“I’m meeting my boyfriend’s parents,” I say, ignoring the rest. “It’s a whole thing.” I grab his coffee mug from him and take a few sips.
“That should be interesting,” Dad says. He doesn’t ask follow-up questions. He traces the jawline of one woman’s picture. She’s not old or young. She’s not pretty or ugly. He adjusts his glasses before drawing a line near her ears. “You want Karissa to do your makeup?”
“I’ll do it!” Roxanne says. Dad likes that she sits around our house like it’s part hers. He pours her a coffee too and offers to make her some toast.
“But don’t you dare put that crazy stuff on my daughter’s face,” he says, pointing at Roxanne’s thick eyeliner and the little star sticker on her cheek.
“I’m good. No makeup necessary,” I say. Dad laughs like that is a great joke I’ve made.
“Well, it’s up to you, I suppose. Will you bring him to the park Friday?” Dad says. He is officially obsessed with the park Friday. He tells Roxanne to come too, and to bring any boys she might be dating. “Or girls!” he says, because he is nothing if not accepting of people who are not his children.
“I’ll be there, Dr. Varren,” Roxanne says. And I very nearly hate her for pretending it’s fine, but she’d never let me down like that. “I’d hate to miss one of your epic proposals.” Dad hears and reddens but doesn’t drop his mug or fight back or anything.
“I freaking love you,” I say when we’re out the door.
“For so many reasons,” she says, leading us to the subway. She’s a subway wizard, so she gets us to Bernardo’s little pocket of Brooklyn quickly. It’s all trees and brownstones out there. The dogs are bigger, too. I don’t see Duane Reade or any banks for a bunch of blocks in a row. It’s a whole new world.
Bernardo meets us outside his apartment building. It’s a cute little walk-up and they have two floors of it, but it feels small with all five kids and two parents and now me and Roxanne here too.
“Montana!” his mother says when she sees us. Her eyes flit back and forth between Roxanne and me, and I wonder which one of us she is hoping belongs to her son.
“That’s me,” I say, stepping forward. She’s small and solid. She has an apron and curly brown hair that’s graying at the roots.
“Of course it’s you,” she says, gesturing to my hair.
“Oh,” I say, self-conscious so quickly I can barely stop myself from stuttering. I’ve never met a boy’s parents before. I don’t know why I didn’t think of that earlier, but this is a big first. “I’m sorry about this. About his—”
“Of course he did it for a pretty girl,” his dad interrupts, lumbering over. He’s tall and dark, with a heavy beard and unreadable eyes. His accent is so strong I almost don’t hear what he’s saying, and I’m not sure whether to laugh or nod or look over at Bernardo, so I sort of do all three.
“Our Bernardo, always impulsive,” his mother says. Bernardo cringes so hard I mistake it for a seizure for a moment.
“Thank you for having me. This is Roxanne, my best friend.” There’s all kinds of hand shaking, and I wish I looked like Arizona, only for today. Bernardo’s brothers and sisters swarm around us and show us sock puppets they made and drawings they’re working on and their mom’s purse and the family gerbil.
I don’t fit in, in the deepest way. I wonder if Casey did.
“This is the girl,” Bernardo says, when one of his sisters asks him why I’m having dinner there.
Bernardo’s parents make a Mexican feast, with homemade tortillas and very hot chicken and the most excellent guacamole I’ve ever had. There’s some kind of spicy mac and cheese that’s green and decadent and so eatable I almost forget I’m trying to impress people.
“Honey, be careful with the spice,” Bernardo’s mother says to him after he’s put extra sauce on his chicken and scooped a few jalape?os onto his pasta. “You know it upsets your tummy if you have too much.”
Bernardo goes red.
“I know how to eat,” he mumbles. His shoulders slump, and behind his head I can see a picture of him when he was little. He doesn’t look very different.
“How do you like the food?” his dad says. He’s beaming over his work. My mouth’s full and so is Roxanne’s, so we both nod enthusiastically, and Roxanne squeezes my thigh under the table, telling me she’s happy for me and this new bit of life I’m getting to have.
“Good. That Casey girl hated Mexican food. Bernardo tell you that? What kind of person doesn’t like spice? Or cheese? Or cilantro?” He shakes his head, and I wonder how many times Casey ate here and how well she knew the kids. Whether she brought them presents on Christmas. What exactly he loved about her. “She was a little uptight. Bernardo doesn’t need any more uptight in his life. You uptight?”
“She is super not!” Roxanne says. She beams and takes a huge bite of chicken.
“I guess not,” I say.
“I’m so sorry,” Bernardo says. “My parents get a little—”