“My boundaries.” I rub a hand over my face. “That’s the other thing. He knows about my father now. About the… the way itall felt. I hate that part of the story is now in the room with us.”
“Of course you do,” she says. “It was heavy. But listen to me, Domenico. Your father is not invited to every room you enter. You don’t owe him space in your house, your kitchen, or your head. You told Beckett because you want to be known, not because you want to be haunted.”
I let that sit. “He asked how he could help. I didn’t know what to say. I keep wanting to tell him I’ve got it, that I can carry it.”
“And you can,” she says. “But you don’t have to carry it alone. You wanted a family that shows up? Congratulations, you built one. Let them be there when things get too big.”
I think I forget sometimes.
“What about the hearing?” she asks gently. “How are you with the letter? With the choice?”
“I’m doing it,” I say. “Not out of anger. Out of protection. For me. For the people I love. For Beckett. For all of us.”
“Good.” She doesn’t make it grand. Just that one word, full of approval.
“I’m proud of you. Not because of the letter or the hearing. Because you chose the kind life, and you keep choosing it. That’s integrity. That’s what you bring to the table.”
My throat goes tight. “Thanks, Sofia.”
“Go kiss your chef. And tell him I expect a signed copy of the cookbook with a headnote about his nosy aunt.”
“Deal.”
“And Domenico?”
“Mm?”
“If the old ghosts get loud tonight, call me. Or go stand by that bench you built and remember whose hands made it.”
“Thank you, Aunt Sofia. I love you.”
“I love you too.”
We say our goodbyes with talk of scheduling another dinner.
I hang up and sit with the quiet. The house feels like mine. The future doesn’t make my stomach clench. I text Beckett—where are you?—and he replies with a photo of flour on his nose and enchiladas.
Come steal a kiss.
Now that Spencer’s hired Sarah, who’s working part time while she goes to school, the kitchen at the Dragonfly is running like a well-oiled machine.
The kitchen always runs on chaos on friends’ night. These nights I send her home and handle all the cooking myself. Although she did help me prep, which I’m grateful for because tonight we’re doing Mexican.
I slide the cast-iron pan of green-chili cornbread onto the top rack and shut the oven with my hip. On the back burner, rice toasts until it sounds like rain on a tin roof. I stir in garlic, tomatoes, and broth. A bay leaf. A curl of lime rind.
The enchilada sauce keeps a low, steady bubble while I pull poached chicken into neat shreds. Fast but gentle. Food tastes different when you respect it.
Out front, I can hear chairs scraping together under the dimmed lights. Finn’s laugh carries, even before Spencer’s dry one-liner lands. Mazie squeals, sounding like a cymbal crash. Somewhere, Olly is mid-story with Jasper dropping single-word punchlines, causing Jules and Mira’s laughter to filter into the kitchen. Our weekly chaos assembled itself.
“Okay,” I tell myself. I lay out a row of tortillas, spread chicken down the centers, drag each through sauce, roll, and then line them tightly in the pan. Cheese sprinkled on top, and finishing with more sauce until the seams disappear. The oven door breathes like a dragon when I open it to slide the pan in.
This isn’t a date. It’s dinner. For friends. Friends, including Dom. A ritual. Rituals are safe. I know we’ve been doing whatever we’re doing for a few weeks now, but every time I see him my stomach swoops, and the excitement of it fills me.
The swinging door nicks my hip as it opens. Jaxon pops his head in. “Smells fucking amazing in here. Need a hand?”
I raise a brow. “I’m good.”
He just shrugs.
