All About You

Nineteen

I t’s a text I never thought I’d receive from Marlon Salvador on a Wednesday night. If you told the Jaslene from a year ago - hell, even two months ago - that she’d be watching rom-com movies with her childhood rival, she’d likely laugh in your face. Then walk right into the ocean.

My eyes trace the text over and over, as the notification floats above the wallpaper of Marlon and I, and my stomach rolls oddly, in a way that it should only be rolling for her crush. For Rafayel.

He still hasn’t replied to a text I sent a couple of hours ago, asking what he’s up to. He must be busy. Earlier today, when I called Kiara to update her on everything that transpired between Rafayel and I, she reminded me not to overthink him too much. Already, in the few weeks she’s known me, she’s become an expert on my delusional character.

“But what if he gets sick of me?” I had whined to her, to which she chastised me for jumping to such a conclusion when I’d barely had his number for a day.

When I asked her about her and Riley’s date, Kiara bashfully told me how she’d held her hand all night, and kissed her.

It seems all the narratives around me are falling rightfully into place. I hope, truly hope, that mine is too.

Marlon comes over just a little after dinner, with a container of ube cupcakes, baked fresh from his cousin Henry.

Unexpectedly, Mum gushes at this gesture, pulling me aside in the kitchen as Marlon heads upstairs.

“Look at him bringing ube cupcakes for you,” she coos, taking a bite from the cupcakes that were supposedly mine.

I roll my eyes.

“That’s for all of us, Mum,” I remind her.

She pokes my stomach, and I flinch at the contact, nerves ringing through me.

“You both enjoy your movie night, okay?”

I grab two cupcakes, a bag of chips, and a takeaway container of leftover pork barbeque from when my family had dinner with Lolo and Lola last Friday, before heading upstairs, my heart strangely thumping.

I half-expect Marlon to have made himself entirely at home, strewn on the couch.

He proves me wrong. He sits rigid on the couch, as if waiting for my permission to get comfortable. The sight makes me want to laugh. He’s been here many times before, mostly here to break my stuff, and yet he’s acting like it’s his first time.

I throw the bag of chips at him. Ever the basketball player, he catches it immediately, reflexes coming into play.

“Make yourself comfortable already,” I say, and take a seat on the other side of the couch, sinking into it. I splay my legs over the armrest, and he watches me, amused.

“Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes, Garcia,” he scoffs, and I kick off my slippers, revealing my bare feet.

With Marlon, I don’t have to worry about my composure, and I like that. He leans back a little more, finally relaxing.

“So what did you want to watch?” I ask, grabbing the remote. Then, a little more quietly, in case my Mum is nearby, I ask, “And why did you want to do this in the first place?”

Marlon leans in a little closer, and my heart jumps unexpectedly.

“Well, I thought as per our contract that I should see firsthand how the romance heroes in your love movies act. You know, for tips and tricks. To up my irresistible swooniness, you know?” he whispers, wiggling his brows.

I swat at him, before he chuckles. A pang rings through my body, almost like envy, shocking me. As always, I choose to ignore it.

“Well, you’re lucky you’ve got me,” I proclaim, navigating to my Netflix account.

I flick through a few of my favourite romance titles, wondering which would be the best to show Marlon. I eventually settle on Pride & Prejudice .

“I’ve seen this around,” Marlon says, taking a bite from the ube cupcake.

“It’s my favourite movie ever,” I confess, shifting myself a little so I’m more comfortable.

When it comes to Kiera Knightly and Matthew MacFayden, I need my 100% focus.

I press play and immediately, I’m immersed.

The chirping of birds against the stunning visual of the sunlit fields, just before the piano drifts in to reveal the title, pulls me in and consumes me completely. Suddenly, I’m Elizabeth Bennett, sauntering through the meadow, nose stuck in her book. It’s no testament as to why I hold this movie so dear to me. The characters, the setting, the story, it hugs my heart completely.

To my surprise, Marlon doesn’t make constant comments, as the movie goes on. I’d almost expected that he would be insufferable to watch a film with, like he used to be when we were kids, hogging the remote to rewind to his favourite scenes.

“So you’re telling me ,” he chimes up, through a mouthful of chips, “That Mr. Darcy just doesn’t like Elizabeth?”

I nod, humming in agreement. He soon quiets on this opinion when Mr. Darcy’s clear pining grows direly more obvious. Once the movie reaches the infamous Mr. Darcy hand flex scene, Marlon pauses.

“Okay, so explain this please,” Marlon says, “I always see people raving on and on about this scene.”

I clear my throat, inhaling deeply and my mind recalls all the theories and explanations I’d gathered online.

