Why Don't We?

why don’t we?

Jamie S. Ayque

WHY DON’T WE ?

Copyright © 2018 by Jamie S. Ayque

All rights reserved. Printed in the Philippines. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Book and Cover design by Ralph Santos

First Edition

For Lucky, my official fixer of things.

*1*

Let me tell you the best ways to self-sabotage on a date night.

1.     Wear a bodycon dress.

2.     Pressure your ex into meeting up with you even though he’s made it obvious in more ways than one that he doesn’t want to get back.

3.     Buy a second-hand date package and pray everything goes well.

I’m sitting in a plush armchair on the roof deck of the posh Hotel Elise staring at the gigantic plate of overpriced salad in front of me. This could have been the ultimate romantic date night of my dreams. Except that leafy greens aren’t exactly my thing and that I’m fully aware of my bulging back fat rolls (damn this dress!) 

Plus, seated across from me is not the guy I’m supposed to be dating. 

But to be fair, Kiko isn’t looking shabby tonight. He looks kind of fine, actually. Navy long-sleeved shirt rolled up. Light washed jeans. The outfit goes well with his thin frame. The wavy top of his hair is a good kind of messy. I’m starting to think he may not be the same Kiko I met two days ago, the one who handed me the vouchers for the date and who was looking a little harassed.

He said he was in the middle of some ‘tech glitch’ when we met at the Starbucks in his office lobby. Kiko is a programmer, and I figured ‘tech glitch’ is normal occurrence. Also, I know he’s twenty-five, but he looks more like a teenager to me.

He peers at me through his glasses, his eyes apologetic.  

Lexie, I’m sorry about today. So he validates. I must look legit pathetic now. There’s a lump in my throat that has nothing to do with the salad I just gobbled up.  

I shrug and give him a half smile. I kind of expected this, to be honest, I say. Yes, and still I persisted. As if the cut wasn’t already deep and painful enough, I pried the wound open to see if there’s anything salvageable in my relationship with Migs.

I came here tonight knowing something will surely go wrong. But I did not expect the whole thing to blow up in my face. My ex-boyfriend Migs gave me a no-show and used his best friend Ted’s phone to call and justify why I shouldn’t have bothered in the first place. All this and nothing. I feel my eyes get hot, tears threatening to come down. So I look away. Three tables away from us, a guy in a light blue long sleeved shirt and a girl in a white dress are making a toast. He looks at her from his glass with a naughty smile and I feel my stomach lurch. That could have been us. If only things were different. If only he gave us a chance. 

I can leave if you want me to, Kiko says, pulling me back to my senses. 

For a while, I consider. The last thing I need now is an unwilling audience to my drama. But then he’ll be leaving me here, with that couple who are now eating each other’s faces and I would clearly be the odd one out. Plus, I don’t want to waste all that money I spent on this shit. 

No, stay. I can’t finish all these, I say, as the waiter approaches us with the main course. He puts the plate down in front of me. There’s a glistening slab of meat sitting on a bed of mashed potatoes and some greens. My stomach growls in agreement.  

Are you sure? Because this looks really hard to resist and I don’t want to intrude or anything, he says and I laugh a little.

Gorge before I change my mind, I chuckle. And no one’s intruding.

He smiles, shakes his head and starts stabbing at the steak on his plate. It’s okay, I tell myself. This dinner belongs to Kiko, anyway. He chose this place, this spot in the roof deck overlooking the vast expanse of the Metro Manila skyline. The salad. The steak. He was the one who made arrangements with the black car chauffeur who picked me up at home. It was his name printed on the music fest ticket.

Clearly, I am the one intruding here, benefitting from a date that is obviously not for me. It’s for a girl who probably knows which leaf here is arugula and wouldn’t be stupid enough to wear a light pink bodycon when she knows she’s going to be having meat.

I am the second-hand date, after all.

We start eating and I feel Kiko’s eyes on me. I suddenly feel conscious about my outfit. I’m wearing a tight-fitting short-sleeved dress that shows a little bit of my shoulders.

You look lovely, by the way, Kiko comments in between spoonfuls of mashed potato.

Thank you, I guess, I hear myself say. Kiko was only supposed to deliver the music fest voucher I forgot on the coffee shop table when we met on Thursday. He said he’d be in the area anyway and wouldn’t have any problem dropping by. When I came for him in the restaurant lobby earlier, he was surprised to see me alone, my eyeliner a bit smudged from crying. I told him Migs wouldn’t be coming. He offered to cancel the reservation but I said no.

Okay. You... need some company? he asked, probably because I looked like I might attempt to hurl myself from the roof deck. Then I said, sure. 

So here I am devouring a giant piece of meat despite popping out in the wrong places in my dress and near-flirting with a guy I barely know. How exactly did I get from borderline breaking down to this again?

