All About You

Eleven

“I ‘m sorry, you’re what ?”

Kiara and Diane both stare at me like I’m insane. I don’t blame them.

“Okay, so let me get this straight,” Kiara begins, her hands flying around in frantic motions, “You’re going to pretend to date this Marlon guy, which is the one you were ranting to us about last week, who you absolutely hate?”

“Yes,” I say quickly, “And we’re gonna stage a break up. This is the only way I’ll be able to finally stop our parents from trying to set us up, and be able to date other people in peace. The only way I’ll be able to pursue Rafayel in peace.”

“This is so cliche,” Diane murmurs, shaking her head, “I don’t know if it’ll work.”

“And you’re sure this’ll work?” Kiara asks, still sceptical.

“It sounds so high school,” Diane chimes in, “Why don’t you just tell your parents straight out you despise the dude? You’re 18, turning 19 soon for crying out loud, an adult.”

Diane makes it sound all so easy. If only it were .

I’ve never been one to actively argue with my parents. I don’t bode well with confrontation, usually opting to ignore the problem until it went away. Or, in this case, design an elaborate ruse.

“It’s not that simple,” I murmur, and my cheeks flood with embarrassment. I pick at my pancit with my fork, prodding the noodles. Diane reaches out her hand and brushes my knuckles softly.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to sound harsh. I just wish it was easier for you, that’s all.”

“But hey, this could actually be fun. Maybe Marlon isn’t so bad after all and you become friends with the guy,” Kiara interjects.

I nearly choke at her words.

“Uh, definitely not.”

Marlon and I could become civil, yes, but never proper friends. I’m certain of it.

“You’re late.”

Marlon’s leaning against the wall, just beside the entrance to Katsu Kitchen, tapping against his wrist once I approach him.

He’s wearing a ridiculous Super Mario Bros shirt. Actually, the shirt isn’t that ridiculous. I enjoy Super Mario. I just don’t like Marlon.

“I’m one minute late.”

He sighs dramatically, clutching his heart.

“And now you’re hurting me.”

I land a light punch on his arm and his face twists in surprise, leaving me satisfied.

“Always been the rough one, haven’t you?” he murmurs, “If you were one minute later, we wouldn’t be able to get a seat at all.”

A waiter emerges from the entrance, motioning us to follow him, and as we step through the doorway, we’re greeted with mostly unoccupied tables.

I raise a brow at Marlon.

“You were saying?”

Marlon ignores me, following after the waiter as he leads us to a table next to a window, informing us to come to the counter to order when ready. Immediately, we scour the menu.

Ramen, karaage , and of course, the titular katsu dishes all jump out of me. On cue, my stomach writhes. I glance up from my menu, observing how Marlon flicks through it more casually than me.

“Careful, Garcia, the food you can order is on the paper, not me.”

I grimace, tearing my eyes away.

“You’re disgusting Marlon.”

“Is that why you were staring?”

His persistence will be the death of me, and this ruse.

“I wasn’t staring,” I retort, rolling my eyes, “I just - you seem to know this place well. I trust your menu judgement.”

Marlon’s lips twitch in amusement, “Jaslene Garcia, your trust in me lately is baffling.”

“I don’t trust you, you’re just the last resort,” I scoff.

Which is true. This entire ruse is my last desperate attempt to escape the matchmaking clutches. Never, in a million years, would I have ever thought of doing this otherwise.

Regardless, Marlon’s smirk lingers, before he points at one of the pictures on the menu.

“I always get pork katsu-don,” he declares, and he leans forward, a serious expression clouding his face, “I’m not exaggerating when I say this Garcia, but it’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”

He drags his teeth through his lips dramatically on the v. I can’t help but chuckle, earning a satisfied look from Marlon. He can have his moments, I guess.

I turn my own menu to the pork katsu selection, and don’t deny that they look divine. In compliance with our deal, I get up to order two pork katsu dons on behalf of Marlon and I, covering the bill. The only time, and last time. Hopefully.

“Okay so,” Marlon begins once I return with our table number.

