Chapter 7: An Awkward Dinner

Danilo’s Pov

I sat stiffly at the dining table, hands clasped in my lap, listening for the steady sound of footsteps approaching. A moment later, my father, Hector Ramos, stepped into the room, his fast graying hair and towering frame, looked sharp in a charcoal suit, exuding that same stern authority he always carried like an armour.

I rose slightly from my seat and offered a polite, “Good evening, sir.”

He gave a curt grunt of acknowledgement, unbuttoning his suit jacket to reveal the crisp sky-blue shirt underneath before settling into his chair across from me. I hesitated for a beat, gathering some nerve, then asked with forced casualness, “Dad, what made you cut your business trip short? I hope everything went well.”

He paused mid-motion, his expression hardening as his eyes flicked toward me. “Why? You don’t want me home?”

My throat tightened under his gaze. “No, sir. I didn’t mean it like that. I was just… curious. Sorry for being forward.”

There was a tense pause before he exhaled and reached for his utensils. “Since you care so much, I finished what I went to Los Angeles to do and didn’t see any point staying longer in that queer hellscape. That city disgusts me. I flew back home to my clean and decent San Angelo, Texas.”

His words landed like stones. My dad had never hidden his contempt for Los Angeles—or, as he liked to say, any of those so-called “woke cities.” He was convinced that spending more than a couple of days in one of them was enough to infect someone with their "queerness." It wasn’t a joke to him. It was a belief.

Just then, Rosa entered, carrying steaming plates of arroz con pollo, the fragrant spices filling the air with warmth. She set our dinner down carefully, as she always did, moving with quiet grace.

My father took the first bite, his face relaxing by a fraction. “You’ve outdone yourself again, Rosa.”

I added quickly, “It’s really good, Rosa. Thank you.”

She smiled warmly, the kind of smile that always made the house feel a little less cold. “You’re welcome. I’ll leave you two to eat,” she said, retreating into the kitchen.

I took a bite, but the food tasted like paper in my mouth. I barely chewed, barely swallowing. My father’s hazel eyes were on me, watchful, dissecting. The silence between us stretched, thick and heavy, pressing against my chest.

My thoughts spiralled. What does he want to talk to me about?

Please don’t let this be about the audition. Please don’t let it be about the audition…

“You’d rather eat alone in your room than with your old man, huh?” he said suddenly, his voice low, edged with something colder. “You’d rather stay up there doing God knows what, huh?”

I jerked my head up, caught off guard, guilt flashing across my face. “I’m sorry, Dad. It’s not that. I just usually have a lot of homework. That’s all.”

Hector raised a sceptical brow, chewing slowly. “Your brother didn’t need to bury himself in homework to get straight As. And he was still the quarterback of the football team.” He took another bite, shaking his head. “You can barely handle your academics, and that’s all you’ve got. You’re not good at anything else—but even that you struggle with.”

The words landed like punches, each one deliberate. I didn’t respond. What was the point?

If only he knew. I knew that I was the one who did most of Rodrigo’s assignments. That I’d stayed up late teaching him subjects two grades ahead of me. That the shining grades and perfect transcripts he loved so much weren’t all Rodrigo—they were me too. But even if he did know, it wouldn’t change anything. He’d still look at my brother like he hung the moon. And me? I’d still be the disappointment that refuses to measure up.

So I kept my head down, pushed food around my plate, and pretended the words didn’t sting. That’s basically ninety per cent of what I do when he’s around—pretend I’m not hurting.

I’ve gotten used to this. I am used to swallowing my feelings like cold medicine. Nodding when I want to scream. Carrying guilt like I’ve committed some great crime when I haven’t even lifted a finger wrong.

A few minutes passed in silence, broken only by the clink of silverware. Then he set his fork down with a quiet clatter, wiped his mouth, and leaned back in his chair.

“I wanted to speak to you about Yale,” he said, tone even. “I have a feeling that just being a smart, know-it-all student won’t cut it.”

Man. He thinks about everything, doesn’t he? The thought came uninvited.

“Clear your schedule tomorrow evening. We’re going to the mayor’s ball.”

I blinked, surprised, my fork pausing mid-air.

“The mayor’s brother works in admissions at Yale,” he continued. “And the mayor and I go way back. I want you to meet him. Make a good impression. Show him you’re a valuable asset. So don’t embarrass me. You hear me?”

His words weren’t a suggestion. They were an order. A command with a threat tucked neatly between the syllables.

When have I ever embarrassed him? But I bit my tongue.

I nodded quickly. “Yes, sir. I’ll make you proud.”

He let out a dry, humourless chuckle, the sound brittle. Then he gave me one final look—cool, measured, final—before rising, and walking out of the room.

I didn’t move until I heard the faint click of his bedroom door closing. Only then did I let out a long, shaky breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.

Relief washed over me like a wave, but it was short-lived.

At least he doesn’t know about the audition, I thought, my shoulders slumping.

But even as I allowed myself that small comfort, another thought crept in like a shadow: How long can I keep this secret from him?