That helps him crack a smile. “My dad and brother say it all the time. My sister picked it up from them. I picked it up from her. I know it’s a bad habit. Some families have a swear jar. My mom keeps a dude jar in the kitchen. A dollar every time it comes out around her.” He laughs.
“That’s not a bad idea. From now on, I’m going to Venmo request you every time you say it around me.” I take out my phone to show him I’m serious.
“Don’t you dare,dude.” He smirks, pushing the phone away, pressing closer to me. There’s the Hector I’ve come to count on.
“Fine, I won’t. If you agree to come,” I say slyly.
“Fine,” he says. “But only because I don’t want to decline forty payment requests a day.”
“Forty? That’s a pretty low estimate, dudemeister.”
“Dudemeister? Do you want me to come or not?”
My face heats. God, I’m Matthew Prince Jr. I shouldn’t beblushing, but I am. Because I think we’ve solidified a date, and I haven’t had a date—one not for a photo op—in forever. “I do.”
“Then it’s settled,” he says.
We both reach for the same branch to hang our respective ornament on, causing our hands to touch, sending a tingle through my body. Our moment is only interrupted when someone clears their throat behind us.
“Eggnog anyone?” Grandma asks, holding two boozy mugs.
“Before we start drinking, who wants to put the angel on top of the tree?” Gramps asks. He’s not about to brave the step stool with his back.
I nominate Hector since I know he needs it more than I do. He glows brighter than the tree at the suggestion. I file that away for safekeeping. I can make him blush and I can make him beam. I’m excited to see what other emotions I can make him feel.
With steady assurance, he climbs up, sets the heavenly host in its rightful place, and we all step back to take in our creation. “Silent Night” starts playing. I can’t help it. Tears begin to form.
“A job well done, I’d say,” Gramps announces.
We all settle in on the couches, eggnog refilled and the clock ticking into the wee hours of the evening. Hector tells us about his family traditions—the Nochebuena feast with his dad’s family featuring pasteles, rice, and pork, midnight mass with its own pageant (where he once played Joseph and nearly dropped the fake baby Jesus), and the Christmas morning breakfast with his mom’s family where his grandma serves chorizo and omelets before anyone can open a single present.
I snuggle further into some throw pillows and a fleece blanket. The world fades in a bit at the edges. I guess moments like these are what this season is all about. It may not be as glamorous as I’m used to, but it feels right, the way it once did, and that’s all that matters right now.
Chapter 21
The storage units are as desolate as they were the other day.
The next morning, we find our target and undo the padlock. We lug boxes, assembly-line-like, into the back of the truck with only brief breaks for flirtatious eye fucking that’s riling me up.
Last night brought about a loaded good night. Should we kiss again? Should we talk? Should we shed our clothes and figure it out later? We ended up giving each other an awkward hug, shutting off the lights, and lying in silence until sleep overtook us both.
“Were you studying art or something at NYU?” Hector asks out of nowhere. When I look over, he’s flipping through my planning notebook, full up with sketches. He’s searching for our last-minute list of items that need to be ferried to the college, but stopping every few pages to inspect my art.
I slide the projector onto the floor in the front of the truck. We don’t want that rattling around with everything else. It already looks moments away from combusting of its own accord.
“Uh, no. I was just in the school of general studies. I never declared a major or anything like that,” I say. “I wasn’t there long enough to even contemplate any of that. I sometimes like to think if I had stayed, I would’ve created my own major, but even in my fantasies I can’t figure out what it would contain or be called.”
“I was only asking because these drawings are really good. Like,reallygood.” I glow in the radiance of his compliment, even though he seems shocked I could possess a talent beyond a rigorous beauty regimen.
“I wanted to take a gap year. I told my parents that. They claimed I couldn’t just do that because that’s what all my friends were doing, but it really wasn’t that. I didn’t want to tour Europe on their dime or anything. I just didn’t feel ready to make any big decisions. Probably because I’d had so many big decisions made for me by them for so many years.” I let out a sigh. “It’s unfortunate that society expects young adults to make good, life-changing choices. What kind of system is that?”
“I hear you, dude,” Hector says. He unrolls the tarp we’re going to lay over the boxes in case a flurry or rainstorm rolls in. I grab the other side and spread it evenly over the bed.
“What about you? Why English?” I ask.
“I think because that’s what my mom studied when she was here. She wanted to get an MFA, do advanced research in early Spanish literature, the baroque masters—Cervantes and Lope de Vega—or sometimes she’d say she preferred the Italian-inspired Renaissance stuff—León or Cruz—because of the heavy religious themes. She’s the smartest person I know. But during senior year of college, she got pregnant with my older brother. She and my dad rented an off-campus apartment above some of the shops in the Downtown District after graduation and she traded the graduate degree for motherhood,” he says, fastening the tarp to the sides of the truck bed.
“So, you’re completing it for her?” I ask.
