Page 90 of Angel

“How is Dina?” Mrs. Russo asks, and it takes me a moment to realize she’s speaking to me.

“Oh, uh, my mom? Yeah, she’s good.” I think. Other than the voicemail she left me today, I haven’t spoken to her in weeks.

“You don’t have Sunday dinner at home?”

I shoot a panicked look in Angel’s direction, but all he can do is shrug.

“Uh, I don’t really go to those.”

Mrs. Russo’s eyes flit to me, hard and fast and a thousand percent disapproving. “Sunday dinners are important. Family is important.”

“Uh… yeah.” Explaining the concept of found family probably isn’t going to win me any points with her.

“Angel’s a good boy. He always takes care of his family.”

“Mama—”

She turns her glare onto him before he can get any further. He gulps, looking like he wants to crawl into a deep dark hole. I don’t blame him. I kind of do too. But instead of backing down, Angel sets his fork on the table and sits up a little straighter.

“Mama,” he says, wincing when she stabs a piece of gnocchi especially violently. “Rhys and I—I mean, Ricky? And I?”

She scowls at him. “What are you talking about?”

I laugh nervously. “Oh, it’s nothing. My friends like calling me Rhys. It’s just a nickname.” I definitely don’t want to explain why I need a stage name.

“Right. Uh, so, Ricky and I…” Angel takes a breath and looks straight into my eyes. “We’re in love.”

Mrs. Russo pauses with her fork halfway to her mouth. We all sit stock-still, Angel and I holding our breaths as we wait for her reaction.

Except she doesn’t react. She just lifts her fork the rest of the way and takes a bite of gnocchi. She chews. Slowly. Then takes a sip of her wine. By the time she sets the glass down, it feels like it’s been hours.

“But you’re a boy.”

Angel and I exchange a look. Who is she talking about? Me? Him? Both of us?

“Yes,” Angel replies.

“You can’t be in love.”

I watch as emotions flit across Angel’s face. His ears redden with embarrassment. His expression blanches from fear. Then a look of indignation as he works himself up to argue with his mom. We’ve never spoken about this before, but if I had to guess, I’d say that Angel’s never talked back to her before. Ever.

“Mrs. Russo,” I jump in. I don’t know how tonight will change Angel’s relationship with his mom. From the way things are progressing, it doesn’t look good. But if there’s anything I can do, anything I can say to help salvage it, then I owe it to Angel to try. “I do love your son.”

Mrs. Russo wipes her lips with her napkin, looking like she’s about to excuse herself from the table. But then, she sets her napkin down, folds her hands into her lap, and waits.

“You’re right. Angel is good,” I continue. My words are directed at Mrs. Russo, but I’m looking at Angel as I speak. His eyes are wide with a mix of worry and adoration and the love in my heart wins out over the anxiety eating away at my stomach.

“He’s honest and hardworking. He’s caring and protective. He would do anything for his family. But would you do anything for him?”

Her gaze snaps to me, eyes burning with outrage. “What kind of question is that?”

I can’t help but shrink back in my chair a bit, but I dig deep for the courage to continue. “It’s a legitimate one, Mrs. Russo. I love Angel. And if that means I need to cut my hair, change what I wear, and move back to the neighborhood, then…”

I never in a million years would’ve been willing to do any of that—not until this very second. Not even earlier this evening, when we were upstairs confessing our love to each other. But sitting at this table with Mrs. Russo, asking her what she’s willing to do for a son she claims to love, I realize that I’m willing to do anything—everything—to show Angel I love him. It wouldn’t be easy, and maybe a part of me would die in the process, but I would gain so much more by being at Angel’s side.

“I would never!” Angel’s chair scrapes against the floor as he shifts, lunging across the table to reach for me. He grabs my hand and his gaze bores into me. “I would never ask you to do any of that! I would move out first. I’d leave and never come back. I love your hair. I love your clothes. I love you exactly the way you are.”

I grip his hand as hard as he’s gripping mine, and tears well up in my eyes. “I know you do. And I know you would never ask me to change. Which is why I’m willing to.”

---