Halfway Home

Chapter 1: "Welcome to San Rafael: Population... Ugh"

Alaric Dela Cruz did not want to be here.

San Rafael looked exactly as he remembered it—unbearably charming, with its cobblestone streets, flower-draped lampposts, and pastel-colored shopfronts lining the main square. A sleepy town where people actually knew their neighbors, where everyone smiled at you like you weren't just a stranger passing through but someone they'd see again and again.

Unfortunately, in Al's case, they were right.

He let out a slow breath, gripping the strap of his duffel bag as he stepped off the bus. The station was little more than a covered waiting area with a wooden bench and a faded map of the town pinned to a bulletin board. His father had promised to pick him up, but the only welcoming party in sight was a stray cat, licking its paws on the sidewalk.

Typical.

Al sighed and dug out his phone. No new messages. Not that he was surprised. His father had always been selectively reliable—good at grand gestures when they mattered most to him, but forgetful about the little things.

Like picking up his only son, who hadn't set foot in this town since he was ten.

The last time Al had been here, his parents were still together. He remembered summers spent in his grandmother's old house, running through her overgrown garden, reading under the mango tree, and listening to her stories about the town's history. But after the divorce, San Rafael had become his father's territory, a place where Al no longer belonged.

And now, thanks to the illustrious wedding of the century, he was back.

"Alaric?"

A voice—warm, lilting, and unmistakably amused—broke through his thoughts. Al turned, and there she was:

Maria Elena "Mel" Cruz. His father's secretary, occasional babysitter, and the only adult in this town he'd ever trusted.

She stood in front of him with her hands on her hips, her sharp eyes taking him in like a mother hen inspecting a wayward chick. Her short hair was streaked with silver now, but her expression was exactly the same—equal parts affectionate and exasperated.

"You grew up," she declared, as if this were some kind of betrayal.

Al shifted uncomfortably. "That tends to happen."

Mel scoffed. "Still got that sharp tongue, I see. Come on, your dad got held up at the municipal hall. He sent me to get you."

Of course he did.

Al followed her to a battered Toyota parked by the curb. The moment he slid into the passenger seat, the nostalgia hit him hard—the faint scent of jasmine from the air freshener, the stack of government paperwork on the back seat, and the little stuffed turtle hanging from the rearview mirror.

Mel started the engine. "You hungry?"

"No, I'm good."

"You're lying, but okay." She pulled out onto the main road.

Al slumped against the window, watching as the town passed by. San Rafael wasn't big, but it was distinct. It had a stubborn, old-world charm that refused to fade, no matter how many modern coffee shops or convenience stores popped up.

The streets were lined with two-story houses with intricate wooden balconies, their facades painted in warm, earthy tones. There were sari-sari stores with handwritten signs, an old-school barbershop with a red-and-white pole spinning lazily outside, and a bakery with a glass display case filled with freshly baked pandesal.

And, of course, the people.

Everywhere he looked, residents strolled about, chatting like they had all the time in the world. Some clustered around a fruit stand, debating the ripeness of mangoes. Others lounged on benches, fanning themselves with folded newspapers. And then there were the vendors, calling out in singsong voices, selling everything from suman to herbal medicine.

The worst part?

They all looked happy to be here.

"Still the same," he murmured, mostly to himself.

Mel glanced at him. "You say that like it's a bad thing."

Al didn't reply.

She took a sudden left, cutting through a side street, and the municipal hall loomed into view—a grand old building with white columns and green shutters, standing proudly at the center of the town plaza.

And right in front of it, surrounded by a gaggle of townsfolk, was the man himself.

Joaquin "Jao" Alcantara.

The golden boy of San Rafael.

The beloved mayor.

Al barely had time to register the sight before Mel pulled up to the curb. "Stay here," she said. "I'll drag your father out."

She hopped out of the car, leaving Al alone to stew in his irritation. He didn't even need to step inside to know exactly what was happening. His father was probably stuck in a conversation with some local official, shaking hands, flashing that charming smile that made people forget he was terrible at keeping personal promises.

Al sighed and leaned back, staring at the crowd.

Jao stood at the center, effortlessly commanding attention. He was taller than Al remembered, with an easy confidence that was impossible to ignore. His crisp white shirt was rolled up at the sleeves, his tie loosened just enough to look casually put-together.

And, of course, he was smiling—that politician's smile, smooth and practiced, as he listened intently to an elderly woman gripping his arm like she was personally responsible for his well-being.

The crowd adored him. It was obvious in the way they leaned in, the way they laughed at his words. He had that magnetic kind of presence, the kind that made people feel like they mattered.

Al hated it immediately.

Not because he thought Jao was fake—no, that would've been easier. The problem was that it all seemed genuine. Like he actually cared.

That made Al uneasy.

He was still glaring when, as if sensing it, Jao's gaze flickered toward the car. Their eyes met for the first time in years.

And Jao—San Rafael's perfect, beloved mayor—

Smirked.

Al's stomach twisted.

Oh, this was going to be unbearable.

Joaquin smirked.

Not a polite, neutral smile. Not the practiced charm he had been bestowing upon the townspeople just seconds ago. No, this was something different—something sharper, more deliberate.

