I sit like a statue.
Marco, meanwhile, looks like he’s been invited into a friend’s home for the first time and decided he’s going to make sure everyone leaves happy. He scoots his chair in, rubs his hands together, and grins at Rafe’s mother like she’s already his favorite person. “Smells incredible,” he says.
She beams. “Eat, eat. You boys must be hungry.”
Rafe sits beside me, close enough that our knees almost touch under the table. He’s not looking at me much. His gaze keeps flicking between his parents and the food, like he’s trying to act normal while his entire nervous system is humming.
I want to grab his hand under the table, but I don’t. I don’t know what’s safe here.
His father gestures at the food. “This is simple,” he says, in accented English, as if he’s apologizing. “Not fancy.”
“It looks perfect,” I manage.
His mother smiles at me, eyes kind. “Rafe says you are polite.”
Rafe groans. “Mamá.”
“What?” she says, amused. “He does. He talks about you a lot,” she says to me.
The words hit me like a physical thing, and I swallow hard.
Rafe freezes beside me, shoulders subtly tensing, like he wasn’t expecting that to be said out loud. His ears go faintly pink.
“Yeah?” Marco says brightly, as if this is the most delightful thing he’s ever heard. “That checks out.”
Rafe shoots him a look that could cut glass. Marco just grins wider.
His mother leans forward slightly, smiling at me as if we’ve known each other longer than ten minutes. “We are glad,” she says softly, “that he has someone who knew him before everything became so… big.” Her hand lifts, gesturing vaguely, as if “big” is too small a word for what Rafe’s life has become.
His father nods. “Fame makes people strange,” he says bluntly.
Rafe coughs, half laugh, half protest. “Dad.”
“It is true,” his father says, unfazed. “People come close for reasons that are not love.”
His mother’s expression softens. “But you,” she says to me, like she already trusts me, “you are… real for him. A good friend.”
I swallow hard. I don’t deserve this. Not when I can’t even say the truth sitting five feet away from it.
“It must be hard,” she continues, looking between Rafe and me, “with both of you so busy. Always traveling. Always schedules. Always other people needing you.”
My stomach twists while Rafe’s gaze flicks to me then, quick and sharp, like the words landed too close.
“It is,” I say quietly, because it’s the only answer I can give.
Marco leans back in his chair, nodding dramatically. “Yeah,” he says, like he’s commiserating. “My wife and I barely see each other some weeks too. It’s like… marriage by calendar invite.”
Rafe’s dad laughs. A short, surprised sound.
Rafe’s mom laughs, too, covering her mouth. “Ay, Dios mío,” she says. “That is terrible.”
“It’s romantic,” Marco insists. “Nothing says love like a shared Google doc.”
Rafe finally looks at Marco, some of the tightness easing as he shakes his head. “You’re unbelievable.”
Marco winks. “I try.”
The laughter loosens something in the room. The energy shifts from careful to comfortable, and that makes the guilt sharper instead of softer. Because they’re so easy to be with. They would welcome me, if I were braver.
