“We?” Miro laughed. “I don’t think so.I’moff to this secret bar that’s supposed to have arcade games and an even more awesome bartender. You’re going to fix this, because I know you, and I know you already have a solution. You probably handed Kit the cash right after the wedding.”
He wasn’t wrong. Santi had already approached the groom after the wedding, offering his congratulations during the family photos before he slipped him an envelope with thirty thousand pesos of his own money—enough to cover the couples’ expenses for the Santillans’ dinners, at least ten thousand “from their Ninang and Ninong” and the rest as a gift from Santi, Miro and Lolo Vito, because it was a polite thing for the guest to do.
He wasn’t going to say out loud that he never really expected any of his family to give a wedding gift.
“And, Lolo is looking for you,” Miro said, and Santi immediately dropped his shoulders as he wondered what his grandfather possibly had to say to him. Last week he drove to Manila for three hours just to listen to his four-hour treatise on why taxes were an illusion, and he shouldn’t pay them (they were not, and he had to). The time before, it was to rub in Santi’s face that the Carlton was doingabsolutely spectacular, without actually adding the words, “ever since I fired you.”
But Santi was a good grandson. A dutiful one. So he sat down and said nothing. Absorbed all that bullshit and never truly let it wring out.
“Hmm,” was all Santi said, but Miro could sense the blood in the water, and pounced.
“I thought you would be a little happier to get face time with Lolo, since you exiled yourself to the probinsya and all,” Miro commented. “We can’t all be lucky enough to get away, you know.”
“You could have come with me,” Santi said, raising a brow. “You could have cut yourself off from the family funds, worked for yourself.”
“Oh no, my allowance keeps me too comfy for that. Lolo thinks I’m too dumb to be put to work, and I don’t have to live in the province.” Miro shrugged. “Huh. I guessI’mthe lucky one.”
Santi would have loved to argue with Miro on that, because they both knew that there was not a dumb bone in Miro Santillan’s body. But there was little point in doing that today. Instead he smiled at his brother, assured him that he’d already taken care of the problem (“of course you have”) and said goodbye.
Santi watched Miro walk away for a moment before he went up the staircase to get to the reception venue, which was, as expected, full of wedding guests.
Another one of the pitfalls of a wedding was the time in between—figuring out what on earth guests were supposed to do when they were hungry, bored and waiting for you to finish taking all the pictures and the same-day-edit video.
Today’s happy couple had decided on a classic solution, with a photo booth in the corner, standing tables, iced tea and pica-pica of garlic peanuts or crispy fried kangkong with dip. Not enough to get guests drunk or full before they had their dinners, but enough to tide them over until then.
“Ton-ton!” One of his distant relatives waved at him as he walked past, and Anton smiled blandly and waved back, hoping they wouldn’t approach. Family gatherings were prime places for gossip, and Anton didn’t have the energy to explain that no, he wasn’t actually “banished” to Lipa per se, he just chose to go there after Vito didn’t give him any other option, which was totally a different thing.
When he’d walked out of that convenience store three years ago, he’d pictured himself working with Miro and his grandfather, making improvements on the Villa’s hotel, making it another diamond in the chain of Carlton Resorts and Hotels. Instead, Miro had rejected the idea outright, claiming disinterest, and his grandfather had laughed in Santi’s face and said “good luck” without any emotion or care, and signed the check.
Santi made the best he could with the situation. But still that feeling that he didn’t belong in Lipa followed him. That Manila was where he had to be, because this was where his family was. Even if Manila didn’t feel right anymore.
“An-ton!” A shrill hiss pulled him out of his reverie, just as he was about to take a bite of the plate of crispy kangkong in front of him. He really did like it, but only if the garlic aioli dip was made right, and the chef at this particular Carlton had the perfect recipe.
“Mama,” he said, giving her a perfunctory but still polite kiss on the cheek. “Where’s Papa?”
“Oh you know your father, he finds the first opportunity to leave and takes it.” Joyce Santillan shrugged. “He’s at the mall across the street, but he’ll be back. Did you just get in from Batangas?” she asked, straightening her back as her eyebrow rose. She carefully gave him a once-over glance, looking for a point of attack. She wasn’t going to find anything. “I did not see you at the wedding.”
“I was sitting in the back,” he explained.
“Hmm,” his mother said like the answer was satisfactory.
Joyce Santillan very closely resembled Miro in the looks and charm department, but where Miro had inherited his naturally, Joyce had learned hers. Moving to Manila from Lipa to her had meant leaving everything behind and not looking back. Santi wondered what she made of her son going back there. She certainly never said anything to him about it.
“I heard from Choning that you slipped Kit thirty thousand pesos on behalf of the family,” she told him, her canary diamond earrings shaking as she did. “I would have thought you would be a lot less reckless with Tatay’s money.”
It’s my money,Santi thought. He saw every peso his brother and his own parents spent, how they charged the family for a sneeze, thanks to an email thread that always conveniently forgot to remove him. ButSantiwas the one reckless with the funds. Santi was the one who was “lucky” enough to still have a life, was the one who had abandoned them.
Santi who had lost access to all those accounts when he was fired, who was too guilty not to refuse a request from Vito. Sure.
“It’s polite,” Santi pointed out. “Especially since you’re now their Ninang.”
“I don’t care if I birthed them myself!” Joyce exclaimed, rounding in on Santi, poking him in the chest with a perfectly manicured acrylic nail. “Anak naman. You justhadto be the one to hand the envelope. You could have given it to me, and I would not have to look cheap!”
That had been...a miscalculation in Santi’s part. But he wasn’t going to admit it to his mother. So he said nothing. But he did notice that a few guests’ heads had turned, most notably the titas that had waved at him earlier, and the titos who somehow procured cans of San Mig Light and were trying not to stare.
“Let’s talk inside,” Santi said, gently taking his mother’s elbow to lead her into the ballroom.
“Oh, unhandme, you ungrateful child,” Joyce hissed, pushing Anton’s hand away before she marched to the ballroom. Anton barely had time to look at the decor when his mother redoubled her efforts to tell him off. “Don’t think I don’t know that you’re deliberately trying to make me look bad in front of the family! Do you hate me that much?”
