"Let's exchange seats."
Yvette's eyes flung open at that cold, almost angry voice, and with the suddenness of the warm breath that touched her ear—including the side of her neck—she turned to her right in a snap. It almost collided with the man's face, familiar yet owned by a stranger.
His charcoal eyes were framed by thick lashes, delving into her soul. She held her breath.
She didn't have time to process what just happened since the man had already gotten up, waiting for her to move to his place. And so she did.
She was still stunned by what happened when he sat beside her—and it didn't end there. He started unbuttoning his long-sleeved polo that reflected the color of the sky that surrounds the sun, which Yvette had been trying to look at just a while ago.
It wasn't just her who was watching the man's movements, but almost all their fellow passengers. When he was done with the last button, it was Yvette's turn again to be shocked when he took it off and used it to cover her bare legs.
"You don't need to—" Her words were cut off by his glare. Yet something in it suggested gentleness.
"You need it," he spoke almost casually to her, like a brother perhaps—but she never had a brother or any bond with a man to identify the protection and care he displayed. She couldn't recognize it.
She couldn't utter any words after, only stare at his face. Though he was already looking down, with a tense face and furrowed brows. His back was bent a little with his elbows on his knees and hands clasped tightly together.
When she glanced at the old man who now sat beside the man in the white shirt, her eyes didn't fail to notice how his face turned red, looking nervous even.
"Para!" (Filipino word to ask a vehicle to stop)
Just a second later, the old man called out, and when the jeepney stopped, he hurriedly went off.
Yvette almost felt relieved. She wasn't aware that even the passengers inside the vehicle were thinking a fight might occur between the old man and the girl's lover—whom he had molested.
Unable to help herself, Yvette stared at the man's side, memorizing every outline of his face and body. She was thinking about how to thank him until he signaled the vehicle to stop and went down. She was left there, alone, watching his back as he walked away.
She poked her head out the window and looked at where he was headed.
"St. Cecilia Cathedral" was what she read, engraved on top of the enormous building. As a white figure was walking away from her, her fingers felt the smooth shear of fabric, and carefully looking at it, she noticed the tag on the polo's neckline.
"Alejo." One of the famous and most sophisticated clothing brands—one mostly only the rich could afford.
Yvette glanced once again at where he disappeared to, but his shadow was nowhere to be seen by this time. Her fingers caressed the coarseness of the fabric as she finalized her decision.
"I should thank him."
"Did you eat lemon?" Dan scrutinized his friend's face, grinning at the unusual disposition of him. Usually, Bradley always maintained his gentle and light expression that drew almost everyone, yet now his face contorted like someone who just met his ex-girlfriend with the man she replaced him with barely a week after their separation.
"I didn't," Bradley replied in a sullen tone he himself hadn't heard.
But Dan did—and laughed at him.
From the moment Bradley entered the church, to the garden at the back where he was waiting for them to start painting, he had his brows knotted, lips tight, and body tense. Dan didn't even miss the redness in his neck, which only showed whenever he was displeased.
"Then what's with the face?"
Bradley ignored the curious man's question and sat in one of the stools prepared for them. Beside him was a stand with a canvas and paint materials. He released a deep sigh, accompanied by a gush of cool wind that brushed his waxed brunette hair. Even the beauty of the garden—the red and white roses, the blooming lilies, the newly bloomed marigold, and the lush golden bush that walled the garden into a rectangular shape among the bed of various flowers—could not ease him.
It should be a good day, he thought.
But he wasn't able to feel it as one.
"I met a girl—"
"You what?! Meet? As in date?!" blurted Dan, with bulging eyes—eyes he immediately regretted widening when Bradley decided to tell him what happened.
How did he even become friends with this overacting guy?
"No! In the jeep. I just met her once," he explained, his brows creasing more. Picking up one brush and a palette, he opened the paint cans and started filling the blank canvas with hues of color. People's cheerful chuckles could be heard in the distance—vague, yet their happiness was evident.
"So?" Dan raised a brow, picked up the nearest rose from him, smelled it, and began plucking its crimson petals.
"She was molested by the man beside her. She was too young and the man—" He grunted and looked down at his feet for a moment before returning his sight to what he was painting.
"I was seated beside her. I should have known the moment she was drawing too near me. Oh God! She was trembling!"
The brush broke, but only Dan noticed it.
He intently watched the man's figure, now crouching as he gripped his hair into tight curls. The veins were emerging on his fist up to his upper arm. All the gentleness he owned was now hiding beneath his darkened face.
"You helped her, I'm sure?" he asked, receiving a small nod from Brad. He knew he did. It was his friend's nature to begin with.
"You know what, Brad," Dan threw the last petal he plucked into the air and adjusted his seat toward the man acting depressed beside him. Slowly, the red petal descended, kissing the ground lightly before being blown away by the wind. "You shouldn't be a priest. If you're being a hero to every girl you meet, then you should marry every one of them! They'd love it for sure." He was joking, and Bradley knew that. Yet neither expected the sudden outburst.
"You don't understand it, Dante!" His face, even tanned, was colored red, and his fist was tight. "I should have protected her!"
"You were a stranger to her," Dan said seriously, stilling him. Still, his anger hadn't dissipated. He was about to speak, but Dan cut him off.
"So why are you acting too mad and overwhelmed by it?"
He couldn't speak.
The broken brush in his hand slipped away, falling to the ground with the petals.
"That girl you painted isn't her, Bradley," he said—his gentle tone surprising Brad, as much as the words themselves. When Bradley looked at the canvas, there was a lady portrayed, on a jeepney seat, bowing her head so that her long black hair fell forward to cover her face. He noted the oversized shirt she wore, the black miniskirt, the canvas bag, and worn white shoes. "She isn't Vivian, Bradley. That girl—you probably can help her. But not Vivian. So fuck it off."
When Bradley turned to Dan, he had already begun to paint, his expression dark. His soft features weren't enough to mask the dullness he displayed.
Once again, Bradley stared at the image painted before his eyes and breathed heavily.
"Dan is right. She isn't Vivian."
"Oh my God! You've done it again!" blurted Miriam, covering her mouth when Yvette came home holding something that shouldn't belong to her.
Yvette clasped her ears upon this, regretting for the hundredth time why she ever agreed to live with this girl. In fact, it wasn't Miriam who convinced her to stay, but her mom. Mrs. Judith, Miriam's only parent, was such a good communicator she could surpass any businessman in persuasion. After just one conversation with her, Yvette immediately agreed to stay in their house and now occupied one of the rooms.
They lived all together, sharing one kitchen, sala, porch—almost everything. In the first months, she insisted on eating separately as much as possible. But in the end, she nearly became part of their family. Not that the mother and daughter displayed the affection most families usually did.
"I didn't!" she answered, now running away from her, wishing her room could shield her. But Miriam wouldn't allow it.
She blocked the door after running ahead of her up the stairs to Yvette's room. "Then whose cloth is that?" Her drawn eyebrow cocked toward the polo Yvette held tightly, as though she feared Miriam might steal it.
And she definitely would, if Yvette didn't confess.
Knowing how persistent her friend could be, Yvette pulled her inside, opened the door, and they both entered her room. Miriam's smile widened in victory, her ocean-blue eyes filled with excitement.
"I met one of the Alejo men," Yvette started, immediately making the woman's jaw drop.
She had already anticipated this reaction.