THE HOUSE WE KEPT

CHAPTER 10: THE NAME

LINA'S POV

The pink wall dried overnight.

It looked different in daylight. Less like hope. More like a promise we didn’t know if we could keep.

Dreo’s sunflower was still crooked. Pink on pink. My handprint beside it.

We didn’t talk about it.

We didn’t talk about leaving either.

Because he was still here.

---

“Wood delivery,” Aling Teresing said. She dumped planks on the yard. “Utang muna. Bayad pag may pera na.”

She looked at me. Then at Dreo. Then at the open door.

She didn’t say anything. She just nodded. Like she understood something we didn’t.

“Start with the roof,” Dreo said. He was already tying his boots. “Before it rains again.”

“There’s no rain in the forecast,” I said.

“There always is,” he said.

We climbed.

The roof was worse in the light. Half of it gone. Nails sticking up like teeth.

He handed me a hammer.

“I don’t know how to use this,” I said.

“I’ll show you.”

He stood behind me. Not touching. But close. His hand covered mine on the hammer.

“Like this,” he said. His voice by my ear. “Don’t swing hard. Swing sure.”

I hit the nail. It bent.

“Again.”

I did. It went in straight.

“Good,” he said. He let go.

I kept swinging.

After a while, my arms were jelly.

“Break,” he said.

We sat on the ridge. Legs dangling. The whole valley below us. Green. Wet. Alive.

“Why didn’t you tell me about your dad sooner?” I asked.

He didn’t look at me. “Why didn’t you tell me about Mateo sooner?”

“Because saying it makes it real.”

He nodded. “Same.”

I picked at a splinter. “Do you miss him?”

“Every day,” he said. “And I hate him for dying and leaving me here.”

I looked at him. “You don’t have to be here.”

“I know.”

“Then why—”

“Because you said ‘don’t leave’,” he cut in. “And nobody’s said that to me in years.”

The hammer was heavy in my lap.

“Dreo,” I said.

He looked at me.

“What happens when the house is done?”

He didn’t answer.

“Answer me,” I said.

He stared at the valley. “I don’t know.”

“That’s not—”

“That’s the truth,” he said. Sharp. “I don’t build houses to keep them. I build them to leave them. That’s all I know how to do.”

I stood up. “Then teach me something else.”

He looked up at me. “What?”

“How to stay.”

The wind moved between us.

He didn’t say anything.

I went back down. Alone.

---

We didn’t talk on the roof after that.

We worked in silence.

But silence was different now. It wasn’t hiding. It was heavy.

Mimi came by.

She didn’t bring a plant. She brought bread.

“Para sa dalawang pagod,” she said. She set it on the counter. Stared at the pink wall. At the sunflower.

“Ganda,” she whispered.

She left.

We ate.

He broke his bread in half. Gave me the bigger piece.

“Why?” I asked.

“Because you didn’t eat earlier,” he said.

“How do you—”

“I noticed.”

I ate it.

After, I said, “Tell me about Cebu.”

He stopped chewing.

“Please,” I said.

He set his bread down. “It’s a city. By the sea. Hot. Loud. My brother still lives there. He has two kids. I’ve never met them.”

“Why not?”

“Because if I go back, I have to explain why I left,” he said. “And ‘I was scared’ isn’t a good reason.”

“It’s an honest one.”

He looked at me. “You went back.”

“I came here to run,” I said. “You came here to hide. We’re not the same.”

“No,” he said. “We’re the same kind of broken.”

That shut me up.

---

We ran out of nails.

“Town,” Dreo said. “We need to go.”

“I’ll go alone,” I said.

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because the road’s muddy,” he said. “And you fall.”

“I don’t—”

“You did. By the mango tree.”

I stared. “You saw that?”

“I was on the porch.”

He didn’t say more.

We went.

The jeepney was packed. We stood. Shoulder to shoulder.

Every bump, he put his hand on the rail above my head. Not touching me. But making a cage so I wouldn’t fall.

At the hardware store, he bought nails. Wood glue. Two mugs.

“Two?” I asked.

“You broke yours,” he said.

“I didn’t—”

“When the wall fell,” he said. “You threw it. I picked up the pieces after you slept.”

I didn’t remember.

“You were shaking,” he said.

I didn’t know what to say.

On the way back, it started to drizzle.

We ran.

We were soaked by the time we reached the house.

He handed me a towel. Kept one for himself.

We stood in the kitchen. Dripping.

“You’re cold,” he said.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re lying.”

He took my towel. Hung it up. Got another. Dry.

He came back. Stood in front of me.

“What are you—”

He didn’t answer. He lifted the towel. Started drying my hair.

Slow. Gentle. Like I was the sunflower.