“Basically, the reason why this scene is so significant is because Mr Darcy’s hand flex shows us how affected he is by Elizabeth. You notice how throughout the movie, he’s had this broody composure?” Marlon nods at the question, and I continue, “He holds himself to be so stoic, emotionless, yet something as simple as helping Elizabeth onto the carriage, of touching her bare hand with his, baffles him. Unravels him.”

As I finish my mini ramble, I breathe in deeply, and turn to Marlon to gauge his reaction. His eyes dance with amusement and intrigue, as he slowly nods.

“So Mr. Darcy’s guard is let down from something as little as a brief hand touch? Wow, I see. That’s definitely swoonworthy.”

I chuckle, endeared by his attention. I didn’t think Marlon would take this movie seriously. Once we reach the scene of Mr Darcy’s confession to Elizabeth in the rain, my stomach begins to churn with yearning. It happens everytime.

“I love you, “ I mouth along with Mr. Darcy, “Most ardently.”

Gosh , that confession gets me everytime.

As Elizabeth exclaims how Mr. Darcy is the last man she’d ever be prevailed to marry, I hear Marlon whisper, “That’s harsh.”

“Yeah,” I agree, “But he kind of deserves it.”

As we reach the ending, where Mr. Darcy proclaims that he is bewitched body and soul by Elizabeth (therefore bewitching me), I am curled fetally, my face contorted in a silent sob. Marlon shifts beside me, his leg brushing mine ever so slightly.

“So, everyone wants a Mr. Darcy, huh?” he says, and nudges me, a playful smile on his lips, “I’ve got to be brooding and mysterious?”

I roll my eyes, sitting up. It causes my leg to brush a little more against his, and I scoot away.

“No, you’ve got to be Matthew Macfadyen,” I joke. More seriously, I add, “But really, Mr. Darcy just didn’t know how to love properly, without prejudice, until he met Elizabeth. Even though, during her first confession, he basically insults her by implying he’s had to put aside his pride to pursue her, he eventually learns that it doesn’t matter. And he loves her unconditionally, even beyond her rejection.”

Marlon hums thoughtfully. He turns his body toward me.

“Or maybe I just need to spurt out swoonworthy lines, right?” he laughs, meeting my eyes. I laugh with him. That’s when he pokes my knee.

“How about you and Rafayel? How is that going?”

“It’s going good,” I say, yet my expression must beg to differ as his brow raises.

“Did he do something?” he asks, a little hard. I shake my head.

“Oh definitely not, I just -”

I search Marlon’s eyes. It’s so brown, and so warm. I know I am safe. That I can tell him anything.

“Even if we get together,” I continue, keeping my voice low, “How do I know he’ll stay? How can I keep him?”

Voicing my deeply rooted insecurities out loud makes me want to crumble inwards. I groan, burying my face in my hands. Fingers enclose around my wrists, and gently pull them apart. He’s smiling at me, his hands holding on.

“Firstly, have I ever told you that you’re crazy , Garcia?” he asks, and his chuckle is affectionate, “You just got his number, like yesterday, and you’re already worrying about things that might not even happen. And I mean this in the nicest way.”

I lower my hands, prying them from his grasp. My wrists feel warm from where he held them.

“Secondly, no one in any relationship is certain the other will stay. It’s all about trust, about communicating together, about going on this journey together. I guess that’s where I lacked a bit with Christine. We didn’t communicate as well as we wanted and…” he sighs, waving his hand, as if brushing the topic away, “That doesn’t matter. The point is, you have to trust in yourself, in your relationship and in him. There will never be a set answer to if he’ll stay, but everyday, you both work hard to show the other why staying is worth it.”

I let the words settle over me. He’s wise, wiser than he thinks. Than I had originally thought.

“Did you just call me crazy?” I murmur, a grin dancing on my lips.

“The craziest ,” he says, softly, “But who could ever run away from you?”

His words fold over my heart, like an eclipse. I forget how to breathe, for just a moment.

Until I remember that this is Marlon Salvador, and he’s the last man on this Earth who should be making my heart race this way.

I clear my throat. I need to say something, or this silence will grow into an awkward one very soon.

“So when are you seeing Christine next?” I ask, reminding us both why we’re sitting here on my couch in the first place.

Marlon seems shocked at my sudden manoeuvre, but smiles nevertheless.

“This Saturday, for lunch actually,” he says, and the plummet in my stomach is so visceral I have to swallow it down.

“Well, you know all about swoony one-liners now from this movie alone,” I joke, trying to alleviate the weight on my chest.

“I just have to tell her that I most ardently like her?” Marlon chuckles, a little in disbelief.

“Something like that.”