My stomach turns, as if we’re entering a high-tension life-or-death business venture, instead of a fake-dating ruse. In some ways, it literally is a life-or-death agreement, though. It’ll determine whether both our love-lives will live or die.

“So…” I begin. God, how do I even start this.

Hey Marlon, so, you’ve gotta pretend to be my boyfriend for I don’t know how long!

Hey Marlon, we’ve got to play-pretend and be pretend-girlfriend-boyfriend so our Mums stop shipping us!

Hey Marlon, will you go out with me but in a fake way?

A snap of fingers pulls me away from my spiral. Marlon’s hands hover in front of my face. His brow is raised, both confused yet amused.

“Earth to Garcia,” he says, his lips twitching, “You zoned out just then.”

“We need to date,” I state. Let’s just rip the bandaid right off.

He lurches backward, eyes wide and grin gone. Wow , I worded that in the worst way imaginable.

I wave my hands rapidly, as if to erase what I just said.

“I don’t mean date for real, like gross ” I laugh nervously and clear my throat. It feels parched all of a sudden. “I mean, we need to pretend. Fake-date. Be fake boyfriend and girlfriend.”

He’s still looking at me, wide-eyed. His lips part, and while no noise comes out at first, he manages an, “Um, why?”

“Because of our Mums. Our families,” I begin.

Only then does his shoulders relax, and his face loses the tension. Mine does too, and it’s then I realise we’d both grown simultaneously tense.

“We aren’t stupid. We both see the way our Mums, hell , how both our families act around us. Since we were basically born. Yeah, it was easy to just brush it off and laugh and ignore it back then. But we’re both getting older, Marlon. We can’t - it can’t keep going like this.”

Marlon nods along, listening intently. He and I have never, ever addressed it before, and somehow, saying it out loud to him is a lot more relieving than I anticipated.

“So…” he begins, his eyes narrowing, “You want to pretend we’re dating. And let me guess, pretend to break up?”

Hope blooms in my chest. He’s caught on much quicker than I thought, and doesn’t sound degrading about it at all. Maybe this can work.

“ Yes !” I respond, sighing in relief. “That’s my whole solution exactly. We fake it, at least for a couple of months. Then we stage an awfully dramatic break-up and voila, we are free from the shackles of our matchmaking Mums and it no longer has to be so awkward.”

And maybe I’ll feel actually normal around you, I want to add.

Marlon just holds my stare, saying nothing. A few seconds pass, longer than what I’m comfortable with, so I break his gaze, my neck growing warm.

Maybe I was wrong. What if he won’t agree to continue with this? What if he laughs in my face, calls me ridiculous and insane?

“Why now?” he asks. That’s all.

“What?”

“Why now? As you said, it’s been going on all our lives, so why now, when you could’ve thought of this, say a year ago. Or two years ago?”

A certain pair of green eyes flashes before my vision and I resist the urge to crawl under the table and scream. Of course I’ll need to tell Marlon about him. Of the stakes that’s been raised. With this ruse, all cards need to be out on the table.

I breathe deeply.

“Well, it’s always bothered me to the bone, don’t get me wrong,” I emphasise, “But I recently…met someone. Someone I like. And I can’t really pursue him if our Mums are still trying to matchmake us, or anyone else really. Both of us wouldn’t. I’m 18 now and I don’t want my first love to be overshadowed by who others think I should be with instead.”

The truth hangs between us, bait that he can easily snatch to tease me relentlessly with.

“I understand,” he murmurs after a beat. He leans forward, shoulders hunched over, and something about it is so hopelessly vulnerable that I’m seized with an urge to pat his hair, or something.

“I - just, with my ex, I’m sure you know. So I get it. And don’t worry, it frustrates me too how our Mums won’t leave us alone.”

I watch him carefully, looking for a loophole in his words, a feign of mischief, a glint of trouble in his eyes, but he’s sincere. I’d hardly ever seen this sincerity in him, at least when it came to me. The last time was probably when he accidentally knocked over my sandcastle when we were 8 years old, and he sat down with me for two hours to help me rebuild it.

