Chapter 13 #2
Rafe disappears into the kitchen, the sound of a cabinet opening and glass shifting grounding me in a way my own body can’t manage right now. I’m still standing where my mother left me, muscles tight, lungs working like I’ve just run suicides I didn’t train for.
Lindy squeezes my arm once. “I’m going to the bathroom,” she says gently. “I’ll give you a minute.”
I nod, grateful and barely present enough to show it. She pads down the hallway, door clicking shut behind her.
The apartment feels too quiet without her voice filling it.
I stare at the floor, at the place where my keys landed earlier, still lying there like evidence. My thoughts are racing in unhelpful loops—my mother’s face, the word married, the way Rafe flinched when I said retire like it was a finish line instead of a cliff.
Then arms wrap around me.
Firm. Certain.
Rafe pulls me into his chest without hesitation, like he’s been waiting for permission he finally decided he doesn’t need. I sag into him immediately, the adrenaline draining so fast my knees feel weak.
“Hey,” he murmurs into my hair. “Breathe.”
I try. It comes out shaky. “I’m sorry,” I say, the words tumbling over each other. “I didn’t know they were coming. I didn’t—”
“I know,” he says. “I know.”
He rubs slow circles into my back, steady and grounding. He smells like soap and coffee and home. The familiar weight of him against me pulls me back into my body inch by inch.
“She said awful things,” I manage. “I should’ve—”
“You did,” he interrupts quietly. “You stood up for me. For us.”
I swallow hard. “I should’ve done more.”
Rafe pulls back just enough to look at me. His eyes are soft but serious. “Ollie. You were incredible.”
I shake my head, the motion small and helpless. “I froze.”
“You didn’t,” he says firmly. “You chose me. Even when it cost you.”
My heartbeat kicks hard.
“I love you,” he says, like it’s the most obvious truth in the room.
Something in me finally gives. I tug him close and kiss him, not desperate this time, not hungry—just needing to anchor myself to something solid. He kisses me back immediately, hands firm on my waist, the pressure of his mouth slow and sure.
When we part, my breathing is steadier. “I love you too,” I say, and it feels like oxygen.
Rafe presses his forehead to mine. “We’ll figure this out. I promise.”
The bathroom door opens down the hall as Rafe is tugging his shirt back on, and Lindy reappears, taking one look at us and softening immediately. “Okay,” she says. “You look slightly less like you’re about to pass out. Good.”
Rafe steps back reluctantly, but his hand stays at my back as he pours without ceremony, generous but not reckless, and hands one to Lindy first.
“Cheers,” she says, lifting it. “To emotional devastation before noon.”
I huff a laugh despite myself and take the glass Rafe offers me. The burn of alcohol is sharp and welcome. Rafe takes his more quickly than usual. Not enough to comment on. Not enough for Lindy to notice. Just fast—like he wants the edge gone before it can settle.
We sit—me on the couch, Rafe beside me, Lindy facing me in the overstuffed chair.
“Okay,” Lindy says, businesslike now. “Let’s talk.”
I brace myself.
She looks at me, not unkindly. “What exactly do you think they can do?”
I blink. “What do you mean?”
She gestures vaguely. “Mom. Dad. The dramatics. The threats.”
“I don’t know,” I admit. “They could… cut me off. Publicly. Financially.”
She raises an eyebrow. “You’re a professional athlete with your own contracts, endorsements, and savings. You’ve been financially independent for years.”
“That’s not the point,” I say quietly.
“I know,” she says gently. “But it matters.”
Rafe stays quiet, listening, his thumb rubbing slow lines along my knuckles.
“They could disown me,” I say. “Cut contact.”
Lindy nods. “Yeah. They could.”
The acknowledgment hurts more than denial would have.
“But,” she continues calmly, “that says something about them, not you.”
I stare at her. “You say that like it wouldn’t destroy me.”
She leans forward. “It would hurt. A lot. I’m not pretending otherwise.” Her honesty lands harder than comfort. “But,” she adds, softer now, “any parent who would rather lose their child than accept who they love is making a choice. And if they make that choice, it doesn’t mean you failed.”
Something heavy lodges in my throat.
“They don’t deserve you,” she says simply.
