The Escort

Chapter Fourteen

JOHN HAS TOLD me a lot of things about him. I’ve learned that he has been the breadwinner of his family when his father walked away from them when he was only thirteen years old. It has taken him quite some time to finish college. He has recently graduated at twenty-four, because of several financial setbacks. He has pulled through, nonetheless.

            “That must have been exhausting for you,” I say. I’ve ordered us some doughnuts, so that our stomachs won’t only be filled with our drinks alone. When I look at his face, I finally see him—the creases on his face, the bags underneath his eyes and the tiredness surfacing on his features. His exhaustion is contagious, because my shoulders are growing weary.

            “I got used to it,” he says in a whisper. It is an understatement. The amount of responsibility placed on his shoulders must be very heavy on him and yes, as time passes by, we may get used to the amount of work we have to put to make ends meet, but in the long run, the feeling of burning out will consume us slowly.

            “At some point, we do,” I agree. “Sometimes, we just get so tired… from doing these responsibilities that were burdened upon us since we were kids.” My eyes gaze far away, to the trees, my mind leading me back to the memories growing up. Ma and pa would take me to their business meetings when I was in high school during the weekends, asking me to take down notes on how to preside a meeting, especially they constantly reminded me that I am going to take over their company once I graduate in college.

            John’s stare pierces through me, as if he can see the thinly veiled façade I’ve been plastering. I’m scared he will see through the secrets I have been carrying for so long. It’s not like these are dark secrets, but these are secrets I’ve kept hidden for such a long time. The emotions I’ve felt throughout my childhood to my teens until my adult years have been locked in a box. I have carefully kept my emotions inside that box, and it has been sealed for quite a long time.

            He does not ask me anything, which is a relief. The silence consumes us. We have finished our drinks and our doughnuts and it seems like we’re signalling each other that this is the end of our conversation, of our coffee shop hangout. I don’t want to end it yet because his presence has brought me some sort of comfort. It has made me forget for quite a bit about my responsibilities, and I’m setting them aside when another day arises.

            I look at him. He has never wavered his stare on me, and I wonder what goes on inside his head. I wonder what he thinks of me. Does he dislike me because I’m rich? That I’m born rich? I don’t know how much he has suffered in his life, but I do know what it feels like to be handed with responsibilities that you are too young to understand.

            I raise a brow at him, shooting him a questioning look. He shakes his head, a small smile plastered on his lips. “I can’t quite figure you, Matilda. You’re too unreadable, and that’s coming from me who is good at reading people.”

            A lump catches on my throat. I am quite at ease knowing that he hasn’t seen through me—through my secrets—but at the same time, I want him to see me. “Why?” I ask in response to his statement.

            “Because you have this look on your face that bars me from seeing what you feel or think. Maybe you are compartmentalising with your emotions from your childhood by putting them in different boxes, and that makes you difficult for me to read,” he replies. He’s spot on with his answer. I neither confirm nor deny his claim but he does not tease me about it. I go to the counter to ask for a mug of water, excusing myself from his statement for a while.

            It has always been like that. My emotions, they are always safely guarded in different compartments. The first time I’ve experienced pain is when I was seven. I failed my math schoolwork because I couldn’t comprehend the lesson. When ma knew about it, she grounded me from any books I was religiously reading. The pain has been unbearable for a seven-year-old like me, especially I can’t quite understand why failing is not okay.

            The lump is still stuck on my throat. The tears are slowly stinging the bridge of my nose. I push the emotions back that are pushing me to be freed. I don’t want anyone to see me cry, especially not in front of John, again. There’s just something about him that makes him evoke emotions out of me. I go back to our table. He’s busy scrolling through his phone.

            “Took you long enough to come back.”

            “I had some restroom duties too,” I say, faking a smile.

            “Are you okay, though?” Concern etches on his face. He furrows his brows. When I don’t respond, he asks another question. “Do you want to go home?”

            “Yeah…” I say softly. He takes my hand, like the time he has taken my hand on my disastrous birthday, and leads me out of the store. He has always given me that comfort, but he can rile me up with my emotions. I am so confused with what my heart is telling me.

            “Where do you want me to drop you off?” I ask once we are inside my car.

            “You can drop me off near the train stop,” he sheepishly replies.

            “I should probably just drive you to your house because trains might be fully packed at this time.”

            “How did you know?”

            “I sometimes watch the news.” I quietly drive us away, the trees growing smaller and smaller from my side mirror. John has only spoken to me to give directions to his house after insisting a lot of times that he doesn’t want me to drop him off.

            “It’s no big deal,” I tell him. We are caught in a traffic jam but it’s alright because it eases my mind from the different thoughts pooling inside my head. This traffic diverts my attention away from the buried emotions I’ve kept for years.

            I play some music on my phone through the bluetooth speaker of my car, and John jams along with it. “Today was nice,” he says. He is smiling as he bops his head along to the beat of the music. “I appreciate you for taking the time to hang out with me.”

            My heart melts. His words are heartwarmingly genuine that they put a smile to my face. “It is, though our topic is quite heavy, don’t you think?”

            He chuckles. “Well, my life has been quite a heavy topic.” He sobers up, the smile gone on his face. “Despite the many hardships I’ve faced though, it still did not make me forget to smile and choose to be happy.”

