Makati City
Winnowing: the process of separating the shells from the roasted beans. A pain. Always a pain.
The map of Metro Manila in Santi’s mind was pretty clear. Quezon City was North, and whatever came after it was Too Far. At the center of Manila was his home base, Ortigas, a business district with subdivisions a stone’s throw away. Going south, in rapid succession, was Mandaluyong, Makati, Manila and Pasay, all places he had to pass on his way to the highway to get to Lipa.
From where he was standing, he could see most of that map spread out almost entirely before him. He liked this exercise, trying to recognize the places he frequented from a different angle. Like trying to see if home was still familiar, no matter how he saw it.
“A thousand pesos says he’s going to do it,” Miro said suddenly beside him, as the Santillan brothers pretended to be preoccupied by the view from the top floor of the Tan-Sy building. Views were essential to purchasing buildings after all, especially ones along one of the most expensive avenues in the country.
“He won’t,” Santi insisted, taking a slow sip of the coffee Miro had bought him. His little brother was enthusiastic when he said that it came from this cafe that was originally in Japan, or something. Santi personally preferred the Tomas Coffee Co. beans he had on stock in Villa. “He just likes the idea that he could.”
“If you knew that, then why would you bother driving all the way up here in the first place?” Miro asked, rolling his eyes, and Santi knew this Miro. This was “Upset At Everything” Miro, the one that showed up when Santi wasn’t cooperating with him. “Or are you really trying to suck up to Lolo that much?”
“I was promised family lunch,” Santi reasoned, which was true. Vito had promised lunch with his grandsons, but could they make a little stopover at this building first? “You remember those?”
“When Lolo would talk to the chef, convince him to make something off-menu? We haven’t had a meal like that in a long time.”
“I’m nostalgic like that.” Santi shrugged.
“Says the one who left in the middle of the night.” Miro rolled his eyes.
“That’s a lot of judgement from someone getting the penthouse at the Carlton,” Santi pointed out, raising a brow at his little brother, who rolled his eyes.
“I asked Lolo for a condo in Poblacion. The decent side of Poblacion, mind you, maybe even Rockwell. But nooo, hehadto insist on getting me the Carlton because he wanted to rubyournose in it.”
“Beggars can’t be choosers.” Santi shrugged, and he didn’t miss the irony in that statement. There was nothing about Miro Santillan that even hinted at begging. All Miro had to do to get what he wanted was to smile, and say, “You’re absolutely right, Lolo.”
While Santi and Miro could commiserate with each other (in fact there was nothing else they could talk about but their shared misery), having each other’s back was a completely different story. Miro was too attached to what he was getting from Lolo Vito to fight for Santi. Santi was too attached to his little brother to resent him for it.
When Santi told Miro about his idea, about Hotel Villa, Miro told him it was never going to work. “Just stop working so hard, Kuya. Lolo would never hurt you if you didn’t do anything to deserve it.” Then when Vito laughed and told Santi to stay in Lipa, since it was what he wanted so badly, Miro hadn’t fought for him, hadn’t disagreed. He even made it sound like Santi had purposefully gotten himself kicked out of Manila to spiteMiro, which was ridiculous. He understood Miro not wanting to rock the boat, if it meant living on a daily allowance that could feed a family of six without having to do a single thing.
But even as Santi stood there, the world at his feet, he knew that it wasn’t worth it. Because Miro was standing in an old building in the middle of the day against his will, and Santi was here because his grandfather had asked him to come. The motivations were just different.
A strange peace had settled over Santi. Well, not quite peace, but...detachment? Like he knew very well that this wasn’t the way real life worked for anyone. That they were (sadly) wasting someone’s time. Again. “Miro, did Lolo tell you about...”
“I think I’ve seen enough,” his grandfather suddenly announced, his way of saying, “I’ve done the mental math, and I can totally afford this building, but I’m not going to buy it.”
“Anton, what do you think? Is this building fit for my legacy?”
Santi honestly didn’t know what came over him. Maybe he was just feeling all of his thirty years and couldn’t believe he was still doing things like this. Maybe he realized he could be somewhere else right now—either sitting at Sunday Bakery, early for his afternoon meeting with Gabriel, or at Hotel Villa, taste-testing new food with his head chef. He could also be in Gemini Chocolate, trying his hardest not to buy every chocolate bar in sight.
But whatever it was, he still shrugged, and said, “I don’t know.”
And shit. He’d slipped. Santi could have given Vito any number of valid reasons not to buy the building—they were in hotels, not leasing, the capital gains tax they would have to pay would outweigh its benefits, nobody had mentionedwhythe building was being sold in the first place.
But no. Saying he didn’t know was akin to saying he didn’t care, and to a man who needed attention, it was the rudest thing Santi could have said to his grandfather.
Beside him, he heard Miro splutter. The men standing behind his grandfather, touring them around, suddenly looked like they wanted to be anywhere but here. Vito looked like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to laugh or scream.
“Well,” Vito said with a huff, turning to the others. “Shockingly, something he doesn’t know.”
Stupid. Really stupid.
Lunch had been extremely stilted and quiet, Vito brimming with all the things he wanted to say, and both Santi and Miro wishing they were anywhere but here. There was no special menu, no discussing their favorite old hobbies, none of Lolo talking about his prized fountain pen collection. Just...stony silence. Everything Santi didn’t want.
“I’m starting to wonder if you really want to come back to Manila, Kuya,” Miro had said after. It had meant to be teasing, Miro was always teasing, but it still hurt. “So much for family lunch. Lolo, I’ll go back with you to the house.”
Then he was left to stand there alone in a street corner in Arnaiz, his stomach full of really good Japanese food that he’d barely tasted. Santi sighed. He took his car and drove to Chino Roces Extension, across EDSA, because he was already here, and he might as well buy fancy bread while he was at it.
