3. Diaz
Diaz
“Dios mío! Macaroni and cheese inside an empanada ?" Abuelita waved her half-eaten pastry like it was evidence in a courtroom. “This is a crime against our people.”
I grinned, popping a handful of pickle-flavored cheese curds into my mouth. “Well, you’ve had two already, so it can’t be too bad.”
Her eyes narrowed from behind her tortoiseshell glasses. “I’m an old woman, Peter. I’m allowed to be contradictory. And this cheese . . .” She moaned around the mouthful of food. “Like velvet.”
“Velvet?”
“Si. Sinfully delicious.” Her gold hoop earrings swayed every time she leaned over her plate for another bite. “I will repent later.”
I shook my head and reached for my drink. “There’s the abuelita I know and love.”
She closed her eyes and made the sign of the cross over her chest, murmuring a quick prayer under her breath for forgiveness over her . . . dairy transgressions? I nearly choked on my mango limeade trying not to laugh.
God, I loved this woman.
This telenovela-obsessed, five-foot-nothing octogenarian who matched her rosary beads to whatever pair of glasses she wore that day. We couldn’t be more different, and yet, she was so much more than just another relative; she was my best friend.
Abuelita was the one who’d attended every one of my games, from T-ball through high school, always with a bag of knitting at her side. Because Abuelita didn’t go anywhere without her knitting—not even her own daughter’s funeral. She’d knit half a scarf before they’d closed Mami’s casket.
Abuelita was the one I’d come out to at fifteen, after she’d caught me messing around with Carlos—my high school teammate and first real boyfriend—out back by the garden shed.
Man, the stories that shed could tell.
First, Abuelita’s encounter with El Chupacabra, and then, forty years later, two queer boys awkwardly trying to jerk each other off.
Sounds like one of Abuelita’s telenovelas.
To her credit, she hadn’t yelled when I’d come out.
She hadn’t cursed or cried or dropped to her knees and prayed.
She’d simply pulled me into a hug that smelled like jasmine and Vicks VapoRub and whispered, “I love you exactly as God made you, mijo. Now, go take off those dirty shoes before you ruin my floors.”
She was the one person I never had to pretend with.
Even when everything else in my life was chaotic, sitting here with her somehow made the world feel safer.
I took another sip of my mango limeade, savoring the way the tart flavor cut through the richness of the food.
“Quit hogging the empanadas,” I grumbled, though there was no heat behind the words. “Try one of the wings.”
“Spicy?” she asked, arching an eyebrow.
“Just the way you like it.”
She nodded with approval, already reaching for the paper boat full of wings at the center of the table.
We had been at this for nearly an hour, chowing down on a robust sampling of eats and treats from my favorite food cart pod off Alberta Street.
The table was a glorious mess of cardboard containers full of offerings from half a dozen different trucks: Al pastor tacos with pineapple-glazed pork shaved straight from the vertical spit from Taco the Town, a pumpkin yellow curry from Tikka Chance on Me, mac and cheese empanadas courtesy of the cheese-shaped truck called Mac Daddy, and the daily special, Korean fried chicken wings, glossy with gochujang glaze, from Cluck Norris.
They were actually vegan wings, but I wasn’t about to tell Abuelita that. As far as she was concerned, veganism ranked somewhere between skipping Sunday mass and committing tax fraud.
She had been staying with me for nearly two weeks now and in that time, we had eaten our way through three food cart pods, two street fairs, and one Michelin-star restaurant.
And that was just the start of it.
In between wining and dining across Multnomah County—because Abuelita could knock back a bottle of wine faster than most bachelorette parties—we’d visited the International Rose Test Garden, taken the aerial tram across the city (twice), and ridden the alpine slide at Mt. Hood.
That last one had shocked the hell out of me. Apparently, somewhere in between turning eighty and getting her second knee replaced, Abuelita had turned into a fucking daredevil.
Such an icon.
In other news, the All-Star break was still a week out, and the team was playing like absolute garbage. If anything, we’d gotten worse.
Abuelita had even offered to perform a full spiritual cleansing of the locker room, complete with sage smudging and holy water, which she had somehow smuggled on the plane ride from San Juan, but sadly, the guys hadn’t gone for it.
Not because they didn’t love Abuelita—trust, she was adored by all and feared by most—but rather because agreeing to the ritual would mean officially admitting there was a curse.
Pride was a hell of a drug, even when it came wrapped in superstition and Puerto Rican grandma logic.
“You’re too quiet, mijo.”
