“The investor from Miami?”
“I followed up with him the other day, told him about my idea of expanding GORDITA into menswear, and apparently he loved it. I just got off the phone with him and he’s in!”
“You mean—”
“I’m going full-time, bitch!”
“Holy shit! Lizette!” They hugged again. “We need to celebrate!”
“Let’s a throw a party!”
Emmett could think of nothing worse: people in his private space, forced mingling, a huge mess to clean up after. But Lizette had worked so hard. She deserved this. “Okay. Wait, tonight?”
“Nothing big, a fiestecita. A fiestecita GORDITA. Oh come on, we have to!”
“All right. Sure. Just—”
“What?”
“No surprise guests, okay?”
“Stop. As if I’d ambush you like that. A fun night, that’s all I want.”
Lizette, you fucking liar, Emmett thought seven hours later as he opened the door onto a smiling Aaron, showered and dressed and clutching a bottle of wine as if ready for a romantic date.
“Jesus,” Aaron said, almost startled, scanning Emmett up and down. “You look—”
Emmett could barely hear over the Chicano rap blasting behind him, the loud slurring voices of Lizette’s friends and cousins. They filled the small apartment with their drunken Spanglish and some of the most unabashedly X-rated dancing Emmett had ever seen on a Tuesday. He missed the end of Aaron’s pronouncement, but the way he was looking at Emmett suggested approval of the kind to which he was unaccustomed even from the most ardent of his online admirers. He could practically see the hot-face emojis in Aaron’s eyes; it lit a fire in Emmett’s cheeks.
“So glad you could make it. Come in.”
He’d barely crossed the threshold before—
“Aaron!” Margarita sloshed from Lizette’s cup as she wrestled him into a loose-armed hug. “You made it!”
“Wouldn’t miss it. Congrats again. This is for you.”
“So fucking sweet,” she said, taking the bottle. Then to Emmett: “Isn’t he so fucking sweet?
“Uh-oh,” she added, seeing Emmett’s expression and slinging an arm over Aaron’s shoulder to whisper, “He’s mad because I wasn’t supposed to invite you.”
“You weren’t?” A surprising flicker of vulnerability, perhaps a worry that he’d misinterpreted the invite as more than it was.
“Shut up,” Emmett snapped at Lizette.
Before she could respond, Armando grappled onto her from behind. “Come dance, baby. This is our song.” Pulling her back toward the patch of living room carpet serving as a makeshift dance floor.
Emmett met Aaron’s eyes and looked away. “Sorry about that.”
“No worries.”
“It’s not like I didn’t want you here. I just didn’t think you’d be interested on a school night. Not a school night but a—”
“I’m interested.” Aaron’s crooked smile brought Emmett up short.
“Uh—can I get you a drink?”
“Beer if you’ve got it.”
