I hold up my hands, hoping to forestall their tendency to overreact. “I get to use my popularity to highlight useful community endeavors and pull hot guys. Sometimes people get it wrong, and that just comes with the territory.”
“‘Host a gala,’ they said,” Maya cracks. “‘It’ll be fun,’ they said.”
I purse my lips at her. “You’re the one who suggested a gala. This is your fault.”
Dad chuckles, pulling his attention from OBT. “Hosting a huge event for your first rattle out of the gate is achoice,” he says, his Texas drawl gone more gravelly over the years.
“But do you like it?”
My family has been working in the community for decades, but this is the first time I’ve been in charge of an event, and I’m anxious to hear his opinion. He won’t lie to me.
Dad tightens his grip on my shoulders, his eyes a little shiny as they meet mine. “I’m so proud of you, Rami. It’s clear to Baba and me that you’re not just filling the pre-requisite for accessing your trust fund. You’ve put your entire heart into this event.”
“Uncle Ford helped, and so did Tia Scout,” I offer, though Dad isn’t wrong.
I’ve loved working with the various organizations, even if I’ve fucked up a bunch along the way. This has definitely been one of those learn-the-hard-way things I hate so much. “The necessary humbling of Prince Rami,” Maya calls it. Something tells me I’m not done being humbled.
Baba lifts one of his thick dark eyebrows. “I agree with your dad. This is a beautiful event. But is Brantley actually helping?” he asks, his Iraqi accent like a warm blanket despite the sharp glint in his blue-green eyes.
My phone buzzes as I dart a gaze over to Maya, who has Dad’s fairer coloring and thick sun-bleached hair. She bites her top lip, staying out of it.
“Not…really.”
A few more texts pour in. Benji is lighting my ass on fire for making him wait.
Holding up my phone, I distract them from the whole Brantley mess. “I gotta grab those tortillas before Benji pitches a fit.”
“I saw his latest post. I’m so happy to see he hit the five-year mark with his remission,” Dad says, releasing me to grab Baba’s hand. “Say hi to him for us.”
“I will.”
My phone goes off again, and I take off running, hitting the lobby thirty seconds later. Benji stands there, grinning like a jackass in his pressed Dockers and H-E-B logo jacket, holding several massive shopping bags full of goodies.
“What’s all this?” I ask, leaning in for a half-hug before grabbing the bags from him.
“Figured you probably needed a few extras.”
“You’re a good dude,” I say, stepping back. “And hey, we barred the cousins from the gala, so they’ve insisted on an afterparty tomorrow at the condo. You should join us.”
Benji laughs as he shakes his head. “Juliana is, like, seventeen months pregnant. She’ll exile me to the couch if I tell her I’m hanging out withthe Wildlingswhile our son does the ‘Macarena’ on her bladder.” Grimacing, he leans in. “Smart move, not having them join you tonight. I know you love them to pieces, but…”
He let his words die out, the implication clear. He’s right, of course. The Wildlings—my cousins, found and otherwise—weren’t invited to tonight’s shindig for a reason.
Let’s just say our nickname originated with a prank involving a preteen joy ride to the University of Texas campus and one cousin’s affinity for pyrotechnics. We didn’t set anything on fire, thankfully, though our fathers did have to foot the bill for replacing the university’s famous mascot.
I mean, you’d think we killed Bevo with all the press we got, but he’s still alive and well in a friend’s animal sanctuary, and we all learned an important lesson that day.
Bovine PTSD is no laughing matter.
We do collectively feel bad about that, but you can see why I wouldn’t want to invite that kind of chaos on my first foray into real adult work.
I chuckle, then pull Benji in for a hug. “Super excited for you two. Let us know when the little one comes.”
“Will do, amigo.”
“And wait, how much do I owe you?”
He gives me hisget-reallook. “Dude, your dad saved my life. I’m not charging you for some tortillas.”
