“You sleep okay?” Miguel asks, sliding into the chair next to mine. His knee bumps mine under the table.
“Yeah,” I say, wrapping my hands around the mug. The foam on top has a little heart in it, the asshole. “Best sleep I’ve had in weeks, actually.” I hesitate, then add, “Thanks.”
His eyes crinkle.“De nada, hermoso.”
Mom sets a pan of scrambled eggs and a bowl of beans on the table. “Eat,” she orders. “I don’t like seeing that hollow under your cheeks, Caleb. You’re not a starving orphan.”
“I didn’t say I didn’t like the skinny athlete look,” Miguel says, reaching for a tortilla. “I am, however, in favor of you not passing out during sex.”
“Miguel,” I hiss, eyes wide, kicking him under the table.
Mom laughs so hard she has to set the spoon down.“Ay, Dios,”she says, crossing herself. “I warned you boys about the walls. Don’t make me start blastingmúsica cristianaat midnight.”
I want to dive into the sink and never come out.
But my heart is still humming with the echo of his voice sayingcasarme con Caleb,so it’s hard to be too mad.
We eat. We talk about nothing, midterms, work, and whether the Warriors are cursed this season. Mom mentions the Boardwalk, and my ears perk up.
“We should go,” she says. “It’s supposed to be warm today. Little bit of sun, some ocean air. We can walk the pier, maybe rideun juegoor two.”
A day with my family in public used to sound like a trap. Now it just sounds… nice. A little scary. Mostly nice.
“Yeah,” I say. “Let’s go.”
I forgethow much I missed the Boardwalk until we’re walking up the stairs and the smell hits me. Ocean salt, fryer oil, cotton candy, sunscreen. Somewhere, a kid screams over the sound of a roller coaster rattling over tracks. The sun is doing its best, fighting through high clouds. It’s not exactly summer, but it’s warm enough that tourists are already stripping down to T-shirts and shorts. Locals, like us, keep their hoodies on.
Mom immediately beelines for the churro stand. “I need fuel if I’m going to survive you three,” she declares, already digging for her wallet.
Miguel mutters, “You hear that? She grouped me with Dad. Disrespectful,” under his breath.
“That’s what you get for marrying into white people,” I whisper back. “One of us, one of us.”
He snorts, shoulders bumping mine.
We walk the planks, Mom between us, Dad trailing half a step back, already assessing everything like a man whounderstands liability law too well.Caleb, don’t run on the boards. Watch where you’re going. Don’t?—
“Dad, I’m twenty-two,” I say when he says, “Don’t get too close to the edge.”
“If I fall, it’ll be because I’m dramatic, not because of the railing.”
He presses his lips together, but the corner twitches. “Noted,” he says.
Miguel runs his fingers lightly against mine as we walk. We don’t hold hands—the crowd is thick, there are kids everywhere, and I know my dad is still calibrating—but the touch is enough. A secret little tether.
We play skee-ball and Miguel absolutely destroys everyone and then pretends he’s modest about it.
“It’s all in the wrist,” he says as I fling a ball wildly into the gutter.
“Your wrists are blessed,” I grumble. “Mine are cursed.”
“Your three-point arc says otherwise.”
Mom plays a coin pusher game with the focus of a general in battle. Ashton spends ten dollars trying to win her a shitty stuffed dolphin from a claw machine and fails every time.
“I litigate complex contracts for a living,” he mutters at one point, staring down the machine. “How is this legal?”
Miguel laughs so hard he has to lean against me.
