We make it into the small kitchen area, where silver disposable trays of delicious smelling food are already laid out on the counter. Someone shoves a plate in my hand from somewhere, with the directive to eat.
“One sec, Georgia. Before you eat, meet my dad,” Oliver says, gesturing to a tall, handsome white man, with a shock of white hair and piercing blue eyes, currently manning the stove and deep frying what looks like skinny spring rolls.
Oliver’s father wipes his hands on his pants and draws me in a for a hug. “Hi Georgia, nice to meet you. I’m Ben. Gloria’s been telling me all about you,” he says with a wink.
“It’s really lovely to meet you as well,” I say with a smile, clocking his features, noting that ways in which Oliver takes after his dad.
“Thank you for what you did earlier,” Ben tells me. “I couldn’t imagine something like that happening to Tala and Jill and the girls. I only hope that if it did, they would have someone like you to defend them.”
“Of course,” I say. “Tell him that though,” I say, cutting my eyes to Oliver. “He’s the one who might fire me over it.”
Oliver shakes his head.
His father frowns, looking so much like his son in that moment. “Ollie, what the fuck?”
“I told Georgia that there’s a modicum of professionalism we need to uphold as educators. We can’t go around poking people or calling them ‘jerks.’”
Ben and I roll our eyes.
I’m suddenly shoved aside. Gloria wiggles her way in between us, outraged. “Why aren’t you eating yet? Give me that,” she says, yanking the plates from mine and Oliver’s hands. She names each of the dishes but gives no explanation as she loads it onto our plates. White rice first, with everythingdumped on top,lumpia, andpancit, andlechon, andkare kare, and something calledBicol express? She pourssuka, a tangy, vinegary smelling sauce over the lumpia andlechon.
My plate must weigh fifteen pounds, but when I open my mouth to say something about how I cannot possibly finish it all, I feel Oliver’s socked foot on top of mine, pressing down. I look up to see him, eyes wide, shaking his headno. I keep my mouth shut.
“Okay,” Gloria says, handing me a spoon and a fork. “Eat,na.”
A tito stands up from the couch, saying he’s eaten already, offering us his seat. Oliver and I squeeze into his spot, thighs touching, warm and separated only by denim, his knees much higher than mine. He shows me how to hold the spoon in my right hand, how to shovel food onto the spoon using the fork in my left. It’s a difficult task, seated on the couch, a balancing act with the plate rested on our knees. He shows me how to make the perfect combination of food on the spoon. He insists on the ratio. This much rice, this much protein. An explosion of flavor, of garlic and vinegar and salt and fat.
I moan after my first bite.
Oliver grins down at me. “Don’t worry,” he says. “I brought Tupperware.”
TWENTY-THREE
Oliver
I glancedown at my watch. It’s almost eleven, and I’m exhausted. I extricate myself from Tita Tess’s third degree about ‘my new girlfriend’, and go to find Georgia. I don’t have to look very far, however, considering this apartment can’t be larger than one thousand square feet.
I walk down the narrow hallway leading to the bedrooms, and find Georgia with my sisters and nieces in my old room, now Ma’s craft room. They’ve unfolded a mahjong table, the four of them teaching Georgia how to play. The youngest, Maya, is sitting in Georgia’s lap to help her with her hand.
I lean in the doorway and watch them for a moment, pondering the sight. Georgia just fits in seamlessly, like she’s been here with us, withme, all along. And the strange thing is—I can’t say I’m surprised.
Paloma, my older niece, notices me standing there.
“Hey, Tito Ollie! Wanna play?” she asks.
I move to her and kiss her on top of her head. “No, Paloma, I’m tired. I was actually thinking of leaving, and I was going to ask Georgia if she wanted me to walk her home.”
My four family members let out a collective “awwwww,” while Georgia and I roll our eyes.
“I mean, I’m not going to make you walk home by yourself,” I tell Georgia. “I can call you an Uber if you’d prefer.”
“I can call my own Uber if I’d like, thank you very much,” she tells me.
“Georgia is an independent woman who don’t need no man,” Maya, eight, says.
Paloma pinches her sister. I realized today just how physical my family is with one another, with all the smacking and poking and touching and pinching and hugging and kissing. Georgia must think we’re insane. “Georgia should walk home with Oliver,” Paloma tells Maya, giving her a Look.
“Agreed,” says Izzy. “You never really know with Uber drivers. I read an article about a woman who was kidnapped by her Uber driver, and then she was sold into sex trafficking.”
