That earns a weak huff of a laugh from me, but my stomach is churning too hard for humor to land properly. We get out of the car together. I pause on the sidewalk, staring at the house again, trying to breathe.
This is where Rafe grew up. Where he learned how to be himself before the world ever got its hands on him. Where he became the man I married. The thought nearly drops me to my knees.
I drag in a slow breath, the way I do before free throws when the crowd gets too loud. In through my nose. Out through my mouth. Control what you can control.
Marco nudges my shoulder. “Hey,” he says quietly. “You’re doing the right thing.”
“I hope so.”
We walk up the path together. The porch creaks slightly under our weight. I lift my hand to knock, then hesitate. This is it. No more delay. No more avoidance. No more letting Rafe be the one who steps forward alone.
I knock. The sound feels absurdly loud in the quiet neighborhood. One knock, then another, firm but not aggressive. My heart slams against my ribs as we wait.
Footsteps. Voices inside.
Rafe opens the door mid-conversation, head turned over his shoulder as he says something in Spanish. He’s wearing jeans and a soft, worn T-shirt I recognize—the one he stole from me when we were in college and never gave back. His hair is a mess, curls loose, like he ran his hands through it too many times. Like he’d been up early, pacing, trying to scrub last night off his skin.
I take him in all at once, and my chest cracks open.
He looks tired. On edge. Real.
Then he turns around fully. For a second, he just stares at me. There’s a faint tightness around his eyes, the kind you get after too little sleep and too much something else. When he swallows, his throat works a little like it hurts.
His face goes blank with shock, eyes widening like his brain can’t quite make sense of what he’s seeing. “What—” he starts, then stops. “How?”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. My throat closes. The apology, the explanation, the thousand things I need to say all tangle together and refuse to cooperate.
Marco steps forward smoothly, saving me. “We were just passing by,” he says with a grin, like this is all perfectly normal.
Rafe snorts despite himself, disbelief flickering across his face. “Bullshit.”
Before any of us can say anything else, a woman’s voice calls from inside, warm and curious, speaking Spanish. “¿Rafael? ¿Quién es?”
Rafe’s body stiffens. He glances at me, something sharp and uncertain passing through his eyes. Then he swallows and answers her. “Son… mis amigos,” he says.
Friends.The word lands like a punch to my gut.Friends. Just friends.
I know why he said it. I do. It’s easier. Safer. It keeps everything contained, controlled. But it still hurts. It still feels like another quiet reminder of the way my fear keeps forcing him into smaller boxes.
Marco recovers first, because of course he does. He steps forward, offering his hand like he belongs here. “Hola,” he says, his accent clumsy but enthusiastic. “SoyMarco.Mucho gusto.”
Rafe’s mom appears in the doorway then, wiping her hands on a dish towel. She’s smaller than I expected, with kind eyesand a face that looks like it smiles often. Her hair is pulled back loosely, a few strands escaping around her temples.
She takes Marco’s hand, smiling immediately. “Mucho gusto,” she replies, then looks at me.
“And you must be Oliver,” she says, switching easily to English. Her smile widens. “Rafe’s college friend. You play basketball.”
I blink, more than aware she’s seen a photograph of me. “Yes. Hi. I—” I shake myself and extend my hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”
She takes my hand warmly, squeezing once. “Please. Come in. We were just about to sit down for lunch.”
Just like that, we’re inside.
The house smells like food and warmth—something simmering on the stove, spices layered and familiar even though they aren’t mine. The walls are filled with photos. Rafe as a kid. Rafe as a teenager. Rafe with braces, Rafe in a band T-shirt that’s too big for him, Rafe grinning with his arm slung around his younger sister.
My chest aches.
Marco leans into it effortlessly. He chats with Rafe’s mom in a mix of English and enthusiastic, broken Spanish, making her laugh within seconds. He compliments the food. Asks questions. Makes himself useful.
