My eyes meet his, and for the first time, I really take him in. He's tall—easily six feet—and he's wearing an apron with the words "Pet's World" over a loose, oversized hoodie and baggy jeans. The clothes drape over his frame, making it hard to gauge his build, but there's a relaxed way he carries himself that suggests he's comfortable in his own skin.
His skin is pale, and it's easy to see the mix of his Filipino and Chinese heritage in his sharp features: high cheekbones, almond-shaped eyes, and a strong jawline. The backward cap he's wearing keeps his hair hidden, with just a few dark strands peeking out underneath. He looks casual, almost effortlessly so, and there's something about the way he stands, leaning slightly against the counter, that tells me he's carrying the unbroken confidence and the unbridled arrogance of youth.
He's definitely younger than me, probably early twenties. A Gen Z, most likely. The thought makes me feel even more self-conscious. I must look like a mess compared to this casual, put-together kid. Great.
"Excuse me?" I say, crunching my brows. "Don't be a bad mom?"
He shrugs. "You're Lolita's fur mom, right? I was in charge of her grooming the last time you sent her here."
I pause, thinking about when was the last time I sent Lolita for a grooming. Feels like ages ago. Back then, I still had a job. Cass did tell me to have Lolita groomed every six to eight weeks, but my pet's care hasn't been at the top of my priorities in the past few months. He's right. I've been a bad mom, but I'm not going to have another stranger judge me.
"What makes you think I didn't bring her to another grooming clinic?" I force myself to keep my gaze steady, my jaw tightening. "With how the staff are treating their customers here," I make sure to eye him pointedly so he knows I'm referring to him, "it's not a surprise if I switch to another place."
"That so?" He's not fazed at all. He leans back slightly with his hands tucked into his hoodie pockets. "Name the grooming clinic, then." If it isn't a dare, then I don't know what it is. The provocation in his eyes is clear.
Quick, Ermita. Come up with something.
I scramble for a name, but I got nothing. Before Lolita, I wasn't exactly a pet person. Nothing comes to mind, and I feel my cheeks heat up. My silence betrays me.
"Thought so." He says this without gloating. If I checked him out earlier, now it's his turn to do so. His brown eyes framed with long lashes travel from my head to toe, looking bored and judgey. He has a talent for showing both expressions at the same time. When he's had enough of scrutinizing me, he comments, "If it's about the money…I can just give it to Lolita for free."
I pause, unsure of his intentions. "W-what?"
He shrugs again. "Seems like you could use it. Lolita's old, and it's not her fault she's not getting the care she needs."
Oh wow. Do I really look that bad? Turns out Ms. Alcantara wasn't exaggerating when she called me out this morning for my appearance. I'm taken aback by this. Uncertain as to how to respond, I blurt out, "Free? Really?"
Nodding once, he replies, "Yeah."
Still in disbelief, I ask, "Do you usually give free services like this?"
"Anything for that beauty." Before I get the wrong idea—like maybe this effortlessly good-looking and much younger guy is hitting on me—he adds, "I meant Lolita, obviously. She's a sweetie," tone flat, and without a hint of flirtation.
Trying to brush off the embarrassment I felt for being called a bad fur mom, for clearly looking like I can't afford to pay for my pet's needs, and for assuming for a split-second that his offer had something to do with me, I fumble and shift my weight, feeling the heat rise in my cheeks again.
Maybe he really is just fond of that grumpy old cat.
Instead of being defensive, I ease up a little. "Thanks for the offer. I'll send her in soon. But you don't have to do it for free." Gee, Ermita. Prideful much?
He doesn't react, just watches me unabashedly, not breaking eye contact. When I think he's about to say something that will embarrass me again, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I glance at the screen, grateful for the interruption. The caller ID shows an unknown number.
Right now, I'll take any reason to break this conversation.
"Hold on," I mutter, already reaching for my phone. "Hello?"
"Hi, is this Ermita Mandaue?" a bright, professional voice asks on the other end, her thick Bisaya accent palpable.
"Yes, speaking." I keep my tone polite, though I can feel his eyes still on me. I turn away, my attempt at putting some privacy between us.
"Great! This is Janine from Carat.Ph. I'm calling about your application for the writing position. Our boss would love to schedule an interview with you tomorrow, if you're available."
For a moment, I'm completely blank. Carat.Ph? I don't remember sending them an application. But then again, I've been so desperate lately, applying everywhere and maybe I forgot. I clear my throat, trying to sound confident. "Oh, yes, of course. Carat.Ph, yes, I remember."
