Chapter Forty-Three – A.J.
If you could only know I never let you go
And the words I most regret are the ones
I never meant to leave unsaid, Emily
Unsaid Emily - Julie and The Phantoms
“Hey, what do you think?” Alexandra asks, full of anticipation, as I take my first bite of her chocolate-frosted carrot cake.
I lift the fork to my mouth, remembering every time Guilherme and Daniele tried to get me to try one of these and I’d refused, thinking it was weird.
But no matter how strange chocolate and vegetables sound together, Alexandra made my birthday breakfast with so much love—there’s all this amazing Brazilian food on the table, and she’s so cute in her party hat—that refusing would’ve been impossible. I close my eyes and shove the fork in.
When the cake melts on my tongue and the rich, slightly bitter brigadeiro frosting wraps around it, I can’t help letting out a little moan. Alexandra ’s face lights up and she jumps into my lap, peppering my cheeks with kisses.
“I knew you’d love it. You can’t help but love it.”
“I thought nothing would top the corn cake,” I tease, scooping her up almost into the coffee table—toppling over and sending us both into laughter. “But this… this is really something.”
“You still have to try the orange one to decide,” she says, pulling back for a moment, and my heart complains at the distance. “This one’s beijinho .”, she says ‘little kiss’ and I frown.
“Like, a little kiss?” I ask for the confirmation, pulling her back in for a quick kiss before shoving another bite in my mouth. “I’ve had plenty, but yours is the best I’ve ever tasted.”
“Coming from someone who kisses a lot, that’s high praise,” she teases, and I give her thigh a playful slap.
“We’ve got guests coming tonight—no seasoning what you can’t eat…” she taunts.
“Then give me another beijinho,” I demand, and as she brings the little sweet toward my mouth, I roll my eyes so she knows she’s about to kiss the wrong thing—before her lips meet mine.
“I can’t wait to make your birthday stroganoff. I’ve been dying to try it since I learned.”
“When you promised me that this birthday would be special, I didn’t expect a full-on gourmet tasting,” I joke, and she laughs.
A phone buzzes on the sofa. We both glance over.
I’m waiting on Victor’s call to wrap up the last details—but Alexandra looks at me, sheepish, because she got excited.
In the last forty-eight hours, she and her dad have talked more than in the past eight months.
He feels guilty for the pain he caused her, like he’s betraying their story.
But he’s trying. And that makes her happy. I don’t want her to feel judged.
“It’s yours,” I say, seeing no notifications.
She unlocks her screen like a kid grabbing a toy after forever.
“It’s my dad. He wants to talk about… us.
“Go talk to him if you want—I’ll be here eating…” I offer, and she shakes her head. “And how are you feeling about… all this?”
“I feel almost silly for being happy. But having my dad back in my life is something I’ve wanted so badly. Even if we have more to work out, I won’t pretend I’m not happy.”
“There are things smaller than forgiveness—and things bigger than it, right?” I say, leaning in for another generous forkful.
“What do you mean?” she pouts, confused.
“You and your dad—you’re handling things even without having fully forgiven him. But me and mine… even if they forgive me for what I did—six years are six years.”
Alexandra smooths my face, strokes my hair, and gives me a quick kiss.
“You lived with them for eighteen years, Anthony—and you’ve got your whole life ahead.
One day you’ll look back and six years won’t feel like much,” she says with such certainty I almost believe it.
“And honestly, there’s nothing you did to deserve forgiveness.
You just went to live your life.” She turns to grab a slice of corn cake off the tray.
“Maybe you’re right.”
“I usually am.” She laughs as the air fryer beeps in the kitchen. “Now let me go—I’m not done with this birthday tasting.”
“Is it coxinha time?”
“Sure, it is!” she announces, standing up.
“Who knew all I needed to like birthdays again was a Brazilian girlfriend?” I call after her.
“I’m still not your girlfriend…” Before she finishes, I chase her down and scoop her up for a kiss.
Alexandra sticks out her tongue and pretends not to like it—but then kisses me again.
***
Five minutes after Alex left to buy fresh cream and potato sticks, I found them both—she was already in the Uber, insisting she wanted to stock up on a few extra things.
She put me in charge of making perfectly rice, what will be hard.
I still have the tea towel over my shoulder and the wooden spoon in my hand when the doorbell rings.
I wipe the last grains of rice from my lips and remove the pot from the hot burner.
I check my phone, half-expecting a message that she’s locked out and needs me to buzz her in, but the only notification in our chat is:
The reason of my insomnia : Forgive me, but I needed you to try.