Or the time I’d fallen asleep during one of our study sessions in Year 10, and I woke up to see he’d written out the answers for my worksheets.

It’s a rare sight, one that I’m not used to, but one I wish I could see more of.

I’m unsure of how to act with Marlon when he’s not being annoying, so I slap at his hand.

“Well, we’ve got this chance to change that, and if it works out, never again do we have to hear about our supposed planned-wedding from either of our families.”

He smirks, and the glint is back in his gaze.

“You’d be lucky to marry me, Garcia.”

I ignore everything that’s just come out of his mouth.

“So, that’s my proposition. Are you in?”

If we both want to get happy endings, then we need to destroy the one that our Mums have written for us.

Marlon holds my eyes and I wonder what’s going on in his head.

“Okay,” he says, and I sigh with relief, holding out my hand in a shake to secure our agreement. He doesn’t take it though. “I’ll agree, on one condition.”

I freeze. I should’ve anticipated that he’d want something a little more out of this. For his benefit. Silly of me to assume that getting rid of our faux-betrothal isn’t enough.

Tensely, I sit back, watching his expression.

“Okay, depends what it is…”

“I’ll agree to this ruse if you agree to, well…” Marlon’s smirk disappears and his shoulders dip inward as reaches up to scratch behind his ear. Is he nervous? “If you agree to help me, with, you know, being a romantic - don’t laugh!”

My lips, on its own accord, had begun to twitch, tip toeing on an amused grin.

Marlon asking me for romance advice? Me , the one with no experience, and him , the one who’s had an actual relationship?

“You want advice from me ?,” 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 am not fake-asking-you-out.”

“Um, you literally 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 serving of 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.

“You? Watching rom-coms? ”

“Yes, and?” he pokes my arm, “Are you saying boys can’t watch rom-coms, Garcia?”

A snort rises from my throat, “Um, you were the one who attacked me for liking Death Note.”

He huffs in exasperation, “I was not attacking you over Death Note!”

I wave his excuse away, dismissively.

“Whatever. Of course boys can watch rom coms. But you , Marlon Salvador, can’t. That would mean you have a heart.”

At this, Marlon swallows down the remainder of his cinnamon roll before getting up. He points at my phone lying on my lap.

“Make sure you record all this down Garcia.”

I quirk a brow, amused at his sudden dramatics, but comply.

“We’re really going to make a fake-dating contract?” I ask. This is all so surreal. Marlon crosses his arms, tilting his head as if to say duh.

“Can’t have you blurring the lines between reality and fiction,” he professes, and I could vomit all over his Super Mario shirt right there.

I open up a new note on my phone - Marlon and Jaslene’s Fake Relo rules and whatever .

“Rule number one, and make sure you bold this because it’s the most important one,” he announces, loud enough for the whole city to hear.

“What is it?”

Marlon bends down at the waist, so his eyes are levelled with mine, his expression all serious, all business.

“Under no circumstances, are you to catch feelings for me. It’ll be hard, Garcia, I know.”

I wait for the punchline, but there isn’t one. That’s when a laugh climbs my throat, and threatens to burst. I poke my finger into his cheek, and push his face away. His infuriating grin returns.

‘You’ve made that very, very, very easy for me Marlon, so don’t worry, there’ll be no falling in love here between any of us.”

I shiver at the thought.

“Whatever. If you catch feels you lose,” Marlon adds.

“You’re being a loser right now, you know that right?”

Marlon smirks, with a shrug.

“Just write it,” he insists, “Unless you’re scared….”

The temptation to throw my roll at his face is so strong. I call on my inner zen, and remind myself of the outcome.

“Okay, fine. Rule number 1, no one falls in love.”

I type it down.

“Next rule. We tell absolutely no one in the family or those close to our family about this,” I chime in.

I don’t mention that I’ve already told Ria about the plan, but that doesn’t count. She’s the one who thought of the idea. Regardless, he tsks at me.

“You’ve already told Ria,” he states.

