Chapter 136: THE SUBTEXT

Bella's POV

The table smelled like garlic and lemon and the soup my father made when he wanted everyone to feel safe. The string lights over the patio blinked a bit. Diego had his chin in his hand and he kept tracing the rim of his glass with the pad of his thumb. I watched him. I tried not to stare. I failed.

Roberto laughed and handed me another bowl. "Eat, mija. You're too thin to be dramatic."

"I was fine," I said. My voice felt small in the warm air.

Diego did not look up. "I am fine," he said. He sounded like someone who had practiced the words in a mirror and then swallowed them.

Roberto chewed and then leaned back, this easy smile he used when he wanted to make a story light. "So tell me, Diego. Any girls around? Or are you still spending your time with those, ah, artsy friends of yours?"

The word hit the air like a small stone.

Diego's mouth tightened. His hand stopped moving. The color left his face. For a second his eyes were all wet and nowhere.

"Papa," he said. "Please."

I felt the room tilt. Utterly stupid, like a child falling off a curb. I could taste salt on my tongue that had nothing to do with the soup.

Roberto waved his hand. "I was joking. Come on. We are family."

Alex looked up from his plate. I had seen him smile at a joke before. Not this time. His gaze went to Diego and did not leave.

"That is not a joke," Alex said. His voice was not loud. It was a clean line. It cut through the small noises of the table.

Roberto blinked. "What? I am only teasing. Boys will be boys."

Diego flinched like someone had struck him. He laughed, a sound without humor. "I am not a boy like that, Papa. I am your son."

Alex pushed his chair back and stood. The wooden legs scraped the stone floor. He put both hands on the table and leaned in, face level with Roberto.

"Listen to me." He breathed in. His jaw worked. "Love is not a thing to throw around. You do not get to make it a punchline. Love is people waking up next to each other. Love is people holding hands in the dark. It is not your business to judge."

Roberto opened his mouth, closed it. He looked at Alex like he had found a pebble in his pocket and did not know it had been there.

Diego blinked, and for a second I saw him as a boy at a soccer game, sunburned cheek, hair messy, laughing at something I could not remember. Then he was in his chair again, small and sharp-edged.

"Alex." Roberto's voice had gone quiet. "You are intense."

"I am intense because this is about your son." Alex did not shout. He did not need to. But his hands shook a little where they rested on the table. "Do you think words don't leave marks? Do you think a joke heals when it's said? You promised Elena something once. You promised to see your children and protect them. That includes Diego."

Roberto's spoon clattered into his bowl. For the first time since I had known him, his face folded. Hurt. Confusion. Something younger than pride.

"Elena would have hated this," he said. He looked at Diego and then at Alex. "I did not mean—"

Diego covered his face with his hands. The motion broke the air. "Please stop," he whispered. "I do not want an argument."

"No one wants an argument," Alex said. "We want people to be safe at this table."

I wanted to say everything I felt. I wanted to say to my father that jokes were weapons when they were used like this. I wanted to tell Diego that he did not have to make his face small to make us comfortable. My chest throbbed. My fingers found the rim of my glass because I needed something to do with my hands.

Roberto rubbed his forehead. "I did not know." He sounded older. "I did not think—"

"Then listen now." Alex's voice softened but it held. "Diego is your son. Your love for him is not less because he loves differently. It is more. It is twofold. You do not get to take that away with a laugh."

Diego's hands fell. He looked at Alex like he had been offered a rope. He looked at my father like he was seeing him for the first time.

"Papa," Diego said. "I am scared."

The word landed on the table and made the cutlery sing. My father made a noise that might have been a laugh, might have been a sob. He reached for Diego and only got his wrist. They looked at each other and then at me. At Alex.

"I am sorry," Roberto said. "I did not know how to say it before."

Diego nodded once. Small. Hard.

Alex sat down slowly. He did not leave his hands. They rested over the table like a bridge.

"Diego," he said, "you are not alone. Not while I am around."

The words had nothing to do with me. Yet they landed inside me like someone had opened a window. Air came in. I could breathe.

We ate more slowly after that. The soup cooled. The lights blinked like a cadence.

At the end of the night Diego got up to clear plates. He moved too fast. I followed him into the kitchen, because I could not sit like that. I could not watch him vanish.

He stood by the sink and did not wash. He patted his pockets like he had lost something. His face was pale.

"Are you okay?" I asked. My voice was paper.

He looked at me and then away. "I will be," he said. He did not sound like it.

He left the kitchen before I could answer. He climbed the stairs with the light off. The door to his room closed. Not slammed. Not slow. Just closed. Then the house was a soft hum.

I pressed my ear to the door at the top of the stairs. I could hear a faint music, like someone had a playlist on low. Then a voice. Not Diego's. Not the pitch I knew. A laugh. Quiet and close. It sounded like someone who had been in a city far away.

My heart lurched like it had tripped on a step. I stood there in the dark, hand against the wood, and the laugh came again, low and warm. A shadow moved under the crack of the door.

I did not know whose laugh it was. I did not know if I wanted to. The sound was a small promise. My feet wanted to move. My mind wanted to stop them.

I reached for the knob. My fingers curled, but I did not turn it.

The light under the door blinked once. A voice whispered, too soft to make out the words. My name, maybe. Or Diego's. Or nothing.

I listened. Then the whisper was gone. The house held its breath.

Footsteps padded down the hall. They were not Diego's. They were careful. They were close.

I had to decide, right then. Open the door or pretend I had not heard anything.

My hand was still on the knob when someone knocked very gently on the other side of the door downstairs.