Second-hand date package, right. I know you’re struck by the absurdity of it—I am, too!

It all started last Saturday, when I decided to create an account with this buy and sell app called Clicq. I found out about it through my workmate Abby, said she uses it to sell her pre-loved stuff and that she legit earned a few thousand pesos from it. I mean, olx.ph should be ok, but Abby said Clicq gives you, like, a better shopping experience. Plus, you get to create a cool profile just like a proper online seller. People who want to buy will just click on the ‘Make an offer’ button on your item and transact through the app’s messaging tab. Easy peasy. 

Anyway, that day, I thought about decluttering. Don’t believe them if they tell you it’s therapeutic. If anything, decluttering is a painful process. It only forces unwanted memories back in the surface, reopening wounds, resurrecting past conflicts. These things are giving the ghosts of the past access to your poor, wrecked soul, as if what you’ve just been through isn’t the worst yet. Just seeing them—even with the lifeless and flat form—conjures up the hurt in magnified three-dimension.

I remembered packing my favorite navy low-back dress, which I’ve only worn once on the night Migs and his band celebrated their album release, and the Rolling Stones shirt he gave me on our first Christmas together.

After posting my items, I wandered through Clicq and decided to flex my shopping muscles.

I went to the ‘What’s New’ tab and I was served up a hodgepodge of random things. There were vintage mirrors for sale, concert tickets, assorted vouchers, used wedding dresses, plumbing services, posters of K-Pop artists, motorcycles and cars, an apartment for rent, unused hotel reservations, call center jobs, buffet coupons, Persian cats and a plethora of other pre-owned thingamajigs you wouldn’t believe are actually still sellable.

I continued scrolling down the grid when a listing from a seller named Kiko (username: kiko_77) caught my attention. I read through the description thrice, making sure I absorbed every word it says.

The item is titled ‘RUSH SALE: Ultimate Date Night Package for 2’ and it has gotten some attention already. Turns out, I wasn’t the only one there who was desperate enough to look for a budget date package in an online second-hand store.

The post said:

Hi there! If you want to surprise your special someone with a romantic date night this summer, I am selling this package for 50% less the total cost. Reservations are dated April 17.

1.     Dinner reservation at the roof deck of Hotel Elise

2.     Romantic gondola ride for two

3.     2 tickets to the local music fest (with complimentary cocktails)

4.     Dedicated black car service for the whole night

All items are transferable. Message me so we can coordinate.

I thought this could clearly be my last-ditch effort to get Migs back. My final saving grace. It had been twelve weeks since my last attempt at reconciliation and I thought that this time, maybe we could finally talk things through. Time to be more mature about our relationship and talk like the grown-ups that we are. Whatever issues we have, we need to lay them all on the table and deal with them like responsible adults.

I swiped the images and I found a picture of the music fest ticket and photos of the Grand Canal I suspected were taken from Google. This unused date seemed more like a proposal-gone-wrong thing to me. It all looked so put together and well orchestrated.

I followed the progression. They have dinner—steak and a glass of wine each. They talk about life and gush over the uneventful-turned-memorable day they met in college or at work. Then as the gondola glides across the Grand Canal, the gondolier suddenly stops and reaches below to retrieve a huge bouquet of flowers. The guy takes this as a cue to pull out the ring and pop the question.

Of course, she says yes. Waterworks! She fans herself a little with her hand—making sure her fingers are bent at an angle to show the diamond solitaire—because her eyes are stinging and it’s a little hot in there. Then they go to the music fest and they sway to the beat, arms around each other, already embracing the beautiful future they will have.

Maybe Kiko’s fiancée decided to bail out last minute, hence the ‘rush sale.’ I wonder why.

I researched on the actual cost of each activity to justify that it’s a good bargain. Well, it is. My immediate reaction was, wow, whoever this girl is, Kiko surely is head over heels in love with her.

I haven’t summoned the nerve to ask him about his fiancée yet. Is now a good time?

The waiter arrives again and pours wine in our glasses. Kiko raises his glass.

To Clicq and this second-hand date mess, he says.

I smile and raise my own glass. Seriously, he is psychic.

*2*

So I’m guessing she has a thing for boats? I ask. 

It’s almost eight in the evening and the alcohol is starting to kick in. I clear my throat because we’re both too quiet. I can stop being conscious now because, finally, I’m in the solace of my jean jacket. 

We are riding a gondola and cruising along the Venice Piazza Grand Canal. Kiko sits across from me. I have to admit, the gondola looks lit, from the shiny wood panels down to the red pristine-looking upholstered seats. It can easily fit five to six people. The gondolier is wearing that striped shirt and red scarf just as they do in the photographs of the real Venetian canal in Italy.

The view from my seat is breathtaking. The greenish water is illuminated by the giant yellow lights peppering the sides of the veranda. All around us, the alfresco dining areas are already teeming with shoppers. People are starting to gather on the veranda, taking selfies.

