CHAPTER 11 Axel
Axel
The next Sunday dinner at the Santoro house was going to destroy me, and I knew it before we even pulled into the driveway.
Jake was coming. Elena had invited him yesterday during one of her confused spells, thinking he was still Delia’s husband, and nobody had the heart to call her back and tell her the truth.
That would require explaining to a woman slowly losing her mind that the man she believed was her son-in-law had actually abandoned her daughter on the altar.
So Jake was coming to dinner. And I was going to sit there and watch it happen like some kind of self-imposed punishment.
We pulled up to the house. Jake’s car sat in the driveway already. He’d arrived early. Of course he’d want to make a good impression, to erase his absence with a single evening of performance.
I gripped the steering wheel tighter than necessary before forcing myself to let go.
Inside, Elena was already fawning over him like he was some kind of miracle. Jake stood in the living room holding a bottle of wine with that charming smile in place.
My mother figure patted his arm and told him how glad she was that he came, complimenting how handsome he looked, and how wonderful it was to have him home.
Home. Like he belonged here. Like he hadn’t thrown away every right to this family.
“Jake brought wine.” Elena’s face lit up when she saw us. “Isn’t that thoughtful? Delia, your husband is so considerate.”
Delia went rigid beside me, her expression tight. “Mom, Jake isn’t—”
“Oh, don’t be modest.” Elena waved her hand like she was swatting away something insignificant. “Marriage is about appreciating the little things. Your father always brought me flowers on Fridays. Remember, Miguel?”
She looked right at me. Waiting for confirmation, for me to play along with whatever reality her failing mind had constructed.
My throat felt constricted, but I answered. “I remember.”
The lie tasted bitter. But what else could I do? Watch confusion turn to grief turn to distress that would last for hours?
Daniel appeared from the kitchen, took one look at the scene playing out in his living room, and his eyes met mine. The expression on his face said everything his mouth couldn’t. This is going to be a disaster.
He wasn’t wrong.
Dinner was torture disguised as family bonding.
Elena seated Jake next to Delia at the table. Put me directly across from them where I had a perfect view of every casual touch, every smile, every moment Jake leaned in to whisper something that made the tension in Delia’s shoulders soften just slightly.
I watched it happen—her defenses lowering inch by inch while Jake worked his charm like he was running a campaign.
“So,” Elena said after Maria brought out the first course. Chicken that smelled incredible but tasted like sawdust in my mouth. “How’s married life treating you two?”
Delia opened her mouth but Jake beat her to it.
“It’s wonderful, Mrs. Santoro. I’m very lucky.”
My hand tightened around my fork hard enough that my knuckles went white. The urge to throw it across the table was so strong I had to set it down completely.
“I’m so glad you worked everything out.” Elena beamed at them like they were proof that love conquered all. “I was worried for a while there, but I knew you’d figure it out. You two make such sense together.”
“Thank you,” Jake said, his voice warm. “That means a lot.”
Daniel stared at his plate, Maria had developed a sudden fascination with the ceiling tiles. And I sat there trying to remember how to breathe like a normal person instead of someone slowly suffocating.
“Jake, would you pour the wine?” Elena asked. “You brought it, after all.”
“Of course.”
He stood, picked up the bottle with smooth ease.
First for Elena, leaning down to pour with that easy grace that came from years of networking events and business dinners.
Then Maria. Then Daniel, who looked like he wanted to refuse but didn’t because that would cause questions nobody wanted to answer.
Then Delia. Jake leaned close enough that his shoulder brushed hers, smiling down at her like they shared some private joke.
Then he came to my glass.
We locked eyes as he poured. The air between us felt charged, electric with everything neither of us could say in front of this table. Some wordless acknowledgment that we both knew exactly what was happening here and exactly what was at stake.
“Thanks,” I said. The word came out flat. Dead.
“No problem.” His smile stayed pleasant. “Family should help each other out.”
Family. The word landed like a punch to the ribs.
I took a long drink of wine and imagined punching him. Just once. Right in his perfect teeth.
“So when are you two going to give me grandchildren?” Elena asked, bright and hopeful like she’d just asked about weekend plans.
