Page 22 of Signal No. Us

Jake, watching Allan and Robby with the satisfaction of a man who considered this outcome entirely his doing, announced that he was walking the kids back the shorter way and that Allan and Robby should “take your time, no rush, really.”

“He’s matchmaking,” Allan said, once they were out of earshot.

“Oh, you know Jake, always down for a good story,” Robby said. “I’m used to it.”

The detour Robby took on the way back wasn’t strictly on the way back at all, and Allan said so. It added the better part of an hour, cutting clean across to the other side of the island, and Robby didn’t even pretend otherwise.

“Trust me,” Robby said. “I know it’s a whole production to get here. But it’s worth it.”

Maribina Falls announced itself first as sound, then as mist, then, rounding the last bend, as an actual waterfall spilling into a wide, deep pool ringed in moss and pale sun finally muscling through the clouds.

“It’s like a location shoot,” Allan said. “For shampoo. Or a tragic indie film.”

“We used to train here,” Robby said, his fingers drawing air quotes. “‘Training.’ Mostly just swimming.”

Oryo, who had apparently decided the whole day had been leading up to this moment, launched himself into the shallows with the single-minded joy of a dog who believed water existed exclusively for him.

“Show-off,” Allan said.

Robby pulled his shirt over his head without much ceremony, and Allan’s brain, without his permission, stalled completely.

“I object,” Allan said. “On the grounds of public indecency.”

“You’ve seen me naked already,” Robby pointed out. “In your mom’s bathroom. We’re even.”

“That was an accident. This is premeditated.”

“I’m freezing,” Robby said, already stepping into the pool, hissing at the cold, laughing through it. “Come on.”

“I don’t have extra clothes.”

“Yes, you do. I saw your bag.” Robby surfaced from a dunk, hair slicked back, water running off his shoulders in a way that made Allan briefly forget several key facts about gravity. “Come on, Wonder Kid. Live a little.”

“I’ll have you know,” Allan said, already toeing off his shoes, already losing, “that I was not raised for this kind of exposure. Pero hindi ako pinalaki ng Sexbomb Girls para bumawi. Laban!”

Robby laughed so hard he went briefly underwater. “The what?”

“Sex Bomb! Spageti, halukay ube, Daisy Siete. Oh god, Robby, don’t tell me you don’t know who they are?!”

“Joke lang. Get in the water, Sex Bomb Allan.”

“Wait lang kasi.” He took a deep breath. “Get get aww!”

The cold grabbed him and let go. He surfaced sputtering, acutely, uselessly aware of every place the water made his old office-chair softness visible, ten years of fluorescent lighting and vending-machine dinners written plainly on his skin.

“I am not built for this,” he muttered.

“For what?” Robby said. “Existing?”

“Existing next to you, specifically, looking like that.”

Robby went very still, then smiled, small and real, no joke loaded behind it. “Stop grading yourself,” he said. “We’re two idiots in a waterfall with a delusional dog. That’s it. That’s the whole scene.”

Allan’s pulse didn’t get that memo. Every drop of water sliding down Robby’s collarbone suddenly felt like it deserved its own paragraph, and Allan spent several humiliating seconds forgetting he was supposed to be swimming and not just staring.

They swam lazily, aimless laps that weren’t really laps, Robby pointing out the rock where he’d scraped his shin at fifteen, Allan trying to float and failing and finally letting himself be steadied by two broad, careful hands under his shoulder blades.

“Relax,” Robby said. “The water’s doing the work.”