Ties (2 page)

Mei, who loves all things sporty and cutesy and custom, will tell me to consider trading my Mazda in. She never gets it because she just can’t. She can’t imagine a world where a father doesn’t think his little girl is the most amazing being ever created on earth. Her father is a heart surgeon who dotes on her and finds it incredible that she’s both a silly, adorable girl and a brilliant, cutthroat student.

Her father knows her, respects her, and loves her with a fierce pride that would make me choked with jealousy if I didn’t love them both so damn much.

My hand is on the doorknob when an idea hits me like a speeding baby blue Bug: I’m going to find him this summer.

I’m not going to waste away in the dusty tutoring offices alone, wondering what my friends are up to. I’m going to find my father and tell him that the bullshit gifts and half-assed relationship stops. Now. And I’m going to demand he get to know me or get away from me for good.

Mei and my mother are doing a terrible job of pretending they weren’t spying. Which translates to them giving their full attention to the intricate task of setting the table and pouring wine.

“Who was that, Hattie?” Mom asks, spooning fragrant food onto my plate. Her brows furrow when I snap my linen napkin out over my lap and pick up my fork.

I know she expects a tirade. Mei gives her a subtle eyebrow arch and shrugs one shoulder, and Mom opens her almond eyes wide.

“That was just a delivery man.” I take a bite of
pancit palabok
and moan. “Ma, this is the best you’ve ever made. Heaven. In. My. Mouth.”

Mom pushes some rice noodles around with her fork and clears her throat. “I’m glad you like, sweetie. About the delivery...?”

“Hattie, that car is adorbs! You’re keeping it, right? You look so
right
in light blue,” Mei gushes.

“Oh, I’m definitely
not
keeping that car,” I say between slowly chewed bites. They both watch me, forks clutched in their palms, waiting for me to crack. “I’m giving it back.”

Mom’s sigh practically ruffles my hair across the table. “Sweetheart, that’s going to be complicated to do on your own. The dealership will want to have contact with the person who paid for it, and there’s going to be all kinds of craziness--”

“Right,” I interrupt. “Which is why my father can have that headache. I’m returning it to him. Directly.”

“Wha...” Mei asks, trailing off, her face rigid with shock, a noodle half-hanging out of her mouth.

I’m nothing if not stubborn, and I’ve said for as long as the two of us have been friends that I have zero interest in connecting with my father.

At all.

Ever.

Zero.

“Sweetheart, we don’t know his permanent address or if he’s off on work. All I have is a number.” Mom presses her lips together.

“I’ll ask Ashwin if he can help me--”

Mei clears her throat, and I eyeball her across the table.

“What?” The word comes out harsh and jagged because I know why she’s objecting to my plan with her sneaky throat clearing.

“Nothing. It’s just. Um. Is that, you know...legal?” Her mouth is pursed, warning me to be cautious.

“Ashwin would never do anything to get himself in trouble,” I rationalize.

Her eyebrows jump up, letting me know that she knows damn well I’m full of crap. “Ashwin would cover up a murder for you. Who are you kidding?”

“I’m going to go check on the
bibingka
,” Mom says, and hightails it to the kitchen.

“He’s with Amrutha Preet now. And his parents are overjoyed,” I whisper to Mei, glancing over my shoulder to make sure Mom can’t hear. She’s humming as she pulls the rice cakes sweetened with sugar and coconut milk out of the oven. “He wouldn’t murder for me, anyway. He wants to get into the FBI.”

“Oh, he’d definitely murder for you, and don’t pretend like he wouldn’t. Why are you not together? Did he come fifteen minutes late for a date? Forget to call at your assigned check-in time?”

Mei is teasing me and scolding me at the same time. She’s like some formidable old matchmaker in an Amy Tan novel, reading my tea leaves and looking through lunar calendars for the perfect guy for me.

“Ashwin was...is perfect,” I sigh, annoyed with myself. Because he is. A gentleman, an incredible student, handsome with his pitch black hair and strong nose, traveled, respectful, fun, and focused. Basically Ashwin is my perfect match. But... “There was no spark, okay?”

“Really?” Mei chews the word up and spits it out.

“Stop judging me with your eyes. He felt it too. Or felt the lack of it. And that’s why he’s with Amrutha. Which will make his mom way happier.”

