"Dad, Mom, this is Dante." I take a breath. "We came to have dinner together. If you want."
Silence.
Dad removes his glasses and tucks them into his shirt pocket. He studies Dante the way he used to study my high school boyfriends. Measuring. Assessing.
Then he extends his hand.
"Thank you," Dad says, "for taking care of my daughter."
Dante takes his hand. They shake. Something passes between them. Some kind of understanding I'm not privy to.
"She takes care of herself," Dante says. "I just try to keep up."
Dad's mouth twitches. Almost a smile. "That sounds about right."
I stare at my father. This is the same man who looked at Dante like he was a criminal two years ago. The same man who demanded to know who this stranger was, sitting at hisdaughter's bedside. The same man who barely spoke to Dante the entire time I was in the hospital.
Now he's shaking his hand and thanking him.
"Dad?"
He looks at me. "What?"
"You... you're okay with this?"
Dad glances at Dante, then back at me. "Your mother and I have had two years to think about that man in the hospital. The one who wouldn't leave."
My throat tightens.
"We didn't understand it then," Dad continues. "But we understand it now."
Mom appears at his side, slipping her arm through his. "A man who sits at a woman's bedside for three days without sleeping, without eating, without leaving even when her parents tell him to go..." She smiles at Dante. "That's not a stranger. Welcome to our family."
Dante's composure cracks. Just for a second. I see the emotion flash across his face before he locks it down.
"Come in, come in." Mom waves us toward the door. "Dinner's almost ready. I made pot roast. Marina, you still like pot roast, don't you? Of course you do. And Dante, do you have any allergies? Dietary restrictions? I didn't know you were coming?—"
"No allergies," Dante manages. His voice sounds rough. "Thank you, Mrs. Reeves."
"Call me Helen." Mom beams at him. "Mrs. Reeves makes me feel old."
Dad steps aside to let us pass. As Dante walks by, Dad claps him on the shoulder.
"Welcome to the family, son."
Dante stops. Turns. Looks at my father with an expression I've never seen before.
Lost. Grateful. Terrified.
"Thank you, sir."
"Richard." Dad's eyes crinkle. "If you're going to be around, you might as well use my name."
We enter the house. The warmth hits me immediately. The smell of roasting meat and fresh bread. The sound of a clock ticking in the hallway. Family photos line the walls. Me as a baby. Me at graduation. Me and Sophia at prom.
Home.
I look at Dante. He's taking it all in. The worn carpet. The mismatched furniture. The evidence of a life lived in love and comfort. So different from his penthouse. So different from the compound.
