Chapter 15 #2
Rafe leads us into a sitting room off the kitchen. It’s warm and bright, furniture comfortable without being fancy. Family photos are on the walls—Rosa as a kid, Rafe in braces, Rafe holding a guitar too big for him, Rafe looking like he belonged even before the world told him he did.
His mom has snacks out already. A spread on the coffee table like she’s been preparing for this since sunrise.
Rafe groans affectionately. “Mamá.”
“What?” she says, laughing. “You are always hungry.”
“I’m not.”
“Yes, you are.”
His dad brings drinks—water, soda, something warm smelling like cinnamon.
We sit.
I realize my palms are sweating the second I stop moving. Rafe sits beside me on the couch. Close enough that our thighs brush. His mother takes the chair opposite, his father beside her.
Four people. Two truths. One of them big enough to change everything.
His mom watches me with the same kind eyes as before. “So,” she says, and there’s a sparkle in her gaze now, like she’s enjoying herself, “I saw the reports.”
Rafe exhales through his nose. “Of course you did.”
“I am your mother,” she says like that explains everything. “And I have eyes.”
His dad huffs a short laugh, amused.
Rafe glances at me, a quick check-in.
“The kiss,” she says, lifting a brow. “And the… knife.”
My stomach flips.
“It looked worse than it was,” Rafe says quickly. Too quickly. “Everything was handled. Security moved fast. No one was hurt.”
His dad studies him carefully. “You said that on the phone too.”
“I know.” Rafe nods. “It reads dramatic online. It wasn’t—”
He hesitates, flicking his gaze to me. And I see it. Not dismissal but panic. Because he doesn’t want me to think he’s minimizing what happened. Doesn’t want me to believe he wasn’t terrified when that blade flashed toward me.
Fuck. He was scared.
His fingers squeeze mine, and then he lifts our joined hands and presses a soft, almost absent kiss to my palm. The gesture is instinctive. Unplanned. It knocks the air out of me.
“I’m okay,” I murmur.
His eyes meet mine, searching for cracks.
“I know,” I add quietly. “You don’t have to pretend it wasn’t scary.”
His jaw shifts. Something vulnerable moves there, an emotion he doesn’t often let anyone see.
“I wasn’t pretending,” he says under his breath.
I squeeze his hand. “I know.”
He holds on tighter.
Then his mom clears her throat lightly, the mood shifting again, gentler this time. “And I was expecting Oliver,” she adds, voice light.
Something in my chest loosens a fraction. She isn’t angry. Not yet anyway.
“Did you… did you want me to call first?” I ask, stupidly polite, because my brain is scrambling for safe ground.
She waves a hand. “No. You are welcome.” Then, softer, she adds, “You look nervous.”
My voice threatens to break. I laugh weakly. “I am.”
Rafe’s dad nods once, like that makes sense. “It has been a long time since a famous basketball man comes to our house.”
Rafe groans. “Papá.”
His mom smiles. “You are taller than before,” she says, as if she’s making an observation about the weather.
I almost laugh. It catches in my throat and turns into a shaky breath.
Small talk lasts maybe five minutes.
They ask about the loft. About the view. About the contractor. About whether Minnesota is cold compared to LA. I answer on autopilot, nodding, smiling, trying to keep my face calm even though my stomach feels like it’s doing suicides.
Rafe is quieter than usual. He keeps his posture steady, but his knee bounces once, subtle, and I feel it. I feel the tension in him like a live wire.
Then he stops pretending. He takes a slow breath, looks at his parents, and says, “Right.”
His mom tilts her head. “Right what?”
Rafe’s hand tenses around mine. His voice is steady, but I hear the strain underneath it. “There’s something I need to tell you.”
His dad’s expression sobers immediately. His mom’s smile fades into attention.
Rafe glances at me for a split second, and his eyes say: Stay with me.
I squeeze his hand.
He looks back at them. “Ollie isn’t just—” He starts, then stops, like the word friend is too sharp to pick up.
His mother’s brows knit. “Rafael….”
Rafe swallows. Then he says it. “Oliver is my husband.”
Stunned silence follows. His mom’s mouth parts slightly. His dad blinks once, slowly, like his brain is rewinding to make sure he heard right. Rafe’s hand is reassuring in mine. My heart is pounding so loud I swear they can hear it.
His mother’s eyes flick down to our hands again. Then back up to Rafe. And then—God help me—her face shifts. Not anger. Surprise, yes. Shock. But under it… something that looks like relief. “Mijo,” she whispers.
Rafe’s dad exhales slowly. “Husband,” he repeats, like he’s testing the word.
Rafe nods once, expression serious. “Yes.”
His mother’s eyes shine. “You should have told us,” she says, voice soft but firm.
