“You jealous?”
“Nah.” His hand lands on my leg and he runs it up toward my apex. “This is all mine.”
I bite my lip at his gesture and my heart pounds in my chest.
“Are you ready for the Puerto Rican house party?” I ask.
“What should I expect?” he responds, glancing over at me before switching lanes to get off at the exit.
“There’s gonna be a ton of people there. Tio Ramon is my father’s brother. All of my aunts and uncles from the area go over, plus most of my cousins and my cousins’ kids. You’ll see. It’s a serious house party with a lot of people, loud music, dancing, drinking, and tons of food, which is my favorite part.”
“Of course, it is. It’s one of the things I love about you; you enjoy food as much as I do.” He lifts his hand, brushes his fingers across my cheek. My heart skips a beat at his admission.
“Oh, and my dad and uncles sing old school Puerto Rican folk songs with their instruments.”
That catches his attention, and his eyes widen when he asks, “What kind of instruments?”
“My father plays the güiro, which is this long wooden percussion instrument. It’s open on one end and has notches cut into one side. It’s played by rubbing tines along the notches to make a ratchet, scratching like sound—tsch, tsch, tsch, tsch—like that. My tio Ramon plays the cuatro, which is a small guitar with five strings. And, depending on the night, one of my other uncles plays the conga drum. My father is the one who likes to sing the most.”
“Wow, that’s pretty cool. I can’t wait to hear that.”
“I think so too, although as a kid I hated it because I thought it was so boring.”
We make the rounds saying hello to all the family, and I introduce Massimo to everyone. My aunts all fawn over him, saying he’s so handsome, squeezing his cheeks, touching his arms, “Que guapo, guao” or “Que lindo nene.” It’s a little embarrassing, but he’s such a good sport about it.
“You seem to be a big hit with my aunts.”
“I’m a charmer—what can I say?” His shoulders shake in quiet laughter. We stop when we see my parents in the far corner of the kitchen, my father with a beer in hand, and my mother sitting and talking to one of my aunts.
“Hello, Mr. Lopez,” Massimo says, extending his hand to greet my father. “It’s good to see you again.”
Last month we had Thanksgiving at my house, which is when he met my parents and siblings for the first time. I was more nervous than he was about it, worried that they’d grill him or make him feel uncomfortable. But I worried for nothing because Massimo immediately felt comfortable, fit right in with my family, and spent most of the night talking with my brother and father about cars and football.
“Please, call me Hugo. Good to see you too,” my father responds and hugs me, pressing a kiss to my temple. “Hola, Nena.”
“Hi, Papi,” I say, before bending to kiss my mother. “Hi, Mami.” Massimo is right behind me doing the same.
“Hi, Mrs. Lopez.”
“Nene, mi nombre es Blanca. You call me that, okay?” she declares, more than asks, and places her palm on his cheek, patting it gently.
“Okay, Mrs.—I mean Blanca.” He smiles at her, and my heart constricts seeing his interaction with my mother. My parents asking to be called by their first names is their way of letting Massimo know that they like him. I had introduced Stefano to them, but they didn’t warm up to him as they have with Massimo. It’s funny how we see things so clearly in hindsight.
“Okay, let’s go eat,” I say. “I wait for this night every year because all my aunts make their best dishes, and I overeat—like a lot! It’s all so good, so I hope you’re hungry.”
There are so many food choices that I make sure to load up both of our plates with my favorites, arroz con gandules, pernil, yuca con mojo, maduros. Before sitting, I grab a malta from the fridge, and we sit down with one of my cousins, Felix. We don’t see each other often, mostly at the family events throughout the year and always on Noche Buena. Turns out Felix and Massimo have some friends in common because Felix is a DJ around the city, and Massimo is well-known in the restaurant/club circuit.
When we finish eating, we go into the cellar, where it’s an open space for everyone to dance. It looks the same as when I was growing up. The walls are wood paneling from floor to ceiling, the floor is a dark gray concrete, and there’s a wooden bar in the back-right corner. The congo drums are along the back wall, and there are a few folding tables and chairs opened up around the perimeter. In a few hours, nearly everyone will be down here singing and dancing, and it’ll be as packed as any nightclub.
We gravitate to the left side of the room where it’s less crowded. From here, I can point everyone out as a way for him to know who everyone is. One of my cousins is to our right with her three kids settling a fight between them, the youngest of the kids crying over whatever happened.
“Do you want kids?” Massimo asks me.
I look at him, adjusting the frames on my face. “Um, yeah, I do.”
“Doesn’t sound very convincing,” he responds, raising an eyebrow.
“You just caught me off guard is all. I wasn’t expecting that question.”
“With so many kids around, it just popped in my head. Figured I’d ask.” He shrugs before pushing back the curls falling over my left eye.
I continue scanning the room. “That’s Felix’s wife in the orange shirt,” I say, pointing across the room to my left. “And their two daughters, the youngest one is adopted. She became part of the family when she was six because her parents were drug addicts.”
“She’s lucky she found a family. Adoption isn’t for everyone.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Not everyone is open to adopting a strange kid into their family.”
I give my glasses another nudge. “That sounds kinda heartless.”
“I’m not trying to sound that way. Just saying that it’s not for everyone.”
“Would you adopt if you had the opportunity?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I want my own biological kids.”
“Nena.” My father interrupts us, and I’m glad for it. That conversation with Massimo was awkward and uncomfortable, and we’re not in the place to have that discussion. “Vamos a bailar.”
Felix is at the DJ table he set up and Los Hermanos Rosario’s “La Dueña del Swing” starts playing, which is one of my dad’s favorite songs. He grasps my hand and starts pulling me toward the center of the floor to dance, something he’s done since I was little. I learned to dance with him from a young age by placing my feet on his while he carried me around the dance floor. As I grew, we would always dance merengue and salsa at all of the family parties.
“I’ll be back,” I say to Massimo. “Watch and learn so we can dance later.”
My father and I dance among the others—aunts, uncles, cousins, friends, all crowded together, shaking our hips as we spin and twirl. I see Massimo off to the side, watching us with mischief in his eyes. No doubt he’s enjoying watching me shimmy my hips. When the song finishes, I go see Felix and ask him to play Marc Anthony’s “Nadie Como Ella” before walking over to Massimo.