“Henny, you haven't eaten a bite,” my dad says, his forehead creasing with concern.
I force a smile. “Just not super hungry.”
That's a lie. I'm starving, but not for food. I'm hungry for Beckham's mouth on mine, his weight pressing me into his mattress, the way he growls trouble when I?—
“Hennessy,” my abuela's voice cuts through my filthy daydream. “Come help me in the kitchen.”
I follow her, grateful for the escape, though knowing my grandmother, she's about to grill me harder than the carne asada my dad made earlier.
Once we're alone, she turns to me, hands on her hips. No preamble, no bullshit.
“Who is he?”
I nearly choke. “What?”
“The man who has you looking like someone stole your favorite lipstick and also gave you the best orgasm of your life at the same time.”
“¡Abuela!” I hiss, mortified but also impressed by her accuracy.
She waves her hand dismissively. “Please. I was young once. You think I don't know that look? You're in love, but something is holding you back.” She narrows her eyes. “Which means you think my son will not approve.”
I lean against the counter, suddenly exhausted from carrying this secret. “It's complicated.”
“It's only complicated because you're making it that way.” She taps my chest with one finger. “Your father loves you more than anything in this world. More than he loves your mother—don't tell her I said that—and more than he loves me. And that's saying something because I am very lovable.”
I can't help but laugh.
“Listen to me, mija. If this man is good to you, if he treats you like the queen you are, Javier will come around. Maybe not right away—men are stupid—but he will.”
“But what if?—”
“No 'what ifs.' All this guilt and hiding your love? It's only dragging you down. Making you stab innocent masa instead of enjoying Christmas.” She cups my face in her hands. “Life is too short to waste it worrying about what other people think—even your father.”
“You don't even know who he is,” I mumble.
She shrugs. “I don't need to, but you my girl are carrying around this burden, and it’s going to eat you alive. Like acid reflux, but for your soul.”
I can't help but laugh. “That's your wisdom? Soul acid reflux?”
“Mock me all you want, but I've lived through three husbands and still have perfect skin.” She winks. “The truth is, happiness is too rare to waste because you're afraid. If this man makes you feel alive, fight for it. Your father will understand because he wants your happiness more than his own comfort.”
Something unclenches in my chest. “What if he doesn't?”
“Then I'll hit him until he does. It won’t take long; he still flinches when I take them off.” She shrugs. “But he will. Because that's who he is.”
The kitchen door swings open, and my mom pokes her head in. Her eyes dart between us, clearly sensing she's interrupted something.
“Sorry, I was just—” She starts to back away.
“No, Marie, come in here,” Abuela says, waving her in impatiently. “We're having girl talk about how annoying my son is being. Join us.”
Mom hesitates but steps in fully, closing the door behind her. “What did Javi do now?”
“Nothing yet,” she says with a knowing look at me. “But he will.”
They're both staring at me now, my mom with concern and Abuela with that persistent twinkle in her eyes that says she's not letting me off the hook. The weight of my secretfeels suddenly unbearable, like it's going to burst out of me anyway, so why fight it?
“Fuck,” I mutter, then take a deep breath. “The guy I'm seeing—the one I think I'm in love with is Beckham Kingston.”
