I was shit on a stick, and I knew it.
I curled into a fetal position on my bed, wallowing in depression and guilt, the tears streaming down unto my stained sheets.
To be honest, I didn't know what came over me that stormy night.
Robby's not even my type. All three of my ex-boyfriends were slim, fit, and fair-skinned men, usually rich, and all of them either high-profile professionals or successful businessmen. I hate to be a bigoted bitch but that was what I was. I couldn't reconcile the fact that I was attracted to the dark-skinned, chubby messenger of the firm. Me, its rising star.
When Robby gave me that long-stemmed rose some days ago, I was elated. Robby's cute, but that was all it was, a crush. It was just the effect of titillation.
But when he appeared from out of nowhere and kept me company that stormy night? Who wouldn't be swept off her feet by a knight in shining armor?
I was vulnerable. The break-up with Jeffrey gave me a low sense of self-esteem. I hadn't had any sex after it, not even to masturbate. And frankly, I didn't have any libido after the breakup. Or so I thought.
There was something about Robby that night. The way the droplets of rain dripped down from his hair unto Robby's broad chest then to his belly. The smell of his cheap deodorant and shampoo; his own natural musky scent. The heat emanating from his body. I felt drawn to touch him, to wrap my arms around him, to kiss his skin and taste his seed. My loins were on fire and wanted to do more.
But the mental and physical fatigue of working late hours for the past weeks took over and I fell asleep in Robby's arms. I felt a warm comfort, cradled in his arms, a sense of peace and belongingness that I never experienced with my previous boyfriends.
Robby and I had an intense connection and it scared the hell out of me.
I was a bitch, I know. A cold, bigoted bitch who couldn't see past the color of Robby's skin, his station in life and the amount of money in his bank account. I knew he was in love with me, and I took advantage of it. I used him to feel better about myself, and to scratch the itch in my pussy.
He was right. I treated him like a dildo, a fuckboy.
I overlooked the fact that he was a warm, caring, responsible and loving person who came to my rescue at the height of a storm. I disregarded his best efforts to keep things light and friendly when I asked for time to process what I was feeling after that stormy night. I lied. I didn't do shit. I shoved my feelings aside, having a hard time dealing with the thought that I gave a blowjob to our errand boy. I was a fucking slut.
To my defense, I didn't know why I acted aggressively during the storm. I was always coy and demure with all my boyfriends. While not an innocent in bed, I never took the lead either. My boyfriends always had to seduce me into sex. Meanwhile, all Robby had to do was show up in the office, drenched like a baby duck, and I became the wanton whore of Babylon.
The thought made my stomach turn.
Despite all that, Robby was a complete gentleman. He never spread any stories about getting head from a senior associate to the other people in the office. He never gave me any lurid looks or treated me like a conquest. Robby tried to pretend that nothing happened, kept our working relationship light and easy, even though I knew he was madly in love with me. He treated me with more respect, concern and devotion than any of my exes.
And I used him like a fuckboy from Tinder.
The man wanted to give me his heart and all I saw was his cock. Robby was right to get angry with me. I don't blame him for throwing me to the floor. I deserved to be treated like a piece of trash.
Damn it, yes, I admit it
It took a colossal fuck-up to make me realize that I was in love with Robby. I treated him like filth because I didn't want to say it to myself. I, Penelope de los Santos, magna cum laude with a baccalaureate degree in accounting; a graduate of a prestigious Catholic university; topnotcher in the CPA board exams; fastest rising associate in the auditing firm of Pedron, Cheval and Tamante, rumored to become junior partner in 5 years; and only daughter of Governor Melandro de los Santos of the Province of Southern Merovan...
...was in love with a no-name errand boy from some far-flung barrio in Mindanao. My life had become the plot of some trashy Tagalog telenovela shown on weekday afternoons.
"I hope they get Anne Curtis to play my role," I profess between sobs, then giggle at my vanity. I blew into a tissue and sniffled, wiping my tears away with the side of my hand.
This was the third night in a row of ugly emotional breakdowns. I couldn't afford to do it at the office. I was cool and controlled when I reported for work. But I kept looking for Robby, to explain why I did what I did... to apologize and admit that I was wrong.
But he didn't show up.
After our last fight, Robby submitted the boss' package at the tax office, then immediately filed for a vacation. I found out that he had about 2 months worth of leave credits accrued. He hadn't taken a single leave for five years ever since... well, ever since I joined the firm.
I hugged my pillow tightly, and pondered for the nth time at how much of a shit I was.
Robby wasn't taking any calls, either from me or the office. Maybe he threw his SIM card away. We didn't even know where he was. I suspected that Robby went home to Surigao to be with his family. The firm didn't have any records of any landline that I could call in his hometown. But at this point, I suspect he'd drop the phone if I attempted to call.
The head of Personnel was curious why I was asking for all this information. My alibi was that Robby had pending work that I needed updates on. But his friends from among the staff became cold and indifferent. I suspected that they knew. If they breathed word of it to the senior partners, I would be in trouble.
And I felt shitty knowing that I let that matter; that I would overlook Robby's feelings just to get ahead in this firm. I was shit on a stick, I kept repeating to myself. Shit on a stick, coated in vomit, and reheated from a filthy pan.
Sigh.
Well, there was only one way to make this right.
I picked up my phone and dialed a number.
-oOo-
It was a cold and gloomy afternoon when I approached the little bungalow. An old woman dressed in a well-worn t-shirt and faded skirt was arranging a bundle of wood at its yard. I looked around and thought that it couldn't get more provincial than this.
The nearest neighbor was some distance away. We were surrounded by various trees: coconut, mango, mabolo, caimito and bamboo. Goats, dogs, chickens and other rural livestock were moving free-range through the vicinity. The terrain was uneven, grassy and full of craggy rocks. Behind the house, I saw an upturned brown patch of soil, with corn, eggplant, malunggay and other crops. Further from afar, there was a glimpse of the sea, and a briny tang filled the winds coming from the coast.
It was a long, hard travel to get here. I had to book a flight to Surigao at the last minute, then when I arrived, there was a 3-hour trip by bus, a 45-minute ride at the back of a provincial motorcycle, and then an uphill climb on a beaten but rocky dirt path to this remote barrio. It was a miracle that I could find out where Robby's house was. After asking from a lot of people, I found somebody related to the Dimaculangan's, who gave me directions to their home. When I finally got there, I had to ask a few more people for confirmation, who were more than willing to help this aristocratic-looking city girl find her way. There were a lot of questions behind those curious stares, but the people were too polite to ask why I was there. Neither did I volunteer any answers.
