CHAPTER FIVE

​"What are you doing here?"

​The question left my lips before I could think to soften it. My heart was a frantic drum against my ribs. Standing there in the fading afternoon light was Nathan—the living embodiment of the life I had tried to bury. He looked exactly as a "Hernandez" should: his uniform was pristine, his hair styled to perfection, and his eyes held a softness that seemed entirely at odds with the predatory world our father inhabited.

​"This is my school now, brother," Nathan said, his voice hesitant.

​My eyes widened, a cold chill washing over me despite the humid Manila air. "We’re schoolmates? Here? At Lavern?"

​"Yes," he said, a small, hopeful smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "I’ve been searching for you for months, Harris. I knew you were smart—I knew you’d end up at a place like this. I just had to find which one."

​"You transferred?" I asked, my mind reeling. "Just to find me?"

​"I’m a third-year now, just like you. I told Dad I wanted a change of scenery, that the old international school was boring. You know him—as long as the tuition check clears and the reputation stays intact, he doesn't care where I spend my days."

​"Why, Nathan? Why do you want to see me after all this time?"

​Nathan stepped closer, the distance between us narrowing. "Because you’re my brother. Blood is blood, Harris. Did you really think I’d just let you vanish?"

​I looked away, unable to meet his earnest gaze. A flood of memories hit me, sharp and painful. Nathan and I were close as children, two boys caught in the crossfire of a complicated adult web. We shared the same birthday, a cruel twist of fate that only highlighted our differences. To the world, our father had one son: Nathan, the golden heir. I was the shadow, the "accident" born to a mistress, kept in the servant’s quarters and hidden behind closed doors whenever guests arrived.

​On our birthdays, the mansion would be filled with the elite, music, and laughter for Nathan. I would spend those nights in the kitchen or the garden, watching the fireworks from the dark. Nathan, to his credit, would always sneak away from his own party to find me, bringing a slice of cake and a toy he’d hidden under his shirt. He was a good brother. He was the only person in that house who didn't look at me like I was a mistake.

​But when I turned thirteen, the abuse from our father and the cold vitriol from his legal wife became a weight I could no longer carry. I chose the uncertainty of the streets over the certainty of being broken.

​"Are you mad at me?" Nathan asked, his voice cracking slightly.

​"No," I sighed, the anger draining out of me. "Why would I be mad at you?"

​"Because you don't look happy to see me. You look like you’ve seen a ghost."

​"You know how I feel about your parents, Nathan. What was the point of finding me? Does your mother know you’re here?"

​"No," he replied quickly. "They don't know anything. They just give me what I ask for to keep me quiet. I’m a ghost in that house, too, Harris. Just a different kind."

​"Are you going to ruin this for me?" I asked, my voice dropping to a whisper. "The life I’ve built here... it’s fragile. No one knows who I am. To them, I’m just Harris, the scholarship kid."

​"No, brother. I would never do that. I still accept you as my own blood. Why would you even ask that? Do you hate me the way you hate them?"

​"No," I said, feeling a sudden surge of affection for the boy who had once shared his cake with me in the dark. "You’re my brother. I’m glad you’re safe." I stepped forward and pulled him into a brief, tight hug. He squeezed back, a shuddering breath escaping him.

​"So," he said, pulling away and wiping his eyes. "Are you okay with us being at the same school?"

​"Yes," I said, pointing a finger at him. "But on one condition: you cannot tell anyone we are related. Not a soul. Especially not a girl named Kelly."

​"Kelly?" Nathan giggled, the old, mischievous Nathan returning. "Is she a girlfriend? Don't worry, your secret is safe. Besides, we probably won't run into each other much. My grades are terrible. I’m in Section D."

​My stomach dropped. "Section D?"

​"Yeah. My brain isn't sharp like yours. I'm just the 'lazy heir.' Why do you look so worried?"

​"Nothing," I lied. Kelly was in Section D. Nathan was in Section D. The two worlds I was trying to keep separate were now sitting in the same classroom. "I have to go, Nathan."

​"Don't call me 'brother' in public," I warned him as I turned to leave.

​"Okay, Harris," he said, waving with an awkward, goofy grin.

​

​I arrived at the bakery in a daze, the encounter with Nathan playing on a loop in my mind. When I slid open the door, I expected the usual quiet evening prep. Instead, the air was vibrating with laughter.

​"Hahaha! Maybe that woman doesn't deserve you, Sam!" Mr. Baker’s voice boomed from the back.

​"You know, Mr. Baker," Sam’s voice followed, "I’ve come to realize I don't deserve that kind of woman either. I’m a high-maintenance disaster."

​"No," I interrupted, stepping into the light and dropping my bag. "Every woman deserves better than you, Sam."

​"Oh! The King of Gloom has arrived!" Sam shouted, waving a wooden spoon. "How was the ivory tower today, Harris? Did you learn how to solve world hunger or just how to look handsome in a blazer?"

