18. Dante
18
Dante
T he taxi slowed to a stop at the edge of the driveway, its engine rumbling quietly as Dante opened the door. He stepped out, the gravel crunching under his boots as he adjusted his bag on his shoulder. The driver gave a polite nod before pulling away, leaving Dante standing in the warm glow of the porch light.
His mom’s house stood just as he remembered—modest and inviting, its flower beds neatly arranged along the edges of the porch. Each bloom seemed perfectly placed, their vibrant colors almost too cheerful against the storm of emotions churning inside him.
He lingered near the end of the path, his gaze drifting to the crooked wind chime hanging near the door. It swayed in the evening breeze, a familiar sight that tugged at memories he wasn’t sure he wanted to confront. The porch swing creaked, just as it had when he was a kid, a small but persistent reminder of simpler times.
Freshly cut grass mingled with the sharp aroma of rosemary wafting from the herb garden. He breathed it in, steadying himself as his steps slowed. Each familiar detail brought a fresh wave of nostalgia and unease. His fingers brushed the railing as he climbed the porch steps, the wood smooth from years of use.
Memories tugged at him—his younger self sprinting up these same steps, his laughter ringing out as his father’s stern, but amused voice called after him. The thought clenched at his chest, a collision of warmth and lingering doubt.
He paused at the door, his gaze lingering on the intricate wreath she always kept hung year-round. His hand hovered for a moment before he knocked lightly, his knuckles rapping against the solid wood.
His chest tightened, the conflicting emotions pressing against each other. Coming back here always brought that same mix of warmth and tension. His mother’s love had always been steady, unshaken by the trials their family faced. But the shadow of his father’s expectations loomed large, even now.
Sebastian’s face came unbidden to his mind—those calm, steady eyes, the way his presence could ground him even when everything else felt unsteady. The memory of their kiss burned brighter than he wanted to admit, sparking a turmoil he hadn’t figured out how to handle.
A flicker of doubt crept in, sharper than before. His father’s voice echoed in his mind, stern, and resolute, a reminder of the man he’d always tried to measure up to. What would his father have said about this? About him? The question tightened his jaw, his hand gripping the railing harder than necessary.
The front door creaked open, pulling him from his thoughts. Marianne Reed stood in the doorway, her warm smile radiating a quiet joy that eased the edges of his tension. She wiped her hands on a kitchen towel, tilting her head as she studied him.
“Dante! Honey, what a nice surprise,” his mom said with a familiarity that made everything else feel less overwhelming. “You planning to stand there all night? Get in her!”
Dante managed a small smile, the knot in his chest loosening. “I’m coming,” he said, stepping up onto the porch. He couldn’t quite shake the lingering doubts, but as he followed her into the house, the familiar warmth of home wrapped around him like a soft, steadying presence.
Dante stepped over the threshold, the subtle aromas of rosemary and garlic wafting from the kitchen. Life inside the house wrapped around him, steady and unchanging. He shrugged off his jacket, hanging it on the same hook he’d used as a teenager.
“Just started on dinner,” Marianne said, walking toward the kitchen. She glanced back, her tone light. “You’re not getting out of helping, by the way.”
Dante followed her, his lips twitching into a small smile. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
The kitchen was a snapshot of his childhood, right down to the chipped ceramic jar holding mismatched wooden spoons on the counter. A cutting board sat ready, vegetables neatly arranged beside a paring knife. Marianne moved around, checking a pot on the stove while she handed Dante a bowl of potatoes.
“Peel these,” she said, her attention on the simmering pot. “You remember how, don’t you?”
“Of course,” Dante replied, rolling up his sleeves.
She chuckled softly, pulling a loaf of bread from the pantry. “Good. I was worried living large in the city might make you forget.”
Dante scoffed, taking the knife she handed him. “I’m still a Reed, Mom . Genetically programmed to know my way around a kitchen.”
She laughed, shaking her head as she sliced into the bread. “Damned straight. Raised my boy right.”
For a while, they worked in comfortable silence, a steady rhythm of chopping and stirring filling the space between them. Dante found himself relaxing into the routine, bringing back memories of countless evenings spent here, helping his mother prepare meals while his father recounted stories from work.
Marianne glanced at him occasionally, her gaze warm but curious. “You’re awfully quiet,” she said eventually, her words light but laced with subtle observation. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah…” He focused on the potatoes, peeling a little harder than necessary. “Just tired.”
Marianne didn’t press, her smile softening. “Long week?”
“Something like that.” Dante shrugged his shoulders.
She turned back to the stove, giving him space to collect his thoughts. “I’m glad you came by,” she said after a moment. “Feels like it’s been ages since we did this.”
Dante paused, his hand resting on the knife. “Yeah. Me too. Needed a mom-recharge,” he said and grinned.
She smiled back, reaching out to tuck a piece of stray hair behind his ear.
The simplicity of the moment tugged at him, such a domestic routine both soothing and disarming. He felt her watching him out of the corner of his eye, her intuition cutting through the quiet like it always did.
She didn’t push. And for that Dante was especially grateful.
As they worked side by side, a flicker of nostalgia crept in, softening the edges of his restlessness. She’d always kept the kitchen a safe space for him, a place where the world felt manageable, even if just for a little while.
Dante carried a stack of plates to the dining table, setting them down before straightening one of the chairs.
Marianne followed, holding a folded stack of napkins and a pitcher of water. She placed them in the center of the table, her focus shifting to adjust the napkins into neat triangles. “Want to talk about it?” she asked but didn’t glance his way, allowing him space to put his words in order.