"Perfect! Can you come by at 1 p.m.?"
"Uh, yes, I can do that," I pray that my voice doesn't carry my confusion. "Thank you for the opportunity."
"Wonderful! We'll text you the address. See you tomorrow. Have a great day!" Janine sounds pleased.
"Thank you. You too." I hang up, still feeling a bit off-kilter. When I realize I'm staring at my phone in a daze, I slip it into my pocket and turn back to the counter. To his benefit, he had the decency to look away during my phone call. His gaze is no longer on me, and is instead turned towards the door as a new customer enters the grooming clinic.
Good, guess we're done here.
I need to go home. Need to figure out what Carat.Ph is, so I can ace my interview tomorrow. I glance at the cat food he's still holding, my urgency pushing any awkwardness aside. "How much?"
"Three hundred fifty pesos," he replies, handing it over. I give him the cash. He counts it slowly, but I'm barely paying attention.
As he hands me my change, I grab it and stuff it into my bag, my focus already shifting. "Thanks," I mutter, snatching the cat food from the counter. I turn on my heel and head for the door, the bell chiming as I push it open.
I don't even look back as I step out onto the street. I need to get home and check my emails—maybe there's something there that will jog my memory about this Carat.Ph. Whatever it is, it could be my chance to get back on track.
___________
Lolita meows as soon as I call out her name. She lovingly rubs her head against my leg, her whiskers tickling me. I drop the bag of cat food on the counter before crouching down to pet her. The walk back home took around twenty minutes. I don't mind the exercise. It's still early, and the sun isn't as unkind this time of day.
Rushing to my computer, I turn it on and tap my foot impatiently as it boots up, every second feeling like it's dragging. Lolita winds between my legs again, but my focus is glued to the screen as the desktop finally appears. I pull up my email and type Carat.Ph into the search bar.
Nothing comes out. No email, no application record—nothing at all. I frown, leaning closer as I scroll through my inbox, double-checking every folder—sent, spam, trash. Still, there's no trace of it.
Confusion prickles at the back of my mind. Did I imagine the whole thing? I try typing different variations—Carat with two R's, Karat, anything that might bring up a match. But all I get are old job rejections, newsletters I don't remember signing up for, and spam.
Okay, this is weird. I push away from the desk and open a browser, typing Carat.Ph into the search bar. The first result that pops up is a jewelry store. Sleek, expensive, with images of sparkling engagement rings and diamond bracelets plastered all over the homepage.
I click on the site, scanning the page for any mention of writing jobs or applications, but all I see are collections and gift guides. I try searching the site itself, but nothing related to job opportunities comes up.
I sit back, puzzled. What is going on? I could have sworn that's what the woman on the phone said. I type in "Carat.Ph job opening" and hit enter, but the results are just more jewelry store listings and vague business directory entries. No mention of a writing position, no indication that they're hiring anyone for anything other than gemologists.
Feeling more confused than ever, I stare at the screen. Tomorrow is the scheduled date for the interview, and I can't afford to let an opportunity slip away, even if I have no idea what I'm walking into. I can't very well message them and ask what their company is all about since that would just make me look unprepared, or worse, clueless. And I need to seem like I know what I'm doing, especially if there's even a slim chance of landing this job.
After some quick deliberation, I made up my mind. I'll go to the interview, play it cool, and figure it out from there. The address is in BGC. Not a suspicious enough location. Worst case scenario, I go home still jobless. Best case? I've got a shot at a fresh start.
I glance down at Lolita, who's watching me with her usual curiosity. "Let's hope it's not some kind of scam," I murmur, running my fingers through her fur. I can't help but notice how matted and tangled it's gotten. She really does need grooming, and deep down, I know it. But the fact that the guy from the grooming clinic had to point it out still irks me.
The memory of our conversation creeps back in, unwelcome. It was... unusual? Vexing? I can't even find the right word to describe it. If it was the past me he was talking to, he'd never have gotten away with that attitude. But the Ermita Mandaue he met was a toned down version. Lucky him. Anyway, I have enough on my plate already. I push the encounter to the back of my mind, determined not to dwell on it any longer.
"Hey, girl," Done with my urgent task, I pick up the can of cat food and pour it into her bowl. She digs in, purring softly. I sit back on my heels, watching her eat. "We'll get through this, promise."