“I hate it, I hate it, I hate it. That’s a horrible origin story.”
“It was going to be worse. Scarlett was almost named Valentina.”
“Valentino and Valentina . . . that’s some psycho shit. It’s almost as bad as them being homophobic. I bet your house was a shitshow on Valentine’s Day.”
“Absolutely. You know how intense some people are about Christmas? Every threshold had streamers, and there were too many bowls of candy hearts all over the house.”
“The ones that taste like chalk?”
“The very same.”
I can’t believe a beautiful name like his has such a dark, dark, dark history.
“Wait . . . When’s your birthday?”
Valentino is shaking his head. “I don’t want to say.”
“Don’t fucking say Valentine’s Day.”
“No. It’s November eleventh.”
“What’s so bad about . . .” I shudder as I do the math. November is nine months after February. “Oh, they—”
Valentino slaps his hand over my mouth. “Don’t.”
Not the point, but I’m zero percent mad about my lips being pressed against his palm. It’s just like when we were hiding from those masked men with bats, except the stakes aren’t super high this time. When he does move his hand, I’m too stunned about the revelation of his parents conceiving him and Scarlett on Valentine’s Day to even say anything. I let my face do the talking for me.
“Horrifying,” Valentino says. “Thanks for reviving that trauma on my End Day.”
A couple passengers on the bus turn to him, staring at Valentino like he’s an alien.
“Sorry to hear that,” a woman says, holding her child a little closer.
“Thanks,” Valentino says, like someone just blessed him after he sneezed.
I’m not sure what the etiquette is for when someone says sorry when they find out you’re dying. It might be a minute before society lands on something that feels right.
Valentino shifts back to me. “How did you get your name? Please feel free to be bad at history again if it also involves your conception.”
I elbow him in the side for ragging on me again about the history business.
“So my mom’s name is Magdalena, and her mother thought it would be cute if I was named Jesus. As if I would’ve been the first Hispanic Catholic with that name. Like, for real, I’ll take Oreo all day, every day, if it means people aren’t asking me to turn water to wine or having every dinner known as the Last Supper just because I’m there. Bless my parents, they weren’t trying to set me up for failure. Then I was almost Ernesto Jr., but my father didn’t think that was fair either.”
“Why not? Could your father resurrect himself too?” Valentino asks.
“Oh, totally. He’s living his best life back in Puerto Rico. We Skype on weekends. Anyway, my parents wanted something that had no ties to the Bible or anyone in our family. Achilles was the frontrunner for a while.”
“Your heart could’ve been your heel!”
“Shit, that’s great! I never even thought of that.”
Valentino’s proud smile makes me want to give him a million bucks. I mean, I don’t have a million bucks. I barely have a thousand bucks, and even that’s only because Dayana was really generous on my eighteenth birthday. Point is, I’m not rich, but just like I felt twelve hours ago, I want to fully cash in on this guy. Even if that means the money will go unspent after he dies; at least he’ll have known how much he was worth to me.