“You want advice fromme?,” I ask, a little outraged.
“Well, you’re the romance obsessor. Always putting on rom-coms when Mum brought me over, always buying new romance books.”
My cheeks heat at the reminiscence, surprised that Marlon would remember.
“Okay, I get it, I get it. With who? With Christine?” I ask.
Marlon’s fingers fiddle with the table, tapping it. Nervous.
“Maybe, yeah,” he says, “But anyway, if you help me with that, then I’ll agree to this.”
Wouldn’t that mean he’s reaping two benefits out of this ruse? The competitiveness in me didn’t want him to win double while I only won one, so I shake my head.
“I’ll agree to help you with your love life if you agree to help me with mine,” I counter, crossing my arms.
“Fine, deal.”
He holds out his hand in a shake.
“I accept you fake-asking-me-out Garcia,” he proclaims.
I swat his hand away in disgust.
“I amnotfake-asking-you-out.”
“Um,youliterally are the one who asked me if I could be your fake-boyfriend just 10 seconds ago.”
I open my mouth, close it. Marlon smirks, like he’s won. I huff out.
“I don’t care, I’m telling my parents that you’re the one who was chasing and courting me!”
In Filipino culture, it’s often tradition for the man to court the woman, before asking permission from the parents if he could officially date her. I find it totally romantic. Dad told us he used to buy Mum magazines, flowers and plushies for weeks before she’d even agreed to go on an official date.
Before Marlon can protest, our buzzer rings, signalling our food is ready. He holds up his device, shooting me a look.
“Saved by the bell, Garcia.”
While we eat, we feel no need to make conversation so we consume our food in peace. It’s weirdly nice. To my surprise, hanging out with Marlon so far is not as bad as I thought it to be. Sure, I’d wanted to kill him maybe twice tonight, but the number rests in the single digits.
As I eat, I sneak a glance at Marlon. Strands of his hair fall over his forehead, and there’s a glint of oil. He pushes a servingof rice into his mouth, and begins to chew, but only on the right side of his mouth. It’s a strange habit I’d noticed over the years of knowing him, and it’s funny that he’s still got it.
His eyes catch mine again, and this time I can’t look away fast enough.
“Don’t tell me you want to make the boyfriend-girlfriend pact real,” he mutters, with a suggestive wink.
I throw a piece of rice at him for that.
The sky has darkened over by the time we finish eating.
Darling Square is still bustling, with restaurants around us occupied to the brim with workers, university students and general citysiders.
We both grab ourselves a cinnamon roll bun at a nearby dessert place, and sit on one of the empty benches under an archway of fairy lights. From one bite, a sharp attack of sugar hits me. I didn’t expect the roll to be so sweet. I moan in delight, letting the sugar melt on my tongue.
“So, do we make a list of rules or something,” Marlon says as he wipes off some crumbs from his lips.
“Rules?” I ask in amusement.
“Like, I don’t know, doesn’t the couple always make a contract or rules, or something in those romantic comedies?” he says and I shock us both by laughing loudly.