​"A thief could have walked off with the entire inventory while you two were busy gossiping," I teased, feeling the tension in my shoulders begin to melt. There was something about this shop—the heat of the ovens, the smell of sugar, and the genuine warmth of these two men—that felt more like home than any mansion ever had.

​We worked until the streetlights were the only things glowing outside. Sam was surprisingly efficient. He didn't just clean; he organized. He moved through the kitchen with a natural rhythm that suggested he had spent a lot of time around stoves.

​"Whoo! Dismissal time!" Sam shouted as we locked the front door.

​"You're so noisy," I grumbled, though I was smiling. "Do you ever have an 'off' switch?"

​"Boring people have 'off' switches, Harris. I am a fountain of entertainment. Come on, let’s go to a bar. My treat!"

​"Absolutely not. I don't drink, and we have to be up in five hours. Just go home."

​Mr. Baker walked us to the corner, patting us both on the back. "You two get some rest. Close the shop tight and don't let the bedbugs bite."

​As Sam and I walked toward my apartment, I looked at him sideways. "You have money for a bar, but you don't have money for your own rent? You're an enigma, Sam."

​"Actually," Sam said, his tone shifting. He pulled a small envelope from his pocket and handed it to me. "Here. This is for yesterday and today."

​I opened it and counted two thousands and five hundred pesos.

"What’s this for?"

​"Rent. And groceries. I’m not a squatter, Harris. I pay my way." He winked and started whistling a tune as he sped up his pace.

​"You're unbelievable!" I called out after him, shaking my head.

​

​When I emerged from the bathroom later that night, towel around my neck, the apartment was filled with a rich, savory aroma that made my mouth water. Sam was hunched over the single-burner stove, stirring a pot with intense concentration.

​"Sit," he commanded, tapping the wooden chair.

​I obeyed, watching as he ladled a deep, golden broth into two bowls. "Bulalo?" I asked, smelling the unmistakable scent of beef marrow and corn.

​"My own recipe. Taste it before you judge," he said, sitting across from me. He paused to say a quick, silent prayer before digging in to the soup.

​I took a sip of the broth. It was perfect—rich, salty, and layered with flavor. "You're actually a good cook, Sam. I’m impressed."

​His eyes practically twinkled. "Thank you! Finally, some recognition for my genius. Better than those cardboard noodles you usually eat, right?"

​"Where did you get the money for these ingredients? Beef marrow isn't cheap."

​"I bought it with my earnings," he said, stripping a piece of meat from the bone. "I refused to eat another packet of ramen. My stomach was starting to stage a protest."

​"You worked one day and you're already buying gourmet ingredients?" I asked, skeptical.

​"Mr. Baker was impressed with my 'deep cleaning' skills," Sam explained with a smirk. "He gave me a lot of extra tasks and paid me five thousand pesos as a sign-on bonus. The man likes me, Harris. What can I say? I have charisma."

​I shrugged. I wasn't envious. Sam worked with his hands and his heart, and Mr. Baker recognized that. "Do you ever think about going back to school, Sam?"

​Sam’s face shadowed for a second. "What for? You going to donate some brain cells? I’m not built for books."

​"You should finish your studies. Everyone needs a foundation. I’ll teach you," I said, surprised by my own earnestness. "I don't care how 'hard' your brain is. I’ll make sure you pass."

​Sam laughed, but there was a flicker of hope in his eyes. "You'd really do that? Teach a lost cause like me?"

​"If you can learn a complex recipe, you can learn algebra. What do you actually want to be, Sam? In a perfect world?"

​"A chef," he said without hesitation. "I want to have a kitchen where I’m the boss. Where I only cook what I love."

​"It suits you," I said. "And me? I want to be a businessman. I want to build something that lasts."

​"So you can cook for your wife?" Sam teased.

​"Why would being a businessman mean I only cook for my wife?"

​"Because that’s the dream, isn't it? To be successful enough that the only person you have to impress is the person sitting across the table from you." Sam’s expression grew uncharacteristically serious. "You ever think about that? Having a wife? A family?"

​I went quiet. "I don't know. I haven't exactly had the best examples of 'family' in my life."

​"Maybe you're just not ready because of your pride," Sam said, pointing his spoon at me.

​"My pride?"

​"You don't want to get married unless you're rich. You think you need to provide a palace to be worthy of love. But Harris, you could marry a woman just like you—someone who understands the struggle."

​"I could," I said softly.

​"Rich or poor, you’re always going to want more for your family. That’s just who you are. But don't let the 'wanting' stop you from 'living.' Enjoy the noodles—or the bulalo—while they're hot, man. Don't wait until you're a CEO to have a laugh."

​We finished the meal in a comfortable silence. Sam was a loud, annoying, snoring mess of a roommate, but as I sat there in my tiny apartment, I realized he was the wisest person I knew. He understood the one thing I was still struggling to learn: that you don't need "the world" to be happy. You just need a seat at the table and someone to talk to.