Page 53 of Signal No. Us

“Bread’s good either way,” Robby said. “Just depends on the timing.”

“That made no sense.”

“I know,” Robby said, entirely unbothered, and went back to sipping his coffee like the matter was already settled.

Cora swept through mid-argument, inspecting both barongs with the exacting eye of a former principal grading a thesis defense, adjusted Allan’s collar without asking permission, and declared, “That’s enough. It looks good. Go eat before you both faint in here.”

“Ma, my question is,” Allan said, once the pins were finally out and he could breathe properly again, “where am I sitting at the wedding? Am I part of the entourage or⁠—”

“You’re a groomsman, ‘di ba nga,” Cora said. “So you’re with Robby, the best man. You’ll stand together at the altar, and at the reception, you’ll be seated together at the head table too.”

“That seems oddly convenient.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Cora said, unconvincingly, and left the room before he could press further.

By the time Ver and Anna’s wedding day rolled around, the sky couldn’t make up its mind again.

Allan stood on the church steps and watched clouds hustle past each other like titas racing for the last plastic chair, hurried but not quite panicked yet. The sun kept shouldering its way through for a few minutes at a time before another gray curtain shoved it aside.

“Very on-brand,” he murmured. “Wedding of the year, with a side of low-pressure area.”

“That’s enough postponement,” Robby said beside him, checking his phone for the latest PAGASA update. “Just Signal No. 1. Drama for the photos, a little drama for the roof. But nothing more.”

The church flower arrangements looked like someone had stolen half a garden. The aisle was lined with white petals. Electric fans stood at discreet intervals like merciful angels. The air was thick, part humidity, part communal kilig.

In the middle of it all, prancing with wholly undeserved self-importance, was Oryo, wearing a floral collar and a tiny pillow strapped to his back, the rings secured to it with ribbon.

“Ring bearer,” Jake declared, fussing with the ribbon one last time. “Dog of honor. If he pees on the aisle, I don’t know him.”

“Ang gayon mo ngunyan, Cora!” Tita Yolanda called out, loud enough to carry over the choir’s warm-up, and did not wait for a response before turning back to fuss with her own hem.

Cora, in a simple, regal terno that fully earned the compliment, bustled around making sure no one fainted, tripped, or stole the suman from the catering table. She paused by Robby, who was crouched near the side aisle taping down projector cables, Jake’s insistence for the slideshow later, and straightened his collar like she had every right to.

“Robby, you okay?”

“I’m not the groom, Tita,” Robby laughed.

“You’re family,” she said. “In this barangay, that’s the same thing.”

The words landed in Allan’s chest like a quiet bell. A few months ago, he’d have heard them as pressure: one more expectation he had to live up to. Now they just sounded like what they were: an invitation to stay, already extended, already accepted.

Inside, the choir launched into a warm-up that sounded suspiciously like an OPM power ballad. Outside, a thin drizzle started, pattering the church roof like impatient fingers.

“Rain during the wedding,” Jake said, appearing with a fan in one hand and a small bottle of oil in the other, ever prepared for either weather or ghosts. “Blessing, or foreshadowing. Depends on your genre.”

“We’re going with blessing,” Allan said firmly. “We’ve hit our foreshadowing quota.”

The ceremony was a peak small-town Catholic spectacle, with long readings, a longer homily, and choir harmonies that occasionally wandered into their own private key. The priest managed to work “resilience,” “commitment,” and a reminder about the parish clean-up drive into the same sentence.

When it was time for the rings, a murmur went through the congregation. Oryo took his job seriously, up to a point, trotting down the aisle with perfect poise until he spotted a dropped fishball near the third pew, paused, considered his higher calling, and delicately ate it before continuing. Laughter rippled through the church. Even the priest chuckled.

Ver and Anna exchanged vows with shaking hands and wide, unguarded smiles.

“In good weather and bad,” Anna said, voice catching. “When the roof holds strong, and when the water rises. I promise, I will stay.”

“Through storms and through the days that don’t matter at all,” Ver replied, “when there’s no drama and when there’s too much. I promise, I will stay.”

Allan’s eyes stung. He caught Robby’s gaze: the tiny, knowing curve of his mouth said he’d heard the echo too.