Page 73 of Dex

Dinner goes unexpectedly well.The room is loud, warm and jovial, the air filled with chatter and a reassuring hum that floats around the table.

People are talking.The Italian Knights and my brothers, they’re talking, to one another.And having fun, it looks like.Maybe it’s the long flight, or the soft and easy vibe, or even the warm night in an unfamiliar yet beautiful setting.

It’s nothing like the Knight family dinners.

Only our father sits stiffly, jabbing his fork into the food, like it annoys him.We don’t bother with him, though I catch him and Daniela’s father talking now and then.

There’s enough food to feed fifty.A fish stew in a broth of coconut milk, a chicken dish, infused in garlic and onions and what Daniela’s mother tells us is okra.There’s warm, chewy cheesy bread, fresh out of the oven, placed in baskets around the table.Cheesy rice, fresh salad, some kind of sweet corn dish that her father insists I must try.

Daniela’s mother fusses over us like we’re her brood and she thinks we’re starving.The housekeeper is in and out of the kitchen, replenishing the food and drink, letting nothing stay empty.

I’m halfway through my second helping of food before I realize I’ve barely said a word.It’s not because I’m being cold, it’s because I can’t stop eating.Everything on the table tastes like it’s been made a hundred times before, with love and care, from recipes passed down from someone’s grandmother.I’ve never had food like this.Not at some five-star restaurant, not growing up, not ever.

This is a home that feeds more than just hunger.It fills a deeper need.Something that makes me feel like I belong.

Noticing my empty plate Daniela’s mother beams.“Would you like more, Dexter?I can bring you another bowl.”

I open my mouth to politely decline.Knight men don’t usually go back for thirds, let alone seconds, not unless it’s catered and plated by a Michelin chef.But instead, I hear myself say, “Yes, please.This is...incredible.Honestly, it’s the best meal I’ve had in years.”

Her hand goes to her chest, eyes shining with something that could be pride, but looks like ...affection.

“You serious, dude?”Rio doesn’t hold back.

“I’m hungry!”

“You still need to fit into your wedding suit.”My father’s voice is like water over a fire.The air chills and silence falls, but it only lasts for a few seconds, before everyone starts talking again, ignoring the old man and his comment.Daniela glances at me, startled, then looks away quickly, like she doesn’t want me to see her smile.

For dessert, there’s a banana upside down cake and chocolate truffles, which Daniela’s mother insists we all have at least two of.After dessert, I excuse myself, and head to the washroom, but it’s not just that.I need a damn second to breathe.It’s become a little overwhelming.The house is warm.Too warm.Too many voices, too much laughter, too much contrast of how family life could be, and what ours isn’t.

After the washroom, I slip outside, tugging my collar open as the night air hits my face.It’s cool and quieter out here.The rise and fall clicking sound of cicadas fills the night air, and it reminds me of the summer nights in Bermuda, when we visited Aurora, our family home there.

The garden smells like earth and flowers and a hint of citrus.I think of Daniela growing up here, playing, and spending her childhood.Having met her parents, having had the privilege of spending an evening here, a dull ache sticks inside my chest.If our mother had been alive, if she hadn’t driven off that bridge.If I hadn’t said what I did, she might still be alive.

I bury my thoughts at the sound of footsteps behind me.

“Beautiful night,” says a voice.It’s Daniela’s father.He’s holding two brandy bowls and hands me one.

“Thank you.”I take the glass, even though it’s not my drink of choice.

He chuckles.“You’re being welcomed into the family.”

I nod, then swirl the liquid around in the big glass, before taking a small sip.The brandy hits my tongue with a slow, smoky sweetness, smoother than I expected, but still too soft, too polite compared to the sharp, unapologetic burn of my usual scotch.

Daniela’s father stands beside me, as if we’ve done this many times, and this is just me and Daniela casually visiting them for dinner.I brace myself for small talk, polite conversation or awkward small talk, but he quietly gazes out at the garden.

“She always loved this spot,” he says after a while.“She would sit out here for hours, reading, daydreaming, playing with her friends.”

“You have a beautiful home, Mr.Oliveira.”

He pats me on the shoulder gently.“No Mr.Oliveira, please.We will be family soon, filho.”

“Fil-ho?”I peer at him.

“Son,” he says simply.

And, just like that, something cracks wide open inside me.It’s one word; small, soft, and trivial, yet, a word which carries so much weight to someone like me.

A word I have never been called.

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