Ashwin was more than willing to fight for us. I’m lying when I say he admitted to our lack of attraction. What he said was that he was sure it would grow on my end: it was there on his. But his mother was
not
happy to have a half Filipino/half Italian-American dating her son. Amrutha’s family is from the same region as his, and she even spoke his sub-dialect of Hindi. She’ll fit in so much better than I ever could.

And that fact didn’t make me nearly as sad as it should have.

“Who cares about his mom?” Mei frowns. “He’s perfect for you, and I wish you were using him for more than his police contacts. You need some romance, Hattie, and you know it. You’ve been going non-stop, full-bore for years now with school and work. You need a little--” She stops speaking and pumps her hips in the chair, grinning like a fool. “Loosen up. You get me?”

“I get you,” I hiss, checking to see if my mother is peeking in on us. “And I’m totally fine in that department, thank you.”

“By ‘totally fine,’ do you mean you’ll get around to dusting it soon?” She giggles behind her hand as my mother comes in with the
bibingka
and thwarts the nasty reply that’s sitting on the tip of my tongue.

She lights so many candles, the little rice cake looks like it’s on fire, and she and Mei caterwaul “Happy Birthday” loudly and way off key. I’ve never felt so simultaneously charmed, irritated, and loved in my life.

“Make a wish,” Mom instructs when the song is over.

I close my eyes tight, and the wish is less an actual cohesive thought and more a general feeling. It’s something I think I want, but I don’t know the details, because it’s something I’ve never had.

All I know is that I’ve never wished for anything harder in my life.

I take a deep breath, let it out, and, when I look, every bright flame is replaced by a tiny plume of black smoke.

Which is good. That’s how you make a birthday candle wish.

So why does it feel less like a hopeful dream about to come true and more like the smoldering remains of my summer?

2 HATTIE

The sun is everywhere out here. I press my sunglasses closer to my face with my finger--like that will help--but it’s relentless. Like it’s demanding I embrace its warmth and feel cheerful.

Which makes me feel like a damn grouch.

And making me
even
grouchier is the fact that there are no solely residential places on this street.

Did my dad own a business here? No. One of the very few facts I have about him is that his job demands an excessive amount of travel, especially overseas.

The address turns up a plot of land that looks like it was recently leveled in preparation for...I have no idea. There’s already everything you’d ever need within ten miles of this strip.

You could guess a dozen things--vitamin store, vegan restaurant, exotic furnishings store, bead store, tattoo parlor--and you’d be repeating yourself, because this street has every one of those freaking wacky places all lined up in a row along with the usual coffee shops and convenience stores. The tattoo place borders the empty lot, so I push the door in and do what Ashwin advised: I see if I can get any clues, even tiny ones.

A pretty girl with dark, shiny hair in old-fashioned pin-curls and deep red lipstick I could never pull off looks up and starts to smile. Then stops. She tilts her head to one side and blinks a few times, like the sight of me is shocking.

I glance at the tattoos of an anchor and a compass with twisting cursive around them on her wrist and imagine there are lots more hidden under her tight red dress. I guess I stick out because I’m so un-inked? But why would she assume I’m not an eager customer? I could have a full back piece for all she knows.

Feeling defensive makes me act like a jerk, and I sort of snap, “Can I speak with the owner of this shop?”

The girl narrows her eyes and lifts a perfectly arched brow. I back the hell down because I get a strong vibe that this girl could whip my ass any day of the week. But then this intensely stubborn part of me rears up and attempts to arch a brow right back. I’m not sure how well I pull it off, but it gets me a small smile from her.

“Rocko is with a client right now,” she says, her voice husky and smooth. “Could I help you until he finishes?”

“Maybe you can. Do you have any idea what they’re planning to build next door?” I ask, pointing to the empty lot.

Her tiny smile grows. “Actually I do. It’s a second branch of the owner’s wife’s herbal store. There’s one on the outskirts of town, out by the beach, but she wanted a location in town, near this place.”

“Oh.” I knit my brows.

I guess my father sold the land. I could have sworn it said the owner was D. Beckett, but maybe the papers didn’t update. A lot of these buildings seem to have apartments on top, so it could have been more residential when he lived there. I didn’t exactly expect that, and I’m nervous now that it will make things harder. I was expecting to be able to ask neighbors about him. These businesses all look new, and what are the chances he even talked to any of the owners regularly enough that they’d remember him?

Unless he’s covered in tattoos he got done here of course. I honestly have no idea.

“Do you happen to know if your boss purchased the land or if it was purchased by his wife?” I keep my voice all business, the way Ashwin told me to, like these are answers I don’t expect anyone to second-guess.

