Valentino taps my school picture from fifth grade where I wasn’t smiling. “Bad day?”
“First school picture without my parents,” I say.
“That’ll do it.”
I had missed picture day in fourth grade because I was out grieving. My mom really loved dressing me up those mornings. Ironing my shirts and making me look grown with ties and spritzing my curls with a personal remedy to give them extra shine. When the samples arrived for my fifth-grade pictures, I sat down with Dayana and let her choose her favorite out of all the different poses—fist under chin, arms crossed, a forced smile, and straight-faced.
“This one feels honest,” Dayana had said, choosing the picture up on the wall.
I liked that we weren’t bullshitting, especially since that particular picture day was a week after the one-year-anniversary of my parents’ death.
There are footsteps coming from upstairs, and I immediately know it’s Floyd, who walks around the house as if he’s got brick feet. Floyd is in a polo and jeans that are buckled up with the same black belt he uses for all his baggy pants. His brown hair is gelled like usual, even though Dalma woke up everyone in the middle of the night to drive back home before my surgery.
“Hey, garrochón,” Floyd says as he shakes my hand. He’s got that old-school Puerto Rican vibe where men don’t hug that much. My dad was like that a little too. “Glad you’re back in one piece.”
“You too. Floyd, this is Valentino.”
Floyd looks at Valentino a little skeptically. It could come off a little homophobic, not going to lie, but I know it’s probably more caution over having a living, breathing Decker in the house. He overcomes it with a handshake. “Nice to meet you, Valentino. I’m sorry for . . . you know.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Call me Floyd, please. Come on downstairs.”
Before I can ask why everyone’s downstairs, Valentino turns to me. “What’s a garrochón?”
“Tall and lanky, basically.”
“Been calling him that since he was a kid,” Floyd says as he goes down the stairs. “By the time he was twelve he was taller than me.”
“Not that hard,” I say.
Floyd laughs, and he’s about to raise his hand like he wants to play-hit me, but we’ve been beating that habit out of him. Yeah, poor choice of words, my bad. Correction: we’ve been getting him to cut that shit out because Dayana is extra sensitive to domestic abuse after witnessing her father mistreat her mother. She doesn’t want her girls being raised in a home where that shit is a joke, or me picking up on that in my own adulthood.
We get to the ground level, and I tell Valentino not to mind all the furniture, boxes, and bins. That shit has us looking so sloppy, so I rush him into our living area, where Dalma and I have laid out a rainbow rug that’s got footprints tracked all over it. I expected to find the fam on the couch watching a movie or something because why else would they be down here, but there’s nothing but blankets and throw pillows there.
“Surprise!”
I tense up, and we find the ladies of Team Young out in the tiny backyard with a festive blanket thrown over the fold-out table. Dalma is holding roses, and Dahlia is raising a sign that reads WELCOME VALENTINO! with most of the letters covered in glitter, almost like she ran out of time or glitter, maybe both. Dayana is the first to walk over to Valentino and embrace him in her arms, like a mother.
“It’s wonderful to meet you,” Dayana says, her palms on his face.
“You too, Ms. Dayana,” Valentino says. I’m impressed he got her name right with all these D’s in here. “You’re already living up to every wonderful thing Orion has said about you.”