Love in All the Right Places (Chick Lit bundle) (18 page)

Chapter 6: Rising Action

Last time I checked, I was twenty-six years old, not twelve.

Still I found myself doing this thing my Ate Jing had taught me back in grade school to predict if my crush and I would end up together. And now that I knew Vince’s family name (it was on the business permit displayed in the store), I just
had
to do it.

FLAMES

VINCE LAZARO

CRISSY LOPEZ

This worked best with full first names, but since I didn’t know what Vince’s was (I didn’t want to assume that it was Vincent), I figured I’d give it a go with our nicknames.

Here’s how it went:

1. Cancel out all your common letters. In our case, these would be
I, C, E, L, R
, and
O
.

FLAMES

V
I
N
CE
L
AZA
RO

CRI
SSY
LO
P
E
Z

2. Count the unshaded letters (in this case, it was ten), then count this number on the letters of
FLAMES
. If counting goes beyond six, simply continue from the letter
F
.

3.
FLAMES
is an acronym for the following relationship statuses: friends, lovers, anger, marriage, enemies, and sweethearts.

And on which letter did the number ten land? On
M
. . . marriage! 

I was banking on lovers or sweethearts, but marriage would have to do. I mean, at least we weren’t going to be enemies or angry at each other. We could probably go steady for three years—just enough time to
really
get to know each other. And just before I turn thirty, we could tie the knot and—

“Crissy? What do you think?”

My head shot up, and I found Ms. D looking at me expectantly.

I had no idea what she was talking about. Panic surged up my throat. “Uh, well . . .”

Leo cut in smoothly. “Well, Ms. Diane, Crissy and I were discussing it earlier, and we thought it would bring ratings up if we filmed out of town. Sort of like a pre-summer special.”

We did?

“And where would this location be?” Ms. D asked, drumming her fire-engine-red fingernails against the table.  “Remember, we’re on a tight budget.”

“Oh, we were thinking of Baguio.” Leo was practically purring. “We can feature the arts festival and interview the artists who promote local culture. That way, we could throw in the travel bit while remaining socially significant.”

Ms. D fell silent, then grudgingly said, “We can afford Baguio. Just make sure you book one of those cheap hostels, and don’t go overboard with the meal allowances.”

“Of course!” I chirped—my only contribution to the entire meeting.

After promising to submit the final proposal by the end of the day, we filed out of the room.

“Thanks,” I whispered to Leo.

He smirked. “It was the least I could do, seeing you were busy mooning over Vince Lazaro.”

My jaw dropped and I shrieked, punching his arm. “You peeked!”

“I thought you were taking down notes! If Ms. D found out you weren’t paying attention, she’d give us all a long lecture and the meeting would extend ’til lunch!” He dropped his voice conspiratorially. “Now, dish.”

“There’s nothing to dish.”

“
This
is the thanks I get after rescuing you from Ms. D—from Ms. Demonic herself?”

I sighed in exasperation. “Okay, okay, I’ll tell you later! Just let me get this proposal finished.” Before he could say another word, I hurried off to finish my paperwork.

* * * *

It was a miracle that I managed to get some work done with Leo pestering me about Vince.  I caved when he planted himself in front of my computer and refused to budge.

“There’s nothing to tell!” I sighed in exasperation, then narrated the whole story while being careful not to sound gushy.

After listening, he leaned back and crossed his arms. “You know how to tell if he really likes you?”

“How?”

“If he compliments your shoes.”

“Huh?” I frowned. “What do shoes have anything to do with it?”

“The logic is that guys—straight guys—don’t really notice details. If he notices your shoes, it means that he’s
really
interested in you, really paying attention to you.”

“Noted. Now can I
please
get back to work?”

“Okay, but you have to keep me posted on any developments.”

I waved him away and continued typing while making a mental list of the shoes I owned. When I had finally finished, I began proofreading. When I got to the second page, I blinked. Somehow the phrase “brown suede flats” had gotten on the list. This was getting serious. I had never been this distracted at work!

A trilling sound made me jump. I scrambled to retr
ieve my phone underneath piles of folders and envelopes.

Are you free tonight for a movie
?
☺

It would have been swoon worthy if the text hadn’t come from Bea. I replied.

Sorry, rain check. Swamped with work
.
☹

A minute later, she texted back.

Please?It’s some macho movie Mark wants to watch, and I need a female companion
.
☺

So theoretically, if I were free, I’d be the sorry third wheel in their movie date. I didn’t bother to reply and faced the computer screen.

Another text. I vowed that, this time,
Bea’s persistence wouldn’t pay off. I swiped my phone screen a bit too forcefully.

Hi, Crissy! Vince here from Nostalgia Mania. We’ve sold some of your stuff already! You can get check anytime. See you
!
☺

I had to read the message three times before my brain absorbed all the details.

I’m getting some extra moolah.

I’m seeing Vince again.

I’m seeing Vince again.

I’m seeing Vince again.

* * * *

As usual, Vince was clicking away on his MacBook.  I studied him for a few minutes before pushing the chiming glass doors. He looked up and grinned.

“Hey there!”

I waved my hand.

Vince scooted beside me. “Look, we’re twins!”

We were both wearing the exact shade of blue—a light turquoise, the color of sea foam. His arm brushed against my shoulder, reducing my wits to fluff. 