            “You’re resilient, and strong,” I compliment him. “I don’t know how I can survive what you’ve experienced.”

            “At some point you have survived some of the worst experiences you’ve encountered, so that does not cancel the fact that you are strong.” Tears blink in my eyes. “You are strong Matilda.”

            My grip on the steering wheel tightens, until my knuckles grow white. I control the tears from pouring. I don’t want to cry in front of John again, because I dislike being vulnerable around him. Around anyone as a matter of fact. People perceive me as a strong-headed woman who do not need anyone to lean on to during the difficult times. Usually, they’re the ones who lean on me for support during their toughest times. Like Janet.

            After two hours stuck in traffic, I finally drop him off near where he lives. He gives me a shy smile, his eyes darting from the place then to me. “Is there something wrong?” I ask him.

            He scratches his head. “It’s just, I don’t think you’d like to see where I live.”

            “No need to be ashamed of it quite honestly. You have an honest work.”

            “An honest job to pretend to people you might care about,” he retorts which catches me off guard. He does not make it out to be off-putting, but it still leaves me dumbfounded.

            “I have my reasons,” I say tightly. “See you next time?” I ask, before he can say something else.

            His cheeks are limned in crimson. “My mom wants to see you and cook some food for you.”

            “Oh.” I raise a brow but a smile makes a way to my lips. “I would love to meet your mom.”

            “My place isn’t that nice…”

            “It’s okay. I don’t mind.”

            “Okay,” he exhales. I park the car first in the garage of the apartment building where he lives. I don’t think living in an apartment is bad, it’s quite alright though he must be living with his family and may constrict his personal space.

            The apartment building looks old, the white paint slowly chipping off from its walls. The owner of this building probably loves to leave this place not updated, while the rent probably goes higher and higher annually.

            “Mama I’m home,” John greets as he unlocks the door. His mom is watching a show in the television, probably a soap opera because her eyes are rimmed red and brimming with tears. She turns her head and gives her son a heartwarming smile. She looks lovingly at her son and that small pang hits my chest. Ma has never looked at me that way.

            “Who’s this beautiful hija you brought? I hope this is your future wife so that I can already get an apo,” she says endearingly.

            “Mama, she’s the one I told you about who hired me to be her fake boyfriend,” he says, rolling his eyes at his mom’s teasing hints. “Also, she’s my friend.”

            “Are you really sure you guys are just friends?” she probes, a teasing glint on her lips. A young girl emerges out of a room, perhaps a bedroom and jumps up and down when she sees John.

            “Kuya!” she squeals, and jumps on him with a hug. “Where have you been? You usually arrive earlier.” She pouts. When she notices my presence, she sends me a glare.

            “Are you the reason why my kuya is brokenhearted?” Her eyes are in slits and before she can further interrogate me like a police officer, John stands between me and her, and he crouches down to her height. “Relax, Aya, she’s my friend, Matilda.”

            Aya, his sister, calms down. “Oh, I’m sorry for being rude,” she says ruefully. She gives me a hug which I hesitantly give in return. I usually don’t hug anyone unless I am comfortable with them.

            “It’s fine, I know we need to protect the ones we love from getting hurt, right?”

            She gives me a huge nod and her mouth widens into a smile. “Kuya, I like her better than your last one. She’s so pretty and nice and she smells good, too.” I laugh. John’s mom goes to their kitchen which is only a few steps away from the living room. I follow John and his mom to the kitchen, while Aya trails behind me like a lost puppy.

            His mom starts marinating some chicken legs, which smells so good and reminds me of amah’s food back then. “What are you cooking, tita?” I ask while John peels some potatoes and slices them into large pieces.

            “Please, you can call me Joyce,” his mom says. “I’m cooking chicken adobo. This is John’s favourite dish. I always cook it for him whenever he requests.”

            “It smells good Joyce,” I compliment, feeling a bit awkward to call his mom by her name. “It reminds me of when my grandmother used to cook some home dishes to me and my sister when I was little. I miss her food to be honest.”

            “She must be a wonderful grandma,” she says. Aya quietly sits on the dining table, playing some mobile games. John sits beside her and cuddles her. He looks adorably affectionate towards his sister, a side I’ve never seen from him.

            “She is. Thank you for inviting me to your humble abode. I am happy that you invited me.” I truly mean it. My heart is bursting in a multitude of positive emotions, and I have temporarily forgotten the sadness that flickers in my chest.

            “No, thank you for hiring John. You have helped us,” she says gratefully. “John has been having a hard time paying rent. Our landlord has increased our rent and he was so desperate for the past few months to find another job.” She is almost in tears as she narrates it.

            “I’m sorry to hear that your landlord unreasonably increased your rent.” I fish some bills in my wallet and place them on her palm. “Keep this, for your day-to-day needs.” Joyce’s eyes glisten in tears.

            “Oh god, thank you. You’re such an angel,” she cries and places the money on her dress pocket. She continues cooking the aromatic chicken adobo while I sit with John and Aya in the dining table.

            “Is mama crying?” John asks me, raising a brow to ask me what happened.

            “Yeah, I gave her some extra cash.”

            He does not say anything but he smiles, and I know that he is grateful for me. My chest warms at the expression.