In Portuguese—clearly sent by mistake. I wipe my hands on my hoodie, hoping it’s not someone from the building doing maintenance.
“Good afternoon, how can I hel—?” I trail off because it’s not a maintenance guy. And it’s not Alexandra.
My mom is standing there. Shorter, thinner, in a pale-blue dress, her dark-blonde hair in a sloppy bun.
Her once-pale skin is drawn, and her emerald eyes look tired.
Next to her, my dad shifts his weight, eyes on me, foot jiggling nervously.
Expectation in their faces makes my heart slam against my ribs, my knees, then my feet.
I close the door. This can’t be real—my parents don’t even know where I live. I never told them. I’ve always known birthday celebrations would do more harm than good—and now I’m hallucinating.
The doorbell rings again. My heart jumps and my throat tightens. But I decide to open it—just to prove to myself nothing’s out there and laugh at my brain.
“Hi, Anthony. May we come in?” My dad asks awkwardly. Tall, straight-backed, clean-shaven, wearing a rumpled light-blue shirt.
“Come in?” I echo— not because they can’t, but because I never expected them to want to.
“Yes, we came to see you. It’d be nice if it wasn’t… at your front door.”
“Of course.” My throat tightens as I step aside. They enter cautiously, as if my floor were a minefield. Following my gesture, they cross the hallway and stop in the living room, where my half-eaten birthday breakfast still sits.
“You look… stronger,” my mom says, searching for something to hold onto. “And taller,” adds my dad.
I nod, taking them in, standing in my living room.
“And… you guys look older,” I finish, meeting their eyes.
They laugh softly, an awkward sound, and I sense my dad wants to hug me. I push my hair back and flop onto the corner of the sofa, keeping my distance.
“Have a seat—the couch is huge,” I say, and my dad sits down about a foot away from me, Mom perches on the edge, practically uncomfortable.
“So you live here alone?” Patrick asks, eyeing my wall of framed photos. “It looks great.”
“I do. Well, I…,” I rub my hands on my thighs to steady myself, “my girl lives here too,” I blur out—since she isn’t technically my girlfriend yet.
“Oh,” Martha smiles gently, and I lift an eyebrow at the warmth in her tone. “Alexandra, sweetheart,” she says to my dad, whfo returns her smile.
It’s almost too much.
“Yeah, Alex. But I’m guessing you didn’t come all this way just to talk décor, right?” I try to keep my voice steady, but it tastes bitter.
My mom’s smile vanishes.
“I came because we deserve at least one chance to talk as adults,” Patrick says, glancing at his wife.
“And I came because I couldn’t stand living in a world where I mourn a son who’s still alive.”
Part of me wants to snap at her that it’s too late—but that’d be unfair. After all, I’m the one who left. I breathe deeply, shifting my gaze between them.
Why did you lock us out, Anthony?”
The question doesn’t come with any blame. Just hurt — and that, I recognize, because it’s the same pain I’ve been carrying.
“In a short version of the story, you guys were right: the industry is rotten, and I got burned.” I take a deep breath, scratching my neck, hoping they don’t ask for details because I’ll never be able to tell them about Big D.
“When my house of cards collapsed, I had nowhere to go back to,” I say, swallowing hard.
My mother’s eyes on me could make me break down, but I hold it in as much as I can.
“We waited for you to come home,” she says, and I close my eyes, forcing down the lump in my throat. My chest tightens, my eyes sting, and I stare at the floor — it’ll be impossible to look at her without falling apart. “For a long time.”
“I was sure you’d come back,” Patrick adds.
“You’re our son, that’s your home. There was no reason for years of silence just because we disagreed with one decision you made…
” A bitter laugh escapes him, making me look up.
“But time passed, and you didn’t just stop answering, stop calling… you disappeared.”
“And you never came looking for me.” It’s an unfair accusation, but it still weighs on me whenever I think about them.
“We did,” my dad says, offended, frowning at me. “But you cut off your friends, no one knew where you were, not even that neighbor kid with all the social media skills.”
“There came a point we just didn’t know where to look,” Mom shrugs.
We’re both on the edge of breaking down.
“We thought maybe you didn’t want to be found…” Dad admits, pressing his thumb against his palm. “At first, we knew you were safe, and that’s what mattered. Your music was a hit, you had a massive agent, and Mom followed you on the dedicated Instagram profile she made. Then everything changed.”
“When?” I ask.