Epilogue
December 2020
New Year’s Eve
The Laneways
“Come on, come on, there’s nobody here,” Kira whispered, tugging Santi’s arm insistently out to the fire escape that connected Sunday Bakery’s kitchen and Café Cecilia’s coffee lab, the perfect spot to look out into the city. The all-too-familiar December breeze felt a little more special, more like a caress tonight than anything. “I didn’t think people would do fireworks this year!”
“I didn’t think we would be breaking into Sari’s coffee lab today, but it’s been nothing but surprises with you,” Santi said, only mildly sarcastic.
They made it to the fire escape, just in time for one of the nearby neighbors to start shooting fireworks up in the sky, one bigger than the other.
“Clearly we were wrong to underestimate Lipa,” Santi agreed, looking up as the sky lit up gold, blue, green and red. Whoever had managed to secure the fireworks (which had been impossible for them to find), they had to be really close by; Kira could almost reach up and touch the lights. Not that she was going to, and it was obviously a fire hazard, but it made the night all the more magical. Like the universe was giving her heartfelt approval.
Kira felt Santi’s arms wrap around her from behind, and she leaned her head against his chest, feeling safe enough to take a deep breath.
“Hey,” she teased. “Social distancing kaya.”
“We’re a single household now,” he teased back. “Unless I married someone else in the church this morning?”
“Yes, that was my evil twin,” Kira giggled, enjoying the feeling of her new husband’s body wrapped around hers. “It’s been our plan all along to seduce you, marry you, have a happily ever after with you.”
“Scary,” he said dryly.
“Terrifying,” she chuckled. “But exciting. And lovely. And happy, and hopeful.”
“All the good things,” he agreed.
They’d been in this position several times now, but this time felt different. The first of many things they would do together as a married couple.
They almost didn’t push through with the wedding. It felt ridiculous to spend any amount of money, to risk everyone else, just because Ate Nessie couldn’t stop commenting about how Kira was “living in sin” with Santi and the Cat.
But they found a way, inviting only Kira’s family to the ceremony and a guest list of less than twenty for the dinner Santi made for everyone at La Spezia’s al fresco dining space on the Laneways. Everyone got a mask, locally made soap and sanitizer, and an option to join the festivities via video.
It was more than enough for them.
“Miro texted,” Santi said. “He said he had to go, but make sure I said congratulations, or best wishes. Maybe it was good luck.”
“I’m glad he could come.” Kira grinned, still watching the fireworks.
Santi hadn’t been sure that his brother was coming, and despite his insistence that he would have been fine either way, Kira thanked the freaking stars above when Miro Santillan showed up in a mask that matched his tie, and the best-smelling hand sanitizer Kira had ever had the pleasure of being sprayed into her hands. He sat at the very back of Bolbok church and volunteered to man the video chat.
Before that, the brothers Santillan talked mostly on the phone, and in-person conversation was both difficult and a little awkward (especially that one time they tried video chatting), but they had each other’s backs.
“Someone had to tell your mom to mute herself.”
“I had no idea how she got the Zoom link to the wedding,” Santi said apologetically. “But I thought it was funny.”
“She called you a traitor.”
“Lally told her to go fuck herself. I’d say things are even.” Santi shrugged, and Kira turned to look at Santi. There were still days when he would get nostalgic and sad about his family. In fact, it made for a lot of their struggles—that she felt they lingered around them like a ghost, that he couldn’t totally move on. But he was a lot better about talking to her about it now. “Lolo was online, too. I don’t know who set it up, and his camera was off, but he was there.”
Kira was about to say something to the effect of asking if it was a good thing, when her phone vibrated. In her dress. Santi’s grip loosened as he raised a brow at her.
“Did your boobs just—”
“What? It was my pocket, get your head out of the gutter, husband,” she said, pulling her phone from the pocket of her creamy dress. She’d taken inspiration from Princess Beatrice’s wedding dress when she commissioned her own from at least three local seamstresses and paid premium for it. It was a thing of cream and gorgeous silver shimmery beads, and she felt like a full-on princess, which was the point. The pockets had been on her insistence, much to the chagrin of the mananahi. “The home baking association at Haraya ordered three kilos of 60% dark chocolate triangles this morning, I just wanted to make sure the tricycle didn’t miss them or something.”