The kind of smirk that said: Oh, I'm going to enjoy making your life hell.

Al had never wanted to punch someone upon first sight before, but there was a first time for everything.

Before he could look away, Jao made his way toward him, his long strides confident, assured. The crowd instinctively parted for him—like he was Moses crossing the damn Red Sea—some of them even turning to watch the unfolding interaction like it was entertainment.

Mel returned just as Jao reached the car, her expression shifting from mild exasperation to amusement. "Oh, good, you two can finally say hello."

Jao tilted his head, eyes glinting with something unreadable. "Welcome home, Alaric."

Al's jaw tightened at the sound of his full name. "It's Al."

"Sure," Jao said easily, as if he hadn't just disregarded Al's preference entirely. "I was wondering when you'd show up. Your dad's been talking about this wedding for weeks."

Al resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Yeah, well, it's hard to ignore an event when you're legally obligated to attend."

Jao chuckled, low and knowing. "That's the spirit."

Al studied him warily. Up close, the Mayor of San Rafael was even more put-together than he had initially thought—annoyingly so. Not a wrinkle in sight on his crisp, well-tailored outfit, his dark hair styled just enough to look effortlessly polished. Even the late afternoon sunlight seemed to work in his favor, casting him in an irritatingly golden glow.

He wasn't just charismatic—he was the kind of person people wanted to like. And Al found that deeply unsettling.

"Where's my dad?" he asked, crossing his arms.

Jao exhaled, the corners of his mouth twitching in barely concealed amusement. "Inside, still arguing about whether the wedding program needs more string quartet performances."

Al frowned. That sounded exactly like something his father would be obsessed with—small, unimportant details, instead of the bigger picture.

The thought took him back.

Flashback, Years Ago

Al was eight when he first noticed it. The way his father treated him like a guest rather than a permanent fixture.

His parents' marriage had already begun its slow unraveling by then, though no one had dared say it aloud. His mother busied herself with work; his father busied himself with being liked. Business trips, networking events, late-night phone calls. And when he was home, he would smile at Al like he was someone else's child—like a nephew visiting for the weekend instead of his own son.

Al had learned early on that his father was good at the big gestures. Extravagant birthday parties, expensive gifts, grand promises.

But he was terrible at the little things.

Like remembering that Al hated olives on his pizza.

Or that he preferred reading to playing sports.

Or that he had wanted him at his school play, only to be told something came up at work.

It had always been like that. His father loved him—Al was sure of that. But it was a love built on distance, on things meant well but not quite right.

And now, here he was, twenty-three years old, preparing to watch that same man get remarried—starting an entirely new family, while Al had barely been part of the first one.

Back to Present

"You good?" Jao's voice broke through his thoughts, dragging him back to the now.

Al stiffened. "Fine."

Jao studied him for a second longer than necessary, then shrugged. "Well, if you're done brooding, we should get inside before someone mistakes you for a lost tourist."

Al bristled. "I'm not brooding."

Jao hummed, unconvinced, before turning on his heel and striding toward the municipal hall steps.

Al exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face before reluctantly following.

Inside, the municipal hall was a flurry of activity. Staff members bustled in and out of offices, their arms loaded with paperwork. The air smelled like fresh coffee, old books, and the faintest hint of floor polish.

And at the center of it all—standing near the reception desk, arguing over a seating chart—was Andres Dela Cruz.

Al's father looked almost exactly the same as he remembered. Sharp-featured, immaculately dressed, and completely absorbed in whatever trivial detail had caught his attention this time.

When Mel cleared her throat, Andres turned, and for a brief moment, something unreadable flickered across his face.

"Alaric," he said, like the name had weight to it.

"Al," Al corrected automatically, just like he had with Jao earlier.

His father hesitated, then smiled—that same practiced smile Al had grown up with. "It's good to see you, son."

"You too," Al said, though he wasn't entirely sure if it was true.

Andres clapped his hands together, eager to move on. "We have a lot to catch up on. But first, let me introduce you to—"

"Already met him," Al interrupted, nodding toward Jao, who was now casually leaning against the reception desk, watching the exchange like it was prime entertainment.

Jao grinned. "Yeah, we're basically best friends now."

Al shot him a withering look.

His father, oblivious to the tension, beamed. "That's great! You two will be seeing a lot of each other anyway."

Al froze. "What?"

Andres patted his shoulder. "Jao's been kind enough to let you stay at his place after the wedding!"

Al's brain short-circuited.

Jao?

Joaquin Alcantara?

The man who had smirked at him like he was planning his downfall?

He whirled to Jao, who was very clearly enjoying this moment. "You knew about this?"

Jao gave an exaggerated shrug. "I may have forgotten to mention it."

Al clenched his fists. "You forgot?"

"Hey, it's not that bad," Jao said, all false innocence. "I have a nice place. Great view. And best of all? No brooding allowed."

Al turned to his father. "Why can't I stay at a hotel?"

Andres waved him off. "Nonsense! Jao insisted."

Al slowly turned back to Jao. "Did you?"

Jao flashed him a slow, smug smile.

Al was going to die here.

...to be continued.