I guess you changed your mind about long-distance relationships, huh?
Like, why would he just assume that? And if he’s that weird about long-distance, how’s he going to react when I tell him I’m thinking about moving? But I can’t worry about this now. Especially when it might not even happen if that show doesn’t get picked up. Why obsess over Arthur’s forced smiles or watering eyes before it’s time?
The table’s already set for dinner, and Mario just texted to say he’s walking from the subway right now. Which is absolutely fine, and nothing to freak out about in the slightest. It’s not even like it’s his first time hanging out here. Sure, Ma and Pa were never around. That’s been intentional, especially after Pa found out Mario and I were having sex. The time alone with him has always been great. It’s given me a taste of what life will be like when I get some space from my parents. What it could be like if I end up in Los Angeles with Mario.
Everything coming out of the kitchen smells great. We’ve got tostones slathered with garlic as an appetizer, pernil that’s spending extra time in the oven for an epic crunch, and empanadillas that I always enjoy with a little hot sauce.
The doorbell rings. I tense up like the other two times I brought a guy home to meet my parents. It’s funny how you flash back to the past when you’re thinking about the future. Ma and Pa are always warm to my guests, but there was no competition between how much they adored Arthur over Hudson. And now Mario is here, ready to charm my parents as he does everyone else around him.
I get the door.
Mario is in his overalls and an unbuttoned plaid shirt. He holds up a tote bag with food. “Hola. I got some goods.”
“Gracias. Entra.”
The first time I ever let Mario into the apartment, I wasn’t as nervous as I usually am with inviting people inside. I hadn’t even been to his family’s house yet, but I just knew that they weren’t living large. Mario had so many stories about how his mother will sweep a mouse out of her home like a cartoon character, and how his brothers act like they’re allergic to laundry, and how his father is the only one who knows how to fix the stove, but not well enough that the pilot light stays on. It was nice to not feel like my home had to be perfect. I wasn’t self-conscious about kitchen cabinets that are older than I am, or our fridge that sounds like metal grinding when it’s open for ten seconds, or how the occasional fly will set up camp in our living room like it’s trying to join us for family movie night.
That comfort is rare to come by, and one of the reasons I’ve always thought we fit together.
“Ma, Pa. This is Mario.”
“Hi, Mario!” Ma finishes drying her hands and gives him a hug and kiss on the cheek. “Welcome!”
Pa shakes Mario’s hand. I’m glad Mario has no idea how affectionate Pa usually is—otherwise it might bother him the way it does me. “Thanks for coming over.”
“Are you kidding? Thanks for having me. Ben was really hiding you guys from me.”
Mario never once asked to meet my parents. All this time I’ve felt like we were hiding from them for max privacy. Not even just for sex. Like how nice it’s been to rest my head on his shoulder while we lie down in my bed and he plays Animal Crossing. Or when our legs are tangled together as he sketches in his notebook while I edit TWWW. And so I could butcher whatever Spanish he was teaching me, and then thank him with kisses. But I never wanted to pressure Mario into meeting my parents either. It felt like too big a step. Maybe Mario was respecting my space just as much as I was respecting his.
“I’m sure he’s ashamed of us,” Ma says lightly.
“You know I’m not,” I say. I haven’t been ashamed of my family in years, and that was only because of money stuff. I snapped out of it when I realized I maybe didn’t have the freshest sneakers or new gaming consoles on release days, but my parents have always been amazing to me and my friends, and the same can’t be said for other people.
“Perdón. ?Cuáles son sus nombres?” Mario asks.
Yeah, I didn’t properly introduce my parents.
“Yo soy Isabel y este es Diego,” Ma says.
“Mucho gusto,” Mario says with a little bow. “It smells fantastic in here.”
“Benito says you’re going to cook asopao for us,” Ma says. “Good luck impressing Diego. He hates whenever I make it.”
“Mentirosa,” Pa says.
“Mentirosa?” I ask.