Delia choked on her water, coughing hard enough that Daniel had to lean over and pat her back while she struggled to breathe.
“Mom,” Daniel said gently. “Maybe—”
“What? I’m just asking. I’m not getting any younger.
I’d like to meet my grandchildren before…
” She trailed off. Something flickered across her face.
Awareness, maybe. A brief moment where she understood exactly what she was losing.
Then the confusion returned, soft and relentless. “Before I forget who they are.”
The table went silent. The kind of silence that felt heavy. Suffocating.
“We’re taking our time, Mrs. Santoro. Want to make sure we’re ready.” Jake said smoothly.
“That’s wise,” Elena agreed, nodding like he’d said something profound. “But don’t wait too long. Children need young parents.”
I stood abruptly. My chair scraped against the floor loud enough that everyone looked at me.
“Bathroom,” I said, not waiting for acknowledgment. Not trusting myself to sit there another second without saying something I couldn’t take back.
The bathroom was small and old-fashioned. I turned on the faucet and splashed cold water on my face. Once. Twice. Three times until my hands were shaking and water dripped down my jaw onto my shirt.
I gripped the edge of the sink and stared at my reflection.
Daniel found me there five minutes later. He didn’t knock. Just opened the door and leaned against the frame with his arms crossed.
“You okay?”
“Fine.”
“You look like you want to commit murder.”
I didn’t deny it. Couldn’t deny it. “I’m fine,” I repeated anyway.
“Axel.” Daniel’s voice dropped lower. Serious in that way he got when he was about to say something I didn’t want to hear. “You know Jake has always been good at getting what he wants, right? He’s charming. He’s persistent. And Delia’s vulnerable right now.”
“I know.”
“So maybe you should tell her how you actually feel. Instead of playing the supportive friend while she drifts back to someone who hurt her.”
“It’s not that simple.”
It’s exactly that simple, Axel. You’re the only one pretending it isn’t.” Daniel pushed off the doorframe. “Either you want her or you don’t. And if you do, you need to stop being so damn noble about it and actually tell her.”
“She needs to make her own choice.”
“She can’t make an informed choice if she doesn’t know all her options.”
I looked at him. Daniel had been more than a friend. A brother.
He had found out about my feelings for Delia probably longer than I’d been willing to admit them to myself. And now he was standing here telling me to risk everything.
“What if I tell her and she chooses him anyway?” The question came out quietly, doubt creeping in.
“Then at least you tried. Which is better than sitting here watching Jake win by default.”
After dinner, Jake asked Delia to help carry dishes to the kitchen. My whole body went tight watching them go. Through the doorway I could see Jake corner her by the sink, talking earnestly with his hands moving in gestures that looked apologetic. Sincere.
She stood there with her arms crossed at first. Defensive. But slowly, so slowly I could track each moment it happened, her posture started to loosen. Her arms uncrossed. Her expression softened.
Then Jake reached for her hand.
She didn’t pull away.
Not immediately. Not like someone who’d decided she was done with him.
“Stop torturing yourself,” Daniel muttered beside me.
I turned away from the doorway. Helped Maria clear the rest of the table even though my hands felt numb, my chest hollow. Tried not to think about what Jake was saying that was making Delia look at him like maybe, possibly, he deserved another chance.
The drive back to Brooklyn felt longer than the drive there. Delia stared out the window while I navigated traffic and tried to think about anything other than Jake’s hand on her arm.
“He asked me to dinner,” she said finally. Her voice was quiet. “Just for us to talk more.”
My hands tightened on the steering wheel. The leather creaked under my grip. “Are you going?”
“I don’t know.” She turned to look at me. “Should I go?”
“It’s your choice,” I said, even if it’s the last thing I wanted. I was probably the dumbest fool on earth.
“That’s not an answer.” She paused, looking at me. “Why won’t you just tell me what you think?”
“Because what I want shouldn’t influence what you choose.” I said, my voice coming hard through clenched teeth.
We drove the rest of the way in silence that felt less like quiet and more like all the things we weren’t saying.
