above us. It grows louder as my parents clamour down the stairs.
“Do you have the presents,mahal?” Mum asks, her frantic voice bouncing off the walls.
“Yes, yes!” Dad replies, equally as rushed.
“Nagsulat ka ba sa birthday card[1]?”
They continue to bicker, the energy drastically different from the night before, when they were both cuddling like love-sick teenagers on their honeymoon phase as we watchedBreakfast At Tiffany’s.
Chaotically, they stumble into the living room.
Mum is dressed in an orange bohemian jumpsuit that hugs her waist and flares outward at the legs, while Dad dons a loosePopeye The Sailor Mantee atop blue baggy jeans. As always, my parents both look much younger than their ages of 40.
Once Mum’s eyes fall on Ria and I, she exclaims “Girls, get upna, we’re late!”
Ria taps the imaginary watch atop her wrist.
“Half an hour late, to be exact.”
I flick the back of her neck, my lips twisting into amusement. As a family who lives only ten minutes away from our Tita Lucillia’s house, we sure are repeatedly late.
Within minutes, we’re all piled into the car, finally ready to go.
“Oh, by the way Lene, guess who’s coming today?” Mum announces, once she’s finished fastening her seatbelt.
“Who?” I ask.
“Marlon!”
His name passes over me like a solar eclipse, making everything go dark.
“I think you’re both starting uni this week,” Mum continues, unaware of howhehas now dampened my mood. “You should talk to him about it.”
“Sure,” I respond, resisting the urge to open the car door and roll into oncoming traffic.
Ria elbows my side, her eyebrows shooting up suggestively and I channel daggers into my glare.
