“Are you saying you were swayed by me Marlon?” I tease, with an elbow to his side. The moment may have done something to me, but he doesn’t have to know that. He shoots me a mock glare, but I can’t deny the slight tint of red on his cheeks.
“Shut up Garcia, I saw your face when I wiped your drool earlier.”
I clamp my mouth shut then, wanting nothing more than this conversation to end. Faux or not, the effect of Marlon flirting with me and vice versa is very real. And the thought of the realness is daunting to me.
“Anyways, I’m in the mood for about two more pandesals,” I get up, abruptly, heading toward the counter. I breathe in deeply, desperately trying to calm the beating in my heart.
What’s been going on with me lately? This can’t be happening - not with Marlon, of all people.
Marlon and Jaslene…we’re just against nature.
It’s only because he was pretending to be Rafayel. Afterall, I’d imagined Marlon was Rafayel. I repeat this in my mind religiously, clutching onto that belief.
When I return to the table, Marlon asks me about how my short-film assignment is going, as if nothing had transpired moments before.
Twenty Two
Things start to look up for Rafayeland I over the next week.
He begins to text me a little more, and replies much quicker. He asks me alot, I’ve noticed, for me to send him pictures of what I’m wearing.
Even when I’m not going out, and I’m just at home. I’m unsure of what he’s expecting, but I doubt it’s my Sanrio pyjamas.
When I went to visit him on Monday, I’m unable to chat with him because there had been a girl at the counter, looking quite upset. Must’ve been an angry customer.
I see him again on the Tuesday after film school, but only briefly, because he’d been called to backroom stocking duties.
Upon seeing me, his lips had merged into a smirk, his eyes roaming over my figure.
I’d never been checked out before. I should’ve felt giddy, and a part of me erupted into butterflies. Yet, another part of me felt somewhat cold.
Sexy.A shiver runs through me. I’ve never been called sexy before, ever. Yet, as I roll the word over in my mind, and the spark of butterflies fades, it begins to leave a sour aftertaste.
But why? What’s so wrong with Rafayel thinking I’m sexy?
My mouth fills with a strange bitterness once again.
He doesn’t even know me well. Why does he think I’m sexy?
That’s the last time I see him all week, leaving me sitting strangely disappointed during Mass on Thursday night. Ria nudges me, telling me not to look so forlorn. I shake myself out of my pitied slouch, and focus instead on what was happening at the front of the church.
This week is Holy Week, meaning that we get the Monday off as a public holiday. An extra long weekend for me, but that just puts more distance between seeing Rafayel again.
As we leave Church, Ria sidles up beside me, eyebrows drawn together suspiciously.
“Why did you look so miserable in Church?” she whispers. “In front ofJesus.”
I make sure our parents are a few paces ahead of us, before replying, “I kind of miss Rafayel.”
At that, Ria groans loudly, earning some puzzled looks from others around us.
“That’s so lame of you,” she murmurs, but her tone is playful. “But I take it, is it going well?”
“I think so.”
That earns a tilt in Ria’s head.
“You only think so?”
