All About You

Twenty One

“S o, how was your date yesterday?”

Marlon meets my eyes through the car visor. He’d picked me up at 11am on the dot, just after my family had gotten home from Church.

“It wasn’t a date.”

“Sure it wasn’t.”

“I already told you Garcia, it really was not a date.”

I resist the urge to scoff but hold it in for Marlon’s dignity.

“Okay so how was your nice, romantically long catch up then?” I tease, and Marlon just pokes my side. I ignore the fireworks it sets off.

“Christine and I’s very friendly catch-up was nice, just like the one before,” he says, “It was just, you know, more updates on what’s been happening since we, well…”

He gestures with his free-hand in a you know motion.

“But not about our -”

“No, obviously not. It’s one of the rules, remember? No one can know.”

He turns to grin at me and I just blink at him.

“What about your wallpaper,” I point out.

“Oh, yeah, I just switch to my other wallpaper, the anime one. You do realise our phones can do that, right?”

His tone is teasing, and I turn away from him, huffing.

As he pulls roughly to a stop at a red light, I clutch my tote bag close to me, so it doesn’t knock off of my legs. My crescent moon keychain dangles around the strap, while his one titers around inside, like an omen.

“How is Rafayel?” he asks me.

I’m unsure how to answer that. Yesterday, he’d acted so distant and uninterested, yet this morning he’d been the one to text me good morning, asking me what I was doing today. A total 180 on how he’d been.

He even asked me to send him a pic of what I was wearing for today. I sent him a photo of me in my gingham orange sweater and blue jeans, which he called cute.

It definitely sent my head into a spin.

But I didn’t feel like telling Marlon all of that.

So, I settle with, “It’s been going good. We’ve been chatting everyday since we exchanged numbers.”

A beat passes between us, and I turn to Marlon. His eyes are trained on the road, his face almost void of emotion until his mouth quickly morphs into a pleased smile.

“I’m happy for you Garcia, really. He better not mess it up.”

For the rest of the drive we take turns queuing different songs. I introduce him to some of my favourites, queueing up a selection of Laufey, BINI, ATEEZ and BTS tracks. Marlon particularly enjoys ATEEZ, bopping his head up and down dangerously hard, that for a moment I fear it’ll cause us to veer into the opposite traffic.

Marlon has good taste too. He puts on some Daniel Caesar tracks that I already know and love, and introduces me to some mellow Zack Tabudlo tunes that I end up adding to my own playlist.

Then, a particularly slow melody, reminiscent of those 1950s jazzy rock tunes begins to play. I’m surprised when I hear that the lyrics are in Tagalog.

“What song is this?” I ask, reaching forward to turn the volume up a little more.

“ Pasilyo, by a Filipino band called SunKissed Lola,” Marlon tells me. “Do you like it?”

“I love it,” I profess, swaying to and fro, “It sounds so romantic.”

“Of course you’d love it,” Marlon chuckles, but it’s affectionate. “This is one of my parents’ favourite songs.”

As the song progresses, I imagine myself slow-dancing to the tune, with my faceless lover. I’ve never experienced slow dancing with anyone.

I wonder what it’s like, to be pressed against someone like that. To lose yourself to a melody, and weave yourself together with the tune. The closest I’d gotten to slow dancing, is when I used to imagine myself as Gabriella during the High School Musical 3 ‘ Can I Have This Dance’ scene with Troy, and sway around the house.

“You’re zoning out there, Garcia.”

The song reaches an end, and that’s when I realise I’d fallen silent, lost in my little daydream.

“Sorry,” I say sheepishly, “This song is just so slow-dance worthy. I love it.”

“Have you slow-danced with someone before?” Marlon ponders.

I shake my head and he gasps.

“Not even at your high school formal?”

“I didn’t have a date,” I murmur.

Marlon would’ve been with Christine during their high school formal. The image of them slow dancing drives a nail through my chest, and suddenly I don’t want to think about slow dancing anymore.

“Let’s listen to some classic 80s,” I suggest before Marlon can respond to me, and unlock his phone, diverting the tunes to a new playlist.

Dancing Queen begins to play, and as the song progresses, an unspoken competition of who can sing the loudest begins.

With each classic song that comes up our voices rise higher and higher, and soon my throat is feeling parched. It’s when we finish a round of Total Eclipse of the Heart at a red light that Marlon bursts into laughter.