“What do you mea-” I begin, but there's no point. I groan, “Fine, yes I did. But she’s my sister and also the one who gave me the idea in the first place.”

“If you told Ria, then I should be allowed to tell Henry.”

Henry is his cousin on his Dad’s side, but I know they’re close. He’s like a brother to Marlon, who’s an only child.

“Fine, deal. You tell Henry, I tell Ria, and that’s it as far as family knowing,” I conclude.

Underneath the first rule, I quickly type the new addition in. We think of three more rules.

I read over the five points over and over, disbelief coursing through me. Is this really happening? Marlon peers over at my phone screen.

“And for how long do we need to do this?” he questions.

“Let’s keep it at a couple of months or something,” I say, because I really didn’t want this to go on for too long. Two months should be enough, right?

He tilts his head, “Is that long enough for our parents?”

I laugh humorlessly, “One week would be enough for them to go crazy, honestly. But we can say we’ve…liked each other a while. Two months should be good.”

Marlon and I peer at my phone screen one last time.

“So that’s it then. From now on, we’re officially fake boyfriend and girlfriend,” Marlon declares, and hearing it out loud sends a shiver through my spine.

I know that this is all just a ruse, but not for my parents. For both our families. In their eyes, he’ll be my first love. The first boy to court me, to ask for their permission. Firsts that I know aren’t really mine, but to them it is.

My first ever boyfriend, and it’s not even real.

When Marlon pulls up to my place, the front door is already open and the lights to the study room are on. Mum’s probably there right now, trying to sneak a peek at us through the blinds. He parks the car on the curb, and unbuckles his seatbelt at the same time as I undo mine.

“You’re getting out?” I ask.

“Contrary to what you probably believe, I am a gentleman, Garcia,” he drawls, before getting out of the car, leaving me perplexed.

Before I’m able to open my car door, he sprints to my side, opening it himself. He offers his hand, and I reluctantly take it, a scoff escaping my lips.

“Now, now,” he says, raising his brow, “You’ve got to act like we’re in love.”

A shiver runs through me as I step out the door. Together, we amble down the pavement pathway that leads to my front door, my hand in his the entire time. It feels sweaty, probably from gripping the steering wheel, and I want nothing more than to pry it away.

He stops us halfway down the pathway, close enough to the door that if anyone were trying to spy on us, they’d be able to. Marlon is gazing at me expectantly, forehead quirked upward in waiting. I can’t believe he’s making me lead this. Clearing my throat, I attempt in my warmest voice, “Well, I had a great time tonight Marlon.”

Immediately, Marlon’s face twists in amusement. We are hopeless.

“Me too. When can I see you again?” he asks, and I nearly grimace at the rom-com-script of it all.

What would the lead say next?

I’m clearly not built to be a lead, because now I’ve run out of words to say. So I improvise, and step closer. Surprise flickers across his face as I perch up onto my tiptoes.

“Sorry in advance,” I whisper quickly, before planting a kiss on his cheek. His hand whips up, lingering on the spot where I’ve just kissed him. It’s a nice touch.

Stepping away, I make my way up to the front door and glance back at Marlon, who’s eyes linger on me. I give him one more smile, one which is genuine, a thank you , and head inside. There, in the study as expected, is my family, all waiting.

Dad’s eyes flicker toward the blinds just as Marlon’s car engine starts up, while Mum’s lips part in disbelief. Ria is the only one who isn’t flabbergasted. In fact, she just sits on the office chair, legs crossed, her lips contorted into a knowing smile.

“Hi guys…” I begin, as I slide off my shoes.

They don’t even greet me back, but launch straight into questions.

“Jaslene, are you and Marlon -” my Mum questions.

“Is he courting you?” Dad adds.

“What are you, finally boyfriend and girlfriend?” Ria jumps in, and from her face I can see she’s having all the fun with acting oblivious to the ruse.

I realise Marlon and I haven’t gone so far to discuss what we would tell our families as to what our stories would be. So I just feign what I hope is a sweetly shy smile.

“We’ll see.”