“Mmm.” I nodded with a tight-lipped smile.

Vince retrieved a crisp sheet of paper from the counter. As I fiddled with my
capiz
shell necklace (originally Mama Maring’s, of course), we went through the items he had already sold. Next thing I knew, he was handing me a check. I scrutinized it carefully, determined to make the moment last.

“It’s not fake.” Vince chuckled.

I laughed nervously while my eyes frantically swept the room, searching for a topic for conversation. Finally they landed on his shirt.

“Nice shirt!”

“Thanks!” Vince’s face lit up. 

I didn’t have to feign admiration— his shirt really had a cute, quirky print of a hairy one-eyed monster riding a bike.

He added a bit shyly, “It’s my own design.”

My eyes widened in surprise, and Vince motioned to his laptop. “My real bread and butter is graphic design.” He explained that he designed corporate material such as logos, product packaging, websites, and brochures.

“It pays a lot better than managing the shop, but it’s great that I can do both at the same time.” His eyes met mine, and I forced myself to keep a steady gaze. He had nice eyes—a deep brown, like dark chocolate. “But do you know what I really like doing?”

“Surfing?” I guessed.

He burst out laughing. “Whatever gave you that idea?”

I felt my face redden. “Well, you were wearing this shirt that said ‘Surf Camp’ the first time we met at the rummage sale.”

“Oh!” His brow cleared. “That was just something I designed for a surfing resort. I mean, sure, I’d like to try it someday, but what I really enjoy doing is painting.”

He swished an imaginary paintbrush in the air. “You know, creating art the old-school way—not with a computer but with my hands. I like getting down and dirty with a piece of canvas and some paints.”

“I know what you mean,” I said, nodding my head. Before I knew it, I was telling him all about my secret dream—to make a short film someday. It just felt so natural to talk about it with him. “That piece on Jeff Javier that you saw? I volunteered to do everything—the writing, the directing, and the edit supervision—when all I really had to do was to oversee production. I just needed the creative outlet, I guess.”

“Really?” Vince looked genuinely impressed. “I thought it was well produced—artistic and informative.”

“Aw, thanks.” I had the horrible feeling that I was blushing again. “Maybe I’ll be brave enough to make my own film someday.”

Vince didn’t reply, and I looked up to discover that he was staring at me in the strangest way.  Automatically my fingers flew to my nose, checking if another gigantor pimple was making its grand entrance.

“What?” I barked defensively.

Vince shook his head, smiling. “It’s just perfect timing. My filmmaker friend is celebrating his birthday tonight. A lot of people from the industry will be there.” He shrugged his shoulders. “So if you like, you can come with me and absorb all the creative energy.”

* * * *

The full moon shone as bright as Saudi gold. Well, that wasn’t such a poetic description, but it was pretty accurate. Besides, the Saudi reference was legit. With the moon’s rich yellow glow, it looked like it belonged within the pages of
One Thousand and One Arabian Nights.

Vince seemed to have read my mind. “The moon looks out of this world,” he murmured.

I breathed in the scent of worn leather as he navigated the creaking and groaning Kombi van into a subdivision, hoping he couldn’t read my other thoughts.

As we marveled at the heavenly body, it occurred to me that I was also in a heavenly situation: (1) I was beside Vince, (2) on my way to meet a houseful of strangers, (3) to discuss a passion that I had always been reluctant to admit because I was afraid that I would never get around to actually fulfilling it.

It was all so surreal that it sounded like a fairy tale—or at least a prelude to one.

When we arrived, the birthday party was in full swing. The air was thick with conversation and smoke. But it wasn’t ordinary smoke; it was the artsy kind, inhaled and exhaled by the most number of talented people I had seen gathered under one roof.

So far I had spotted three band members, a photographer, a novelist, a sculptor, and two award-winning actors. Obviously there was a strict dress code—to come as you are. Every one was dressed differently. There were the corpy-looking guests, who probably came directly from work; the
alta-de-cuidad
crowd decked in designer wear; the boho chicks; and the hipster dudes in worn jeans and sneakers. A guest even came in a kilt, boasting that he wasn’t wearing anything underneath!

“Happy birthday,
pare
.” Vince grasped the hand of a small, skinny guy whose chin-length wavy hair was straight out of the 1970s. I inwardly gasped when I recognized who it was—none other than Carl T., who directed Jeff Javier’s film!

I caught Vince grinning and looking at me.

“This is Crissy, a fan of yours.”

“Big fan!” I laughed awkwardly. “I had no idea that it was
your
birthday party that I was going to gate-crash.”

After Vince told him about the Jeff Javier piece that I had produced, Carl asked if I could burn him a copy. Just the thought of having him watch something I did made me feel giddy all over! He was incredibly down-to-earth and soft-spoken.

“Are you also a filmmaker?” he asked.

I laughed. “I wish!”

“There are a lot of new filmmakers right now who came from TV,” he offered. “You should go try it if you’re interested.”

I nodded solemnly, like I had been bestowed with great knowledge by a guru. As Carl excused himself, I turned to see Vince getting us drinks from the mobile bar.

Just then a skinny girl who looked Japanese approached me and introduced herself as Sheena, Carl’s fiancée.