I poked at a piece of brisket, avoiding her eyes. “Says the woman who used to smack my hands if I dared speak with a mouthful of food.”
She took a sip of horchata, then fixed me with a withering stare. Abuelita might’ve been small in stature, but she had a formidable presence. She might be able to fool other people with her naturally rosy cheeks and closet full of floral muumuus, but the woman had HGE.
Hurricane Granny Energy.
“You’re thinking too much. Something weighing on you?” She reached across the table and touched my wrist. “Boy trouble?”
“Boy trouble? What am I, seventeen?”
“I’m not asking for details,” she said, holding up a hand. “Yet. But I know that face. It’s the same one you made when that boy broke your heart in tenth grade.”
“Carlos Reyes.”
“Hmph. Carlos Stupido.” She jammed her fork in my direction. “I play dominoes with his mother and she cheats every time.”
I let out a long breath, pushing my plate aside. There was no point trying to hide it from her. She’d always been able to read me better than anyone.
“There is someone,” I admitted quietly. “A teammate.”
Abuelita didn’t look surprised. She just nodded slowly, waiting for me to keep going.
“I’ve got feelings for him, and I don’t know what to do about it. Things have been complicated for a while. Ever since . . .” I swallowed hard and went on. “He found out that I lied to him.”
“Ay, Peter Rafael.” She sighed, using my full name the way she only did when I was in trouble. “Lying to someone you care about? That’s never the way. You know better than that.”
“I know, I know. Believe me, I’m aware that I should’ve handled things differently, but there’s a lot more to it than you think, and no, I’m not going into the details.”
Having a close relationship with my abuela was one thing; explaining to her that I was responsible for one of the most downloaded fanfic stories on the internet—the one where one specific strawberry-blond shortstop bent me over the dugout bench while I sucked off the team mascot—was another.
Some things were better left between me, my laptop, and whatever higher power was judging my search history.
“Does this boy feel the same?”
I shrugged. “I thought he did, but now we barely talk outside of baseball stuff. And as much as I want to be with him, I’m worried about losing our friendship more than anything.”
Abuelita hummed, considering this. “You’ll figure it out, mijo. You always do.”
I gave her a small smile. For the first time in weeks, saying it out loud to someone who loved me unconditionally felt like loosening a knot I hadn’t realized was choking me.
“But remember,” she added. “The truth might sting, but a lie festers. Fix it before it poisons everything.”
She patted my hand, then leaned back in her chair.
“Well, bless my heart and pass the hot sauce.”
An unmistakable Southern drawl cut through the noise of the food cart pod.
I looked up just in time to see Clarke skipping toward us with one hand resting on her belly and the other waving wildly, like she was directing traffic.
Soren was at her side, carrying a tray loaded up with no less than a dozen items.
Bennett trailed closely behind them, his cochlear implants catching the golden light. Bella’s arm was looped through his like she was afraid he might disappear if she let go.
I blinked. “What the hell are you guys doing all the way out here?”
Clarke and Soren owned a house in the foothills of Rose City—mere miles from the stadium, but a good forty minutes northwest of Portland—and Bella and Bennett’s townhouse was only a few minutes down the road from them, which meant both couples were a long way from home.
“Baby boy decided that he was craving the BBQ brisket burrito from Holy Smokes.” Clarke dropped into the seat across from me with a grateful groan, rubbing her bump. “And what baby boy wants, Mama wants.”
Soren set the tray down and kissed the top of her head. “And what Mama wants, Daddy gets.”
Bennett snickered from the other side of the picnic table, but Soren barely spared him a glance. He was too focused on his blonde bombshell of a wife.
Clarke tilted her head back to meet his gaze. “Don’t be mad, but Mama has decided that she also needs a snow cone.”
Soren smiled, his eyes ablaze with adoration. “I’m on it. Don’t go anywhere, blondie.”
He bent forward and kissed her again, this time letting his lips linger on hers. I watched the whole exchange with a mix of genuine fondness and theatrical disgust.
“For fuck’s sake,” I muttered after he set out on the great snow cone search. “You two are so disgustingly cute.”
The words had barely left my mouth before a sharp smack landed on the back of my hand.
“Language!” Abuelita scolded.
I winced, rubbing the spot she’d swatted. “Sorry, Bueli.”
Clarke laughed brightly, rubbing her belly. “Jealous, Diaz?”
“Extremely,” I deadpanned before setting my sights on Bennett and Bella. “And don’t get me started on the two of you, the goddamn Hallmark movie couple.”
This time, I snatched my hands away, narrowly avoiding another smack.
Take that, old woman.