Her brown eyes lock on me and she just looks, hard.

“Are you a friend of the family?” She leans forward on her low stool, swinging one leg so her gorgeous black heel with its little bow-tie juts out.

“I...” Ashwin told me that I could disclose information that didn’t give away anything important if I thought it might make the person I was questioning feel more comfortable. “I’m trying to contact Dante Beckett. I was given the address next door as his last known residence.”

“Dante Beckett?” The girl slides off the stool and walks to me with slow, deliberate steps, her heels clicking on the floor tiles. I’m a little scared she’s about to take out her big gold earrings and start smacking the crap out of me, but I’m also distracted by how sexy she looks when she walks over. This girl is formidable, and I’m terrified as hell I bit off more than I can chew on my first cold call. “Why would you need to contact Dante Beckett?”

My plan is falling apart at the seams, and I start to gush a little more information than I should.

“I’ve been getting things from him,” I explain, and her expression is patient as a cobra waiting to strike. “Presents on my birthday every year. Christmas gifts. Over the top things. I...I need to know. I need to meet him before--”

I know I’m giving away way more than I should, so it’s a huge relief when the owner comes out of the back with a tall guy who has his shirt folded up and draped over his bare shoulder.

It’s like the dark haired girl is made of steel and the shirtless guy is a magnet. He rushes towards her, scoops her in his arms, and whirls her around. She lets out a little gasp, then a loud laugh bursts from her cherry lips. She’s so gorgeous it’s off-putting.

“I know you think if I get your name tattooed on me it will curse our relationship and all that voodoo. So I compromised.” He slides her down to the floor and turns. On one shoulder blade is a brand new tattoo of a mermaid sitting on a rock, flipping her tail. She has the girl’s exact face and body.

Other than the tail, of course.

“Deo!” she cries, pressing her fingers to her lips. “You ass! Rocko, how could you have let him do this?”

“I think it looks just like you,” the smaller man with dark glasses and dancing eyes says. “I tried to capture you smiling, but it was hard. Every time I thought about you seeing it, I pictured that scary frown.”

He points at her and the frown drops off her face. I can’t be sure, because her makeup is so well done, but I think she’s blushing.

“I married you, doll. If you ran away from me, stole all my money, and shacked up with some other dude, you’d still have my heart. I’d be pissed as hell and probably break the other guy’s face, but I’d still love you like crazy, and nothing’s gonna change that. Definitely not some tat.” He grabs her by the waist. “Especially some tat of your fine, smoking-hot ass.”

The girl gives a long sigh, then smacks a kiss on his lips and brushes his hair off his forehead with gentle fingers. “Technically it’s a fish’s ass.”

“You could make a fish’s ass look hot,” the guy--Deo--says, then turns and looks at me. He does the same double-take the girl did. “Uh, hi. Sorry. You look really familiar. Like, weirdly familiar. Have we met?”

I shake my head. “Um, I don’t think so. I just had a question for the owner--”

The girl is looking at Deo, her fingers linked with his. “Deo. I think...I think she might be your sister,” she says quietly.

Deo rears back, both his hands up, his face suddenly clouded with fury. “What?”

The girl nods at me. “She came in looking for Dante. He’s been sending her crazy gifts for years. Also...well, look at her.”

He flips his eyes to me. They’re the exact same gold-brown as mine. When he finally speaks, it’s between gritted teeth. “She looks...like the picture of Grandma in Grandpa’s room.”

I feel like all the air has suddenly left the shop, and I put one elbow out so I can lean my weight on the counter and catch my breath.

“What?” I ask, echoing his question from two seconds earlier.

The girl’s heels click over to a water cooler and she gets me a cup, then leads me to a stool. She helps me sit and hands me the cold paper cone, and I just let her like I’m a little kid and she’s my preschool teacher. When she leans over, her eyes search mine. She speaks slowly, like I’m in shock.

Am I in shock?

“My name is Whit Beckett. This is my husband, Deo. His father, Dante, is a mysterious man-whore. And you look a lot like a picture of Deo’s paternal grandmother.” She gives my hand a little push, encouraging me to take a sip of water.

“My name is Hattie Beckett.” I try to keep my voice from wobbling.

Deo paces the room, slamming a hand into the far wall and muttering a long line of curses. When he looks at me, his face is contorted with anger. “Hattie like Harriet?”

I nod.