Who? Kiko asks, looking confused.

The girl you’re supposed to be with tonight, I answer.

Ah, He looks sideways to a group of people huddled for a groufie up in the veranda. Not really. She loves Italian food, so I just thought she’ll like it here, too.

I nod. This is a far cry from the real thing, but it’s not that bad. It’s amazing here, I didn’t notice that I said it out loud.

"So you have a thing for boats," he says.

Uhm, well, I hesitate. Truth be told, I hate boat rides. When I was eleven, we went on a family trip to a beach in Pangasinan where we had to ride a small fishing boat going to some island. The boat was too shaky. My sister Liz said I was turning purple and before I knew it, I was reaching on the side of the boat and throwing up. I put so much force on the boat that it tipped and I was thrown overboard.

Good thing I was wearing a life vest. Tatay dove in and retrieved me from the salty water.

I tell this to Kiko and we both crack up.

Too bad, it’s twenty feet down there, he said, looking down at the water. He glances at me and gives the gondola a little shake.

Stop it, I say and worry about the gondolier who is standing behind me. But he doesn’t look fazed.

"So he must love boat rides, I assume, he says. What’s his name again?"

Migs? No, he doesn’t, I say wistfully. I just thought we can talk here and I can change his mind.

Why? What happened? he asks without hesitation and frankly, I’m taken aback a little.

All it takes is a trigger and the memories come stampeding back in my head. Migs is my first real romance. Heck, he was my first romance. We met nearly three years ago when I was in college, right at the moment I was wishing for some action in my sorry excuse of a life. I was three months away from completing my interior design course when I met him. He graduated ahead of me and was already with the band We Are Strangers playing guitars when we became friends. He didn’t work even though he was a graduate of engineering. He said We Are Strangers is his job. I thought it’s best not to argue with that.

And really, he didn’t need to work. He is one of those privileged kids from affluent families who can manage to do things like form a band and spend like crazy without having to worry about bills, just like the rest of his bandmates. Sometimes I even think they should be named We Are Fucking Rich Strangers instead.

One more thing that comes naturally to him: he can charm anyone he wishes. Deep-set eyes, chiseled face, long hair curling slightly just above the collarbone, and wonderful teeth, the kind you’d want to be ripped apart in. Every word that came out of his mouth was a perfectly tuned melody. And his body, oh god, is not really a body. It’s the universe, a stunning cosmic display and spatial grandeur that always inspires adventure and exhilaration and lust in all of womankind.

So you see, if he takes you to a gondola ride or a four-course meal, you’d die of overdose.

We met through my blockmate Kate, who had been dating his best friend, the band’s frontman and co-founder Ted. That night they were playing at Lucy’s, the bar near my college building. We talked the whole night. I mean he talked while I stared at the tiny mole sitting just above his upper lip and imagined how nice it might feel to trace his lips with my finger. I kept my mouth closed every time I finished talking because I was positively drooling.

Sure, having this super-hawt stud for a boyfriend should be an ego-booster, as what my college friends and people in the scene tell me. But sometimes it made me question my own worthiness. I’m not the most confident person in the world and just dating Migs felt like I’ve shrunk ant-size or become invisible. 

One time, during one of their gigs in a posh bar in Makati, I was standing in front of the crowd, taking a video when this skinny girl in an army-green tank top and tight black pants squeezed her way past me. She made this disgusting lewd remark about my boyfriend and shouted: Please father my baby? I swear if I wasn’t in full view I would have whacked her in the brains with my phone.

But that’s not the biggest problem here. Not even when girls ogle and sometimes even throw themselves at him. Not when they shoot me dirty looks like I’m so undeserving of this kind of life.

It was his undying devotion to We Are Strangers and his obsession with the ‘big break’ that consumed most of him and the heart that’s supposed to hold our relationship together.

On a regular Monday morning, while I was on my way to get my usual cup of macchiato with Abby, Migs texted me: We need to talk.

Something was definitely off. We never ‘talked,’ if that’s what he meant. Migs hated pep talks and neither was he the type to give one, except if it has anything to do with the band.

What could be the reason now? I checked his messages for any clues. I swear my head was floating the whole day. I had called our sales director Maurice Luis who is our maintenance guy. I kept CC-ing the wrong persons in my emails. I’d spent almost the entire day staring at my phone screen, trying to figure out the logic between last night’s ‘good night’ text and the day’s ‘we need to talk’ as if there’s some cryptic code in the words ‘good night’ that brought to this conclusion.

But I couldn’t think of any. Not that I’m any good at logic or symbology or whatever.

So we finally got us that deal with a recording company in Singapore, Migs started as soon as our orders arrived. We were having dinner in a Korean restaurant near my house. I squealed with delight, clapped my hands