I didn’t move.

“Stop,” I whispered.

His hands stopped. But he didn’t step back.

“Why?” he asked.

“Because if you keep doing this,” I said, “I won’t be able to let you go.”

He dropped the towel.

“I don’t want you to,” he said.

The words were quiet. But they filled the room.

I looked up at him. Water on his eyelashes. Rain on his lips.

“Say it again,” I said.

He didn’t.

He stepped back.

---

We finished the roof.

It wasn’t perfect. But it didn’t leak.

We stood under it. Just in case.

No rain.

Only sky.

“It holds,” he said.

“It holds,” I repeated.

We went inside.

The pink wall. The sunflower. The two new mugs.

He poured coffee.

I took mine.

We sat on the floor. Back to the wall.

“Talk to me,” I said.

“About what?”

“Anything. Everything. The thing you don’t say.”

He was quiet for a long time.

“My name,” he said.

I turned. “What?”

“My name,” he repeated. “It’s not Dreo.”

My breath stopped.

“Dreo is what my brother called me,” he said. “When we were kids. Because I couldn’t say ‘Andreo’ right. So it stuck.”

Andreo.

“Andreo Mateo Silva,” he said. “Named after my grandfather. Who left his wife. Who left his kids.”

He laughed. No humor. “Mateo.”

I flinched.

“I know,” he said. “Your fiancé.”

“I didn’t—”

“It’s okay,” he said. “It’s a common name.”

It didn’t feel common.

“Why are you telling me this now?” I asked.

“Because you said my name,” he said. “In the storm. And I realized… I don’t want you to say the wrong one.”

Andreo.

I tested it. “Andreo.”

He closed his eyes. “Don’t.”

“Why?”

“Because if you say it like that,” he said, “I’ll start thinking you mean it.”

“I do mean it,” I said.

He opened his eyes.

We stared at each other.

The house was quiet.

The pink wall was quiet.

My heart wasn’t.

“Andreo,” I said again.

He didn’t tell me to stop.

“Lina,” he said.

My name.

From him.

Not Lina.

Lina.

Like it was the only word he knew.

---

We didn’t work after that.

We sat in the pink room.

No tools. No paint. Just us.

“I stood at the altar,” I said. “Did I tell you that?”

“You did.”

“He texted me,” I said. “‘I can’t.’ That’s all. Two words.”

Andreo didn’t speak.

“I kept the dress,” I said. “For a year. In a box. Because throwing it away meant it was over.”

“I burned mine,” he said.

“What?”

“My dad’s tools,” he said. “After he died. I burned them in the yard. Because if I kept them, I’d have to be him.”

“Are you?”

“No,” he said. “I’m you.”

I frowned.

“You’re trying not to be the girl at the altar,” he said. “I’m trying not to be the son who ran.”

I reached out.

I didn’t touch him.

I just put my hand on the floor. Between us.

He looked at it.

Then he put his hand down too.

An inch apart.

Not touching.

But not far.

---

Mayor Luis came back.

Alone. No papers.

“I heard,” he said. “You’re not selling.”

“No,” I said.

He looked at the roof. At the pink wall through the door. “It’s a nice house.”

“It is,” I said.

He nodded. “Good.”

He left.

That was it.

I stood there. Stunned.

Andreo came out. “What did he want?”

“To see,” I said. “If we were real.”

“Are we?”

I looked at him. “Are you asking me?”

He didn’t answer.

He walked to the yard. To the sapling.

It had new leaves.

He knelt. Touched the soil.

“It lived,” he said.

I knelt beside him. “Because you watered it.”

He looked at me. Mud on his hands. Dirt on his face.

“Lina,” he said.

“Yes.”

“If I say it,” he said, “I can’t take it back.”

“Say what?”

“My name,” he said. “Your name. What this is.”

My throat hurt. “Then don’t say it.”

He stared.

“But stay,” I whispered. “Say you’ll stay. That’s all I need.”

He stood up.

My heart dropped.

He walked to the house.

I didn’t follow.

I couldn’t.

He stopped at the door. Hand on the frame.

He didn’t turn around.

“I’m not good at this,” he said.

“I know.”

“I don’t know how to be anything except gone,” he said.

“I know.”

He was quiet.

Then: “So teach me.”

I stood up.

My legs shook.

I walked to him.

I didn’t touch him.

I stood beside him. In the doorway.

The door was open.

Wide.

“Okay,” I said.

He looked at me.

“Andreo,” I said.

He closed his eyes.

“Lina,” he said.

We stood there.

The sun was going down.

The house was behind us.

The yard was in front of us.

And for the first time…

We weren’t leaving.

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*[End Chapter 10]*

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