The words knock the air out of me, and Rafe’s hand tightens around mine. “I hate that you’re right,” I whisper.
“I know,” she says. “And it would be shit. I won’t sugarcoat it. Losing them would be a sucker punch.”
She pauses, then smiles gently at Rafe. “But you wouldn’t be alone.”
I look at him then, really look at him—my husband, standing in my parents’ crosshairs without flinching, loving me anyway. “I have you,” I say, the truth settling into my bones.
Rafe’s gaze softens, something fierce and tender mixing there. “Always.”
I take a breath, heart pounding slower now. “You’re more important.”
The words are quiet but absolute.
He stills. “Ollie—”
“I mean it,” I say. “I don’t want to lose them. But I won’t lose you to keep them comfortable.”
Lindy lets out a breath like she’s been holding it. “Good. Plus, you have me.”
Rafe swallows, emotion flickering across his face. “Okay.” Then, carefully, like he’s offering a possibility rather than a demand, he says, “Maybe… it’s time my parents meet you.”
I blink. “What?”
“They’ll love you,” he says with quiet certainty. “And my mom will absolutely try to adopt you.”
A startled laugh escapes me. “That’s not—”
“I’m serious,” he says. “They’re not perfect, but they’re kind. And they know I’m in love with someone, just not who, or the fact that we’re married.”
The idea feels too big, too sudden—and yet something in my chest loosens at the thought of being seen without conditions.
I hesitate. “Just your parents?”
He considers. “My parents. And my sister.”
I nod slowly. “Okay.”
Rafe searches my face. “Okay?”
“Okay,” I repeat. “I want that.”
Lindy beams. “Wow. Look at that. Emotional progress after just one drink.”
I shake my head, smiling weakly. “You’re terrifyingly well-adjusted.”
She grins. “It’s a gift.”
We clink glasses softly. She takes a sip, swallows, then freezes. Slowly, her eyes slide to Rafe. Then back to me. Then to Rafe again.
Her brow furrows. “Wait,” she says.
Oh no. I feel it coming a second too late.
“No,” she says, shaking her head like she’s trying to dislodge a thought. “No, no, no. Hold on.”
Rafe lifts his glass, tentative. “Uh—”
She points at him. “You.”
He blinks. “Me?”
She points harder. “You’re Rafe Ortiz.”
The room goes still, and I close my eyes.
“Lead singer,” she continues faintly, “of Steel Saints.”
I peek at her. “Yes.”
Her mouth drops open. “Oh my fucking God,” she whispers. Then, louder, incredulous, “OH MY GOD.” She stares at me like I’ve personally committed a crime. “You married Rafe Ortiz?”
I wince. “When you say it like that—”
“You married a rock star,” she says, standing abruptly. “A huge one. Like—everywhere. The eyeliner. The songs. The—” She gestures helplessly at him. “This face.”
Rafe rubs the back of his neck, embarrassed but amused. “Hi.”
She spins on him. “Do you know how many of my friends are obsessed with you?”
He grimaces. “I try not to.”
She looks back at me, eyes blazing now, equal parts awe and outrage. “You could’ve mentioned this.”
“I didn’t think it was relevant,” I say weakly.
She laughs, sharp and breathless. “Not relevant. My brother married a rock star and thought, ‘Yeah, this is fine information to withhold.’”
Rafe chuckles softly. “In his defense, he’s very private.”
She squints at him. “You’re married to my brother.”
“Yes,” he says, smiling now, warmth overtaking the nerves. “I am.”
Her expression shifts suddenly—softening, settling into something genuine. “Well,” she says decisively, “that tracks.”
I blink. “What?”
She shrugs. “You’ve always had stupidly good taste.”
Rafe laughs outright at that.
She reaches for her glass again and raises it, this time higher. “Okay. New toast.”
“Oh God,” I mutter.
“To my brother,” she says, smiling at me. “For somehow managing to pull this off.” Then she turns to Rafe, eyes bright and sincere. “And to you. Welcome to the family. Officially.”
He lifts his glass to meet hers. “Thank you.”
They clink, and I let out a shaky breath.
The world is still complicated. My mom is still furious. The future is still uncertain. But right now, in this room, with my sister laughing and my husband beside me, it feels—just for a moment—manageable.
And that feels like a win.