“My grandma was named Harriet.” He stalks over to me, and I jump off the stool, ready to bolt before this crazy-ass lunatic can--

Before I make it to the door, Deo is crushing me in his arms. He smells like the beach, kind of salty and a little sweaty, with an undertone of sugar cookies. I’m so surprised, I don’t immediately try to wiggle out of his embrace, but I don’t put my arms around him either.

When he pulls back, his eyes look a little damp and his voice is hoarse.

“Holy fucking shit. I have a little sister.” He runs a rough hand over my hair, like he’s petting a puppy, then grabs me by the shoulders and turns me to face his wife and the owner. I’m pretty sure the three of us are sporting the exact same looks of extreme shock. “Whit, Rocko, look! I have a sister. Holy shit, my mom is going to freak. Grandpa is going to freak.”

Whit manages another small smile, but she’s looking at me. “Hattie? Are you okay?”

“Do I get to meet my grandmother?” I ask. “The one I look like?”

I feel this crazy kaleidoscope of excitement and fuzzy inability to focus on anything. I always felt awkward at my family get-togethers because, though I have many of my mother’s traits, all my female family members would joke over how non-Filipino I look. They all lovingly call me
Puti
--Tagalong for ‘white’--and of course I laughed along. And also wished I looked more like them. Or at least knew
who
it was I looked like.

It’s a tiny, weird piece of this whole puzzle, but the thought of meeting someone who looks like me is exciting.

Deo’s smile is pressed flat, and he takes my hands like we’ve known each other for years. I still feel like all of this is too much, too fast. He may be my brother, technically--maybe--but I don’t know him well enough for all this closeness.

“I’
m so sorry, Hattie. You would have loved her. She would have spoiled the crap out of you. But...Grandma died a few years back.”

Whit, Rocko, and Deo all look at me with sympathetic faces, and suddenly all three of them are closing in on me, maybe to get me in the middle of a big group hug, maybe to pat my back and tell me to cheer up at the same time.

Whatever it is, I can’t deal with it. At all.

I back away, shocked to find that tears are dripping off my face. Just when I come to grips with the fact that I’m crying, the cries turn to sobs, and I can’t even explain to these three people staring at me what the hell is going on.

Maybe because I don’t really know myself.

I choke out something about ‘fresh air’ and ‘need a few minutes’ and rush out onto the sidewalk and down to the stupid baby blue car I drove across the whole damn country.

My breath heaves in and out of my lungs, I have to bite my lip to keep myself from blubbering hard, and I’ve never in my life wanted to find a bat or pipe or crowbar and just do damage, but I do now.

Damn it, I want to beat the shit out of this car and my stupid father and his stupid, shallow gifts that I can never, ever exchange for a chance to meet the woman I look just like even one time, and I
hate him!

I fucking hate him so much!

I lean hard against the car door, bend over, and spread my hands on my knees, sobbing my little broken heart out while my very rational brain tries to figure out how, exactly, this whole maniac breakdown happened.

I cry until my throat is raw and I can barely see out of my eyes because they’re so puffy and sore. When I finally gurgle out my last few sobs and go quiet, I feel the little prickle on the back of my neck that lets me know someone is watching me. I look up and see Deo standing twenty feet away, still shirtless, hands in the pockets of his raggedy cargo shorts.

Like I cued him by looking up, he walks over, puts an arm around my shoulders, and leads me, gently, to a Jeep parked in front of the tattoo parlor.

“Hey, you gotta come and meet my mom, okay? Have a glass of wine. She’s got a great herbal potion thing for headaches. And we can get some grub. You hungry?”

I am.

I have this instinct to push him away, tell him I’m
fine
on my own. But I’m not. And it feels so good to just let someone else take over. I got the answers I was after, but I didn’t anticipate finding out all that I did, and now I have no game plan at all. Some wine and food and anything vaguely like aspirin sound fantastic.

Whit comes out of the parlor with a loop of keys to lock up with, and she and Rocko head to a separate car across the parking lot, so it’s just me and Deo on the drive over. Just me and my big brother.

I mean, I guess he’s my big brother. A tiny part of me is screaming that I should probably get a DNA test or see a birth certificate or something definitive before I just leave my car and hop into a Jeep with some crazy hugger with a tattoo of his wife as a mermaid on his back.

A less paranoid sector of my brain rationalizes that if it walks like a duck, swims like a duck, and quacks like a duck, it’s probably another duckling with the same loser drake father I was cursed with.