Chapter 25 #2
I come out of the bathroom and find Vale standing out on the balcony, leaning on the railing, looking out toward the river and all the trees.
I put my weight on the doorway, crossing my arms, just taking a moment to stare at him.
Mostly his ass, but also, all of him. The way he looks so peaceful and beautiful and handsome.
Yeah, I’m falling in love with him.
“YOOOO!” P é rez shouts from downstairs as music that’s got to be at a hundred volume starts playing. Almost so loud I don’t hear him running up the stairs (and tripping on the way up, letting out a “?Pinche madre!” ).
“It’s party time, compas,” he says, standing in the middle of our room. “Put on your swim shorts—or Speedo if that’s the energy we’re bringing into the weekend—”
“Please tell me you’re not wearing a Speedo, my guy,” I groan, the horror obvious on my face.
“Technically they’re called swim briefs,” Vale adds, coming up from behind me.
“We’re getting off topic,” P é rez shouts.
“Ten minutes, group shots, and then we’re heading to the river.
Y’all are going to have to wait until later to see how sturdy that bed is.
You saw they got a rope attached to a tree?
I’m swinging off that bitch as soon as we’re there.
Also, to answer your question, yes, and I got a set of three in case you boys want to show off too.
Should fit everyone. Different colors y todo. ”
He rushes out of our room, yelling for Kat to get changed too, and Vale laughs, shaking his head. “Come on. We shouldn’t keep him waiting. He’s probably set a timer.”
He did. We know because whatever Bluetooth speaker P é rez’s phone is connected to starts making that atomic bomb is heading for us sound just as Vale and I are coming downstairs and he’s waiting for us in the kitchen—only in his swim chonies and slides—with double shots of Hornitos.
“River time!” he shouts as he runs ahead of us toward the water, carrying his speaker that’s blasting “Az ú car.”
We’re the only ones around. There aren’t even other cars parked nearby. Maybe by this time, early November, everyone’s given up on river trips for the rest of the year or they’re spending all their money on turkeys or something.
I’m into it. More for us.
“Hey!” P é rez calls once he’s set his phone and speaker down, “I learned how to do a handstand. Watch. Mira, mira, mira.”
He sets his hands on the ground and his legs go up and— “Hold on, almost,” he grunts as he lands pretty dirty, nearly scraping his knee.
And then again, this time his knees coming to his chest midair as he lets out a “Damn, wait. Almost.” And a third time, his legs nearly straight up in the air for a second before going back down with an “Almost.”
I don’t know why I watch. Why I spend an entire two minutes patiently standing here as this fool does handstand attempt after handstand attempt, half of them looking like he’s pretending to be a frog, his cheeks clenching in his Spee—swim briefs—every time he throws his legs up, and his feet come back down with another “Nope” or “Almost,” but I do.
And Vale and Kat do too, standing next to me, waiting for him to never get it.
“Ah, pues, it’s better when I’m using a solid floor. The grass and rocks are hurting my hands.”
“Yeah, that’s why,” Kat says with a grin. “Come on, we’re jumping in the river.”
They go first, grabbing the rope held by a thick limb of a tree that juts past the slight drop into the river.
Deep breath and a “Let’s go!” and they’re flying, holding the rope tight and then letting go with a scream, landing right in the middle of the water.
P é rez goes next, yelling something about “water breathing” and “tenth form,” doing a kick midair when he lets go of the rope that I’m pretty sure makes one of his balls pop out.
“You want to go first?” I ask Vale, holding on to the rope, ready to hand it off to him.
“Nah, you go first,” he tells me. “Show me what you got, futbolista.”
“Give me a kiss before I go? For good luck.”
And, with the feeling of his lips on mine and Kat and P é rez yelling “El Chivo!” from the water, I take quick steps off the ledge and start soaring.
My body all the way on impress Vale mode starts pushing my weight back and legs up and bent.
When the soles of my feet are pointing at the sky and I’m all the way upside down, I let go of the rope, following through with the rest of a backflip, and sticking the landing, a solid eight out of ten at minimum.
