Chapter 2: The Reunion
The humid night air clung to Karla’s skin like a second dress as she stepped out of the jeepney. The bar’s neon sign buzzed, a flickering scarlet scrawl that stained the damp pavement. Inferno. She’d told her aunt she was meeting a friend from nursing school. The lie sat on her tongue, sour and familiar.
Inside, the noise hit her like a wall. Laughter, shouted Tagalog over thumping bass, the clatter of bottles. Ceiling fans churned the smell of sweat, fried pork, and spilled San Miguel. She smoothed her top, a simple black thing she’d chosen because it wasn’t the type of thing Paul would imagine her in. It was tighter. It was for here.
He was at a corner table, already watching the door. Gerald. A year younger, but he carried himself with the ease of someone who’d never doubted his place in a room. He saw her and didn’t smile, just raised his chin, a slow, acknowledging tilt. His shirt was open one button too many, revealing the tanned, firm lines of his chest. The same.
“You came,” he said as she slid onto the stool opposite him. His voice cut through the music, low and sure.
“You asked.” She couldn’t meet his eyes for long. She focused on his hands, resting on the chipped tabletop. Strong. Knowing.
A bottle of Red Horse appeared in front of her. He’d already ordered. “For old times,” he said, clinking his against hers. She took a swallow, the beer bitter and cold.
“So,” he started, leaning back, his gaze a physical weight. “How’s the American boy? Paul, right?” He said the name like it was a joke, a childish word. “Sending you flowers yet?”
She felt a flush creep up her neck. “It’s not like that.”
“It’s always like that.” He took a long drink, his eyes never leaving her. “They think they’re saving you. Marrying you. Giving you a green card dream.” He laughed, a short, sharp sound. “He know about me? About us?”
The question was a punch to the gut. “No.”
“Of course not.” He leaned forward suddenly, the table edge pressing into his stomach. The proximity was electric, dangerous. She could smell his cologne, something spicy and expensive, cutting through the bar stench. “He thinks you’re a sweet little nurse. A good girl. Waiting for a nice man to write you letters.” He reached out, not touching her, just tracing a finger along the air near her forearm. “But you’re not that girl with me, were you, Karla?”
Memories, unbidden: dark hotel rooms, the roar of air conditioning, the feel of his hands, proprietary and demanding. The way he’d look at her after, like she was a conquest he was proud of. It had felt like power then. Now it felt like a confession she hadn’t made.
“Why did you ask to see me, Gerald?”
He shrugged, a lazy roll of his shoulders. “I’m in town. Thought of you. Heard you were getting serious with this Paul guy.” A mean little smile played on his lips. “Wanted to see if you’d changed. Or if you’re just playing dress-up for him.”
“I’m not playing.”
“Aren’t you?” He finished his beer. “Come on. Let’s get out of this noise.”
He didn’t ask. He stood, dropped some pesos on the table, and expected her to follow. After a heartbeat of silence, where Paul’s kind hazel eyes flashed in her mind, she did. He led her through a grimy door marked ‘Private’, into a narrow, hot hallway stacked with crates. At the end was a storage room, smelling of stale mop water and cigarettes.
He closed the door. The bar’s bass became a dull, distant throb.
In the dim light from a single bare bulb, he looked at her. Really looked. “You miss it,” he stated, not asking.
She said nothing. Her heart hammered against her ribs.
“You miss the way it was. No letters. No stupid flowers. Just… this.” He closed the distance in one stride. His hands came up to cradle her face, rough and certain. His kiss wasn’t gentle. It was a reclamation. It tasted of beer and dominance and a history that threatened to swallow her whole. She fought for a second, a feeble push against his chest, but then her body betrayed her, melting into the familiarity of it, the shocking, shameful thrill.
It was quick, urgent, against the cold concrete wall. His mouth at her neck, his hands hiking up her dress. No sweet words. Just grunted instructions, the scrape of his zipper, the bite of his grip on her hips. He was a force, and she was something he was moving, using. Proving a point. To her. To the ghost of the American boy. She turned her head, her cheek pressed against the rough wall, eyes squeezed shut. A single, clear image surfaced: the pressed daisy, perfectly centered in its frame on Paul’s desk, thousands of miles away. Then it shattered into sensation as Gerald finished with a shudder, his weight heavy against her.
Silence, except for their ragged breathing. He stepped back, adjusting his clothes with a casual efficiency that felt like a slap. She straightened her dress, her fingers trembling. She felt raw. Used. Exhilarated. Empty.
“See?” he said, his voice husky. He lit a cigarette, the match flare cruel in the gloom. “No pretending with us.”
She finally found her voice, small in the cramped room. “That’s all it ever was, wasn’t it? Just this.”
He exhaled a plume of smoke. “It was fun. It is fun. Don’t make it into one of his love stories.” He reached out, tucked a strand of sweaty hair behind her ear, a mockery of tenderness. “You can have both, you know. His letters. My visits. He never needs to know.”
The offer hung in the smoky air, ugly and practical.
She pushed past him, out of the room, back into the hallway, the bar noise swelling again. She didn’t look back.
The jeepney ride home was a blur of passing lights and hollow noise. Her body ached in specific, secret places. She could still smell him on her skin.
In the silent, dark safety of her bedroom, she stripped and stood under the shower’s weak, lukewarm stream, scrubbing until her skin was pink. It didn’t help. She pulled on a faded shirt and sat on the edge of her bed. Her eyes went to her desk. To the small, cheap frame she’d bought after his first letter. Inside, the daisy was a brown, fragile ghost. A symbol of something gentle.
Her phone, charging on the nightstand, buzzed. A message notification lit up the screen. Paul. Her breath hitched.
She didn’t pick it up. She just stared at the flower, then down at the faint, bluish mark already forming on her hip where Gerald’s fingers had dug in. Two brands. Two claims.
The phone screen went dark.
She sat in the quiet, the choice no longer theoretical. It was written on her body. And she had no idea, none at all, which mark would fade first.