Juanpa glared at him. “Bruh, just shut up and work. Do you need to be so dramatic all the time?”
It was only the three of us, since Patrice had mysteriously disappeared with the car, saying he’d be “back in an hour.” When he left Juanpa said he’d probably just go out for a drive, since he usually needed alone time after a day around so many people, but Milo had called bullshit, and said he was probably out fucking Easton. I had to say—after the multiple rounds of eye-fucking I’d witnessed between those two today—Milo’s version seemed more likely to me.
I turned my attention back to their conversation to see Milo staring Juanpa down. “I’m not even going to answer that. Now all normal conversation is drama for you? Hanging out with all those jocks has gone to your head. You gotta actually leave the stadium and come see your people, lest you forget where you hail from.”
Camilo was small compared to his friends, who all looked like they could be on the roster of a professional sports team. He was shorter than my own five-foot-ten by a couple of inches with the body of a dancer. His hair was a dark brown, and it was very thick and curly. He’d had it under a hat all day, but now he’d put it up in a bun. He was very pretty. His skin was a beautiful deep bronze, but what caught my attention were his eyes, which were an intense gray. His slight figure and smaller size did nothing to tamp down all that attitude, though. Of the four of them, he was clearly the one in charge.
Juanpa flipped him off without even looking up and kept on juicing oranges. “You don’t even live in the Bronx anymore, asshole.” A smile clear in his voice.
Milo shrugged and kept chopping, then stopped. “Actually, you know what we need? Some music. Now that we have the place to ourselves, we can put some on.” There’d been other people using the kitchen when we got in earlier, but they’d left about fifteen minutes before. “Here,” he said, taking off his gloves and rinsing his hands in the sink behind us. “I have speakers in my bag.”
Milo went over to the shelf where we put our stuff and looked through his backpack, pulling out one of those small cordless speakers that look like a huge red pill.
He took his phone out of his pocket, tapped a few buttons on the screen, and after a moment the opening sounds of Calle 13?sLatinoamericafilled the space. I loved that song, one of the most powerful pieces of music I’d ever heard. Calle 13, a PuertoRican hip-hop duo who made very good and very political music, was one of my favorites. I had listened to this album dozens of times when it came out. So when the song started, I sang along.
I muttered the lyrics as I chopped, thinking how much I loved the words and the cadence of the voices when I noticed that Milo and Juanpa were staring at me.
“What?” I asked, looking around.
“You know Calle 13?” Camilo asked with a look of complete astonishment on his face. Nesto walked over when he heard the music and grinned at Milo’s amazement.
“Yes, I do. I’m a big fan. Don’t give me too much credit on my Latin music prowess though; I discovered them in the whitest way possible.”
At this all three of them turned to me with different versions of a look that said, “Oh, I can’t wait to hearthis.”
I paused for effect, then quickly muttered, “NPR.”
They all cracked up and laughed for a full minute at my comment. I was not usually the guy who brings down the house with a one-liner. It felt kind of good to make someone other than Carmen laugh at my jokes.
Nesto came over and bumped my shoulder, looking at me with so much affection and humor my chest filled with warmth.
“That totally counts! These two are diehard NPR listeners.” He pointed in the direction of his friends. “Don’t let them give you any shade for that. Milo walks around all over town with NPR totes and shit.”
Milo was still chuckling and just shook his head. “You’re a damn fool, Ernesto Vasquez, but at least your man has taste.” I felt a thrill run through my body with the casual way Milo referred to me as Nesto’s “man.” I looked over at him to see how he’d react, but he just widened his eyes, pointed at himself and yelled a loud,“Hello?”
Juanpa was next. He stopped chuckling and with a very serious face put his hand up, as if asking for a moment of silence then said, “NPR is legit. You still get full credit.” With that, he went back to juicing oranges.
Milo looked over at Nesto, shaking his head with disgust. “Of course you, Mr. No Politics, would get with the one gringowho knows all the words to a song that’s essentially one of the modern Latinx rights anthems.”
Milo turned back to me and pointed. “You’re a keeper.” Then to Nesto. “Don’t fuck this up.”
Nesto shook his head and laughed. “Fuck off.”
I smiled at Milo. “Well, I appreciate your approval. Although Calle 13 are very well known.”
Nesto came over and pecked my cheek. “I need to watch out, or Milo might try to steal you, and I’m counting on your burrito selling skills to put the truck on the map. You were pretty amazing with the customers today.”
He rinsed his hands and was now standing behind me with both of them on my waist. I had to put the knife down before I mutilated myself with all the stuff happening in my body with him so close. “It’s not hard to sell your food. It’s delicious and insanely cheap. How hard could it be to convince people?”
“That’s it though,” he said, his voice full of something which made me take this conversation much more seriously. “You’re not just saying the food is good to be nice, you believe in my business and what I’m trying to do. You went above and beyond with every customer today. That woman you helped this afternoon brought back friends afterwards, and she even took photos.” By now he was also nuzzling my neck.
My entire body was flushing hot and cold and the butterflies in my stomach were so intense I felt like I was on a roller coaster. I felt self-conscious that Milo and Juanpa were watching and I thought about what Patrice said earlier—that Nesto could goback to New York City if things didn’t work, and it felt like a stab in my gut. I knew Patrice was trying to be supportive, but just the thought of Nesto not being here, or worse, of him having to go back to New York City to start over, had seriously unsettled me.
I wanted to turn around right then and ask him:What are we doing? What happens if the thing with Sheridan doesn’t work out? Am I even part of the equation when you think about what’s next? Will you let me be there for you if things don’t go as planned?
I shook my head, trying to stay in the moment. Nesto’s touch grounding me. Possessive and gentle at once. Feeling bold and wanting to stake my claim, too, I bent my head and brought his hand up so I could kiss the tips of his fingers.
I looked up and saw Milo and Juanpa staring at us. For a moment I thought I saw a mix of worry and tenderness on Milo’s face, but it was gone in a flash. As soon as he saw me looking at him, he made a show of covering his eyes.