At her apartment, we went through our evening routine. She disappeared to her bedroom while I poured myself scotch.
I was on my second glass when I heard the scream.
My body moved before my brain caught up. I was across the apartment and through her bedroom door in seconds, my heart hammering against my ribs because that scream had sounded terrified and all I could think was something was wrong, something had happened, she needed help.
Delia stood in the middle of her room dripping wet from the shower. A towel wrapped around her body. Wet dark hair plastered to her neck and shoulders. She was pointing at the wall with genuine horror on her face.
“There! Right there!”
I followed her finger and saw it. A cockroach. Maybe two inches long, sitting on the wall next to her dresser.
The relief that she wasn’t hurt mixed with disbelief. “Are you serious right now?”
“Kill it!”
“Delia, it’s a cockroach.”
“Exactly! Kill it!”
I moved toward the wall. The cockroach, clearly sensing danger or just being a cockroach, spread its wings.
“Oh god.” Delia’s voice went high and panicked. “It flies. Why does it fly? Nothing that ugly should be allowed to fly.”
The thing launched itself off the wall. Delia screamed again, backing away. It flew in a drunken circle around the room while I tried to track it, lost it behind her lamp, found it again perched on her bookshelf.
“Where is it?” Delia was pressed against her closet door now, eyes wide. “Did you get it?”
“It’s on your—”
The cockroach took off again. This time it dive-bombed toward the floor and landed on something white and fluffy.
Her towel.
The towel that was no longer on her body.
The towel she’d apparently dropped in her panic.
Delia was standing there in red underwear—barely-there, devastating, and absolutely none of my business.
My brain froze. Just completely stopped working. Because there was Delia, and there was no towel, and I was looking directly at her before my higher functions kicked back in.
She stared at me, I could see the realization of what she had done dawn in her eyes, she let out another scream that had nothing to do with the cockroach. She grabbed the towel again, shaking it furiously before wrapping it around herself.
“I didn’t see anything,” I said. But that was a lie. The image was going to live in my head forever probably.
“You’re a pervert!” she shrieked, mortification and fury blending into one catastrophic sound.
“I’m not a pervert! You screamed! I thought you were hurt!”
“Well I’m not hurt, and you’re looking at me!”
“I’m not looking! I’m facing the wall with my eyes closed!”
“Get out!”
Something hit the back of my head. Soft but forceful. A pillow.
“I’m going!” I moved toward the door, my hands up like I was surrendering. My eyes were still closed only to run straight into her doorframe. Pain exploded across my shoulder.
“I’m going!” I groaned.
Behind me I heard rustling. Movement. The sound of fabric. Then a thud and a victorious “Ha!”
I risked opening my eyes and turning around slightly. Delia had put on a robe. Dark blue and tied tight around her waist. The towel lay abandoned on the floor. The cockroach was a dark smear on the wall where she’d apparently murdered it with her shoe.
“Got it,” she said, breathing hard, still holding the shoe like a weapon.
We stared at each other.
Her hair dripped water onto the hardwood floor. Her face was flushed pink, either from the shower or the adrenaline or the complete mortification. She looked furious and embarrassed and somehow still beautiful, which seemed deeply unfair given everything that had just happened.
“Get out of my room. Get out of my apartment. I don’t ever want to see you again.”
“Delia—”
“Out!”
Another pillow hit me in the face. I retreated, closing her door behind me. From behind the door I heard her moving around. Muttering to herself in Spanish, which only happened when she was really upset. Probably planning elaborate ways to murder me.
I went back to the couch and my scotch, nursing it quietly. The image of her appeared in my mind again. Completely unbidden. Completely unwanted. I shoved it away violently because that was absolutely not something I had permission to think about, regardless of how it had happened.
Twenty minutes later her door opened. She was still wearing that robe. Her hair was still damp, hanging loose around her shoulders. Her face was still flushed.
“We are never—ever—speaking of this again,” she declared, each word sharp enough to draw blood.
“Agreed.”
“I mean it. This never happened.”
“What never happened?”
“Exactly.”
She grabbed water from the kitchen. Didn’t look at me. She disappeared back into her room without another word.