“The dude from the car next to us was looking at us the whole time,” Marlon says in between chuckles.

My face, already hot from working my lungs overtime, doesn’t have the capacity to blush from embarrassment.

Instead, I shrug, and when Take On Me comes on, I sing the opening line from my chest, even rolling down the window to make a point. Marlon decides to one-up me, rolling down his own window and raising the pitch, his voice so loud that pedestrians from the footpath glance over at us, their faces contorted in concern. We both guffaw, and I tell Marlon to keep his eyes on the road.

“God, you’re a weirdo,” Marlon comments as we pull into the parking lot.

“Is that in a good way?” I ask, my tone challenging but playful.

“I mean, you’ve always been a weirdo since we were kids, but you were always an uptight mean weirdo around me, so this is definitely in a good way.”

I roll my eyes.

“Um, I was mean and uptight around you because you were the annoying one, breaking all my things…”

“Sorry, who’s the one who stole my figurines and got me in trouble everytime?”

“As I was saying , Mr-tore-my-sandcastle down, you were so set on being this annoying pain in my ass back then.”

“ Were ? Is that past tense I detect Garcia? Does this mean you don’t find me annoying anymore?”

I definitely walked into that one.

“I can easily relapse into thinking you’re the devil.”

Marlon laughs, “Maybe I’m still the devil, but you’re finally liking it.”

I can’t find it in me to disagree.

The Filipino cafe - Lolos and Titas - has a bit of a line, likely due to it still being new, but Marlon and I are at the front in no time. The exterior exerts a quaint, rustic cottage feel, with panels surrounding the window.

As we step through the cafe, I’m greeted with the scent of various freshly baked sweets, accompanied by an old-fashioned, cosy aesthetic, with beams stretching up to the ceiling, and biblical passages taped against faded beige wallpaper.

Through the display glass shelf, my eyes take in the array of Filipino delights - pandesal, ensaymada, buko pie, puto….

I shiver as a piece of fabric presses against the corner of my lip. I lurch back from Marlon fingers, and the tissue he was holding against my mouth.

“Um?”

“You were drooling, Garcia,” he chuckles.

He reaches forward again, brushing it gently over the same spot, and I resist the urge to shiver. Then, as if nothing had happened, he scrunches the tissue, and trains his eyes on the display menu.

“What do you feel like having? I didn’t realise it wouldn’t have any savoury, sorry,” he says, and I blink out of the trance, focusing instead on the baked delights before me.

“I’ll - um - I’ll probably get an ube and red velvet pandesal,” I say.

“Hmm,” Marlon hums, thoughtfully, “I’ll probably get a slice of that buko pie. Maybe a slice of the yema cake too. Ugh, why do they all look so good?”

It’s true - there were too many things to eat before us, and so little space in our stomachs. I step forward toward the counter.

“If you’re still deciding, I’ll get mine now so I don’t leak from my lips again.”

That’s when his fingers close around my arm. Marlon gently tugs me back, shaking his head.

“Let me cover this for today. Repayment for coming to my basketball game last week and all.”

Right . I nod, rubbing the spot he’d touched me.

“I’ll find us a seat then.”

Thankfully, there are a couple of tables free. I choose the one beside the window, overlooking the street. Marlon arrives with our food not long after. I shoot a few photos of the baked goods, planning to post them on my socials, and mentally note down that I’ll need to bring my family here one day.

“Oh, before I forget.”

I reach into my tote bag and pull out the crocheted keychain. Marlon follows my every movement, his eyebrows scrunching in confusion as I place the keychain in front of him.

He reaches forward, taking the keychain between his fingers.

“Is this for me?”

His eyes bear into mine, and I look away.

“Yeah, maybe. It reminded me of Sailor Moon, so I thought you’d like it.”

“Aw, Garcia,” he coos. He stands up abruptly, and attaches the keychain onto his jeans loop, before sitting back down, “Aren’t you thoughtful, thinking of me.”

“Shut up, it was a two-for-one deal,” I say, but my ears boil as Marlon’s lips widen.

“This is matching with your moon one on your tote bag isn’t it? I thought so.”

I roll my eyes, but my face continues to heat.

“Whatever. Let’s eat.”

I reach for my pandesal, but Marlon slaps my hand away. That’s when he takes out his phone, and points it in my direction. I quirk a brow.