Rafe’s shoulders tense. “I—”
She cuts him off with a shake of her head. “We could have been there.”
The words slam into me. My throat burns. Rafe’s mouth opens, then closes.
His dad leans back slightly, still processing. “You are married,” he says, slower.
“Yes,” Rafe confirms, and this time his voice steadies. “We are.”
His mother reaches for his free hand, squeezing it. “We love you,” she says simply. “Always.”
Rafe blinks hard.
His dad nods once, quiet but solid. “Always.”
Something in my chest cracks open. The part of me that expected shouting, rejection, disgust—it stumbles, disoriented.
Because this is… support, the unconditional variety I’ve only ever received from my sister… and Rafe. Always Rafe.
He swallows, voice rougher now. “There’s more.”
His mom’s brows lift. “More?”
Rafe’s gaze flicks to me again, and I can see him weighing it—how much. How fast. How hard the next truth will land.
He squeezes my hand before saying, “We’ve been married a long time.”
His father’s eyes narrow slightly, calculation creeping in.
His mother’s hand freezes on Rafe’s. “How long?” she asks slowly.
Rafe swallows. “Almost twelve years.”
The number drops into the room like a stone.
Almost twelve years.
I feel it hit them—stunning, impossible, rearranging everything they thought they knew. And I feel it hit me, too, like it always does. Because that number holds everything.
The love.
The hiding.
The years lost.
The years we kept anyway.
His mother stares. His father goes very still. And I hold Rafe’s hand so tight my fingers ache, bracing for the reaction that’s about to come.
The word twelve still hangs in the air. Rafe’s father goes very quiet.
His mother, on the other hand, inhales sharply and then unleashes a rapid stream of Spanish so fast I can’t catch a single word.
It spills out of her in waves—hands flying, eyes flashing, voice rising and falling with sharp emotion.
I freeze. Shit. This is it. This is where the floor opens up.
I don’t understand the words, but I understand tone. I understand rhythm. I understand when someone is furious.
And she is.
Rafe winces slightly, which does nothing for my confidence.
His dad leans back, crossing his arms, watching his wife with a long-suffering look that says this is not the first time she’s delivered a speech at this volume.
“Mamá,” Rafe tries gently.
She doesn’t stop.
My face burns. My chest constricts. I sit there like I deserve whatever is coming—which, if I’m honest, I probably do.
I married her son in secret. I disappeared. I came back eight years later with cameras trailing us.
Yeah. I deserve this.
I sit straighter and don’t shrink. I’m not a kid anymore. I don’t get to fold under raised voices. I’m a grown man, and I love her son.
So I sit here and take it.
Rafe finally manages to cut in, speaking softly but firmly in Spanish. His tone is steady, calming. He reaches for her hand.
She swats him lightly.
His dad lets out a soft sigh. “She is angry,” he translates for me, almost dryly.
I nod. “I figured.”
But then his dad’s mouth twitches. “She is angry,” he repeats, “because she wanted to be there.”
I blink. “What?”
His mom pauses mid-rant and looks at me directly, switching to English now, still heated. “You are my only son,” she says to Rafe, stabbing a finger toward his chest. “You get married, and I am not there? No music? No dancing? No food? No party?”
Rafe blinks. “Mamá—”
“Twelve years ago!” she continues, voice climbing again. “Twelve years and I don’t know? Like I am a stranger?”
The room goes quiet. It takes a second for that to sink in. She’s not angry because we’re married. She’s angry because she wasn’t invited. My stomach flips.
Rafe looks stunned too. “You’re… not mad that we—”
She cuts him off with a sharp look. “Why would I be mad that you love someone?”
The simplicity of it hits like a punch.
His dad nods once. “We raised you better than that,” he says calmly. “You think we would not support you?”
Rafe swallows hard.
I can see it—eight years of fear folding in on itself.
His mother shakes her head. “You think I care about gossip? About neighbors?” She gestures vaguely. “They already talk too much.”
His dad snorts.
“But I would have worn a nice dress,” she adds, voice breaking slightly. “We would have danced. Your father would have cried.” She glares at him.
“I would not have cried,” he mutters.
“You cry at commercials,” she shoots back.
A startled laugh bursts out of me before I can stop it. It breaks the tension, and Rafe lets out a breath that sounds like it’s been trapped for years.
His mom’s eyes soften slightly when she looks at me again. “You thought we would not love you?” she asks.
I don’t know how to answer that. Because the truth is—I didn’t think about Rafe’s parents at all. I thought about mine.
She studies my face, and something shifts in her expression. “Do your parents know?” she asks gently.
The question lands like a stone in my chest. Rafe’s hand squeezes mine, and I clear my throat. “They… knew we were together,” I say carefully. “Years ago.”
Her gaze sharpens. “And?”