Dante hesitated, his hands lingering on a plate as he adjusted its position. “Just a lot going on at work,” he said.
“As you said before. It must be bad this time.” She glanced at him, her expression calm but attentive. “You’re always like this. Keeping everything bottled up until it spills over.”
Dante huffed out a short laugh, his fingers brushing over the edge of the plate. “Am I that predictable?”
“Not predictable.” She shook her head as she smoothed a napkin onto the table. “Just stubborn.”
Her teasing eased the knot in his chest, but his words still caught in his throat. He moved to the other side of the table, straightening a chair as he tried to gather the courage to speak. “Mom,” he said, “can I ask you something?”
Her gaze lifted to meet his. “Of course, honey. You can tell me anything,” she said, her tone free of judgment.
Dante let out a slow breath, his fingertips brushing the back of a chair again for support. “What would you say if I… liked someone?” His words came out hesitantly. “Someone you didn’t expect? Maybe not approve of?”
Marianne tilted her head, her expression thoughtful. “I’d say it’s about time,” she said, though her gaze didn’t waver. “You deserve someone who makes you happy.”
His fingers tightened on the chair. “What if… they’re not what Dad would’ve wanted?” His words dropped, heavier than he meant, but he didn’t pull them back. Instead, plunging headfirst. “What if it’s another man?”
Marianne’s shoulders sagged, and she stepped closer. “Your father loved you,” she said gently. “But he wasn’t perfect. He had his own beliefs, and they were shaped by his time, by his experiences. That doesn’t mean you have to carry them, too.”
“It’s not just about Dad. It’s me. I don’t even know if I’m… if I should let myself want this.”
Marianne moved closer, her hand brushing against his arm as she held his gaze. “You should. Hun, whoever this person is, if they make you feel alive, like you can be yourself, make you smile and feel safe, loved… that’s all I care about. That’s all that matters. Whether I—or your dad’s spirit—approve.”
A quiet, bittersweet ache squeezed his heart. “You’re really okay with this?” he asked. And turned his head away, swiping away at the tears burning in his eyes.
Marianne’s smile softened, her gaze steady. “Of course, I am. You’re my son. Nothing will ever change that.”
Dante nodded, his hands resting on the back of the chair as he let her words settle. For the first time in a while, he felt something close to clarity—not complete, but enough to steady his steps forward. “Thanks, Mom,” he said, his tone carrying a rare softness. “I love you.”
Marianne squeezed his arm gently. “Anytime. I love you, too, baby. Now, let’s finish setting the table before dinner gets cold,” she said as she placed the casserole dish in the center of the table, steam curling from its golden crust. She adjusted the folded napkins one last time before sitting across from Dante, her expression expectant. “Serve yourself, sweetheart. I made plenty.”
Dante reached for the serving spoon, dishing a generous portion onto his plate. Familiarity eased some of the tension still lingering in his chest. “This looks great, Mom.”
“Good,” Marianne said, picking up her own fork. “It’s been a while since I’ve had anyone to cook for. Hope I don’t let you down.”
“Never.” A small smile crossed his face as he dug into the meal. The flavors were exactly as he remembered—comforting, a reminder of simpler days. He chewed slow, savoring each bite.
Marianne watched him for a moment with amusement, but her eyes narrowing in that way meant he should brace for impact. She set her fork down carefully. “So, tell me about him.”
“What?”
“Don’t play dumb,” she said, waving her fork at him. “The person you were talking about earlier, who’s got you all twisted up.”
Dante sighed, setting his fork down as he leaned back. He hesitated, his amber eyes flicking to hers before dropping to the table. “His name’s Sebastian.”
Marianne nodded, her hands resting on the edge of the table. “And?”
Dante exhaled, shaking his head. “And he’s…. annoying . Smug. Arrogant. A total prick. And he knows how to get under my skin.”
“You must really like him,” his mom said, a teasing edge to her voice.
Dante smiled despite himself, shaking his head. “That’s your takeaway?”
“To me, yes,” Marianne said, leaning forward. “Is that all? Just an annoying prick?”
He bit his lip. “No. He’s also really smart, like crazy intelligent. Handsome. He’s got these eyes… so silver, it’s like they glow in the dark. And he’s actually kind of… nice, mostly. Sometimes. To other people.”
Marianne tried to hide her snicker. “So, what’s the problem?” she asked.
His smirk faded, replaced by a more thoughtful expression. “I don’t know if I can give him what he deserves. Or if I even deserve to try. He’s, like, on this whole other level. You should see his childhood home. It’s…” Dante whistled. “Let’s just say his family is ridiculously rich.”
“And we’re too poor?”
Dante winced. “No. Of course not. It’s not like that. He’s just… I feel like he’s out of my league.”
Marianne reached across the table, grabbing his hand in her own. “Honey. Listen to me now. You are a good man, Dante. Don’t let anyone, including you, convince you otherwise. If this Sebastian sees that in you, don’t be afraid to let him. You are worthy of everything you want, and then some. You deserve happiness and love, just as much as anyone else. Especially as my son. Okay?”
Dante dipped his head. “Thanks. I guess it’s just… complicated.”
Marianne barked a laugh. “Oh, it’s always complicated,” she said. “If you think I didn’t drive me mad, and he didn’t do the same, you’re crazy. But this is new. So, it’s okay if you don’t have to have all the answers right now. Just take it one step at a time.”
Dante picked up his fork again as her words settled the restlessness inside him. “One step at a time.”
“That’s all you need to do.” His mom smiled, patting his hand. “Now, tell me how you two kiddos met.”