“What are you doing?”

He smiles.

“Taking a photo of you, for my Mum obviously. Here, take my hand. Let’s do one of those couple-style photos.”

He thrusts his right hand in front, invitingly. I stare at it.

“Do you not know how to hold my hand?” Marlon asks and I roll my eyes.

“Shut up, idiot.”

I slide my fingers through his, curling them in and hope he doesn’t feel the shudder that presses through me. Marlon positions our hands strategically over the food, and with his free one, captures multiple shots and angles of our little display. We cannot pry our hands apart fast enough once he’s finished.

He stretches his fingers a mere moment before picking up his buko pie, the crumbs falling clumsily onto the plate.

“Let’s dive in,” Marlon announces.

We eat in silence for a bit, listening to the sweet OPM tunes that play over the restaurant speaker, before Marlon says, “So what’s your flirting game like?”

A pandesal crumb lodges itself in my throat, and I cough violently. Marlon presses the glass of table water frantically against my lips, and I take it. Once it’s cleared, he barks out a laugh.

“What kind of question is that?” I demand, wiping the water from my lips.

“I’m just asking, what your flirting game is like. Especially now you’re further in Rafayel’s radar.”

“God, you say that like it’s easy to just flirt.”

Marlon leans forward suddenly, his features softening, gaze fixated on mine. His eyes swim with a balance of vulnerability, intrigue and a seductive invitation. Then, his hand reaches up, the same hand that held mine, and his fingers brush over my cheekbone.

I freeze, somehow unable to register what’s happening, what he’s doing. What I’m meant to be doing.

“Of course it is,” he murmurs, his voice husky.

My lips part almost unconsciously, until I realise what he’s doing. I slap his hand away, and his mouth morphs into that devilish grin.

“ See .”

“That doesn’t count. You’ve had experience firsthand, and if you’ve forgotten, I haven’t had a boyfriend yet. It might be easy for you, but not for me.”

Marlon rolls his eyes, sighing dramatically. He picks up his seat and drags it over to my side of the table.

“Okay, here, let me teach you how to make a boy’s heart race. Use me as a test.”

“Ugh no !” I exclaim, horrified at the suggestion. Heat rushes to my cheeks at the thought of trying to flirt with Marlon of all people.

“Come on. How else am I meant to help you?”

I groan inwardly, dreading this. Though, I guess it couldn’t hurt. Not all the time do you get to have active feedback on your flirting.

“Fine.”

He smiles, a little too satisfied. The cheeky glint makes me feel uneasy, just like when we were kids.

“Okay, so, the first rule is maintain eye contact.”

I remember Diane telling me that. Marlon taps the side of his eye, and I roll mine. As per his instructions, I fixate my gaze on his.

Brown fills my vision. Suddenly, that's all I see.

How hadn’t I noticed that in the sunlight, they have slivers of light brown in them, like flecks of gold?

“There,” he says, “Then, you compliment something about me. About him . Rafayel. Pretend I’m Rafayel.”

I breathe deeply, and remember Rafayel’s smile. He’s so pretty, it hurts even remembering him.

It’s with that image that I smile with what I hope is a cross between bashful and suggestive. I even blink a little slower, hoping it emphasises my eyelashes. Realistically, I don’t know what I’m doing. Maybe flirting is all about winging it.

“Your eyes,” I begin, my voice growing soft, reminiscing on Rafayel’s green eyes, yet somewhere in between my thoughts, they begin to morph into Marlon’s brown, sunkissed ones.

And suddenly, I’m just staring into Marlon’s eyes.

Just Marlon. Like hot chocolate that warms you even on the coldest days.

“They’re warm, like coffee. And like coffee they make me feel…”

How do they make me feel? How does Rafayel make me feel? How does Marlon make me feel?

“Alive.”

There’s a sharp intake, and from who, I am unsure suddenly. A beat passes. And another.

It’s after the third beat I realise we’re just holding each other’s gaze. Waiting for the next move, for the other to bite. To see who’ll jump. To do what, I’m not sure.

Marlon breaks it first.

“Well,” he begins, but his voice cracks. He clears it, chuckling with what I detect is nervousness, “And you were out here worrying. That was good Garcia.”

I can’t help the laugh that bubbles from my throat, an attempt to clear the weird air between us.

“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.