When I come up for air, Vale is cheering me on and P é rez has both his hands up for a high five, yelling, “That’s how it’s done, papi! ”
Then it’s Vale’s turn. I watch him smile when I yell, “You got this, baby,” realizing that’s the first time I’ve called him that outside of my room. And, as my heart starts rushing, it feels good. So good. I want to call him that all the time. Everywhere.
He rushes off, bringing his legs in up to his chest, letting out his own scream as he swings down like that, and goes full cannonball into the water. I don’t hold back my cackle as Kat gets splashed, letting out a “?Ya, g ü ey!”
“Alright, my turn again!” P é rez hollers, swimming back to land and rushing up to the tree. “And then we’re playing some Chicken! Y’all down? Kat, you want on top or me?”
“Thinking you’re getting on my shoulders in those chonies is actually nonsensical. And Vale would beat you easy.”
P é rez does end up on Kat’s shoulders. And, just as they called it, Vale does shove my teammate right into the water. Easy.
“This is called what?”
“Orzo,” Vale says, watching me stir the large pot filled with boiling water and what he says is called orzo as he chops up some garlic and parsley real finely, keeping an eye on a pan that’s warming up.
After a whole afternoon turned into most of an evening at the river, swimming and more Chicken and playing sand volleyball at the sandpit nearby and then rinsing each other off on the porch with the water hose, all we wanted was dinner. Showers can wait, changing can wait, food is the priority.
“I don’t know if I believe that,” P é rez (thankfully with a towel tied around his waist now) tells him, tearing off a piece of a baguette and biting into it. “That’s rice .”
“They’re different. I promise.”
My teammate comes over and stands right up on me, looking into the pot, taking a wooden spoon, and scooping up some of the orzo. “I don’t see it.”
“Orlando,” Kat calls out, busy next to us finishing up this chicken piccata they wanted to make because they saw someone on their social media making it and it looked good and easy-ish . “Grab the bags of broccolini.”
“The bags of what ?” P é rez asks, looking behind and around us at the counter like he lost something.
“Broccolini.”
“That’s not a real thing either. What the fuck are you talking about?”
Vale tries his best to swallow his laughter, whispering, “Orzo’s done; you can empty the water and then we’ll put it in the pan,” while our friends start arguing about whether some of the words being said in this kitchen tonight are made up.
“You’ve never heard of broccolini?!”
“Yeah, it’s what they call broccoli at Olive Garden!”
“ Please tell me you’re lying. I need to know you know that’s not true. Not everything goes back to Olive Garden. ”
“Okay,” I whisper back to Vale, scooping our not-rice out of the pot, “but what is broccolini?”
“It’s, like, stalkier, skinnier broccoli. I don’t really know everything about what makes it different except it doesn’t look exactly the same, but they’re different. Here, keep stirring while I put everything else in.”
This whatever-Vale’s-got-us-making smells like heaven.
The butter and garlic he put in the pan to get all melty before the orzo went in, the Parmesan he sprinkles in little by little, and the heavy cream too, which he watches so it won’t, I don’t know, become soup.
Some parsley, a dash of salt and pepper; I’ll take this whole pan.
“Where did you learn how to make this?”
“I’m not going to lie to you. I’m just like Kat; saw a TikTok and thought it looked good.”
“Look. Right here on Google. Longer, thinner, and more tender than broccoli with smaller florets.”
“Another made-up word!”
I step back, giving Vale more room at the stove, and go right back to my resting state, holding him from behind, head on his shoulder and nuzzling into his neck, keeping myself from getting too frisky so he won’t mess up. “I like cooking with you.”
“I like cooking with you too. Next time you find a recipe and we’ll try it out.”
“Deal,” I tell him before kissing his neck. “I’m going to make a drink. You want something?”
“Yeah, whatever you’re having.”
“Oh!” Pérez says, sounding like the lightbulb’s finally turning on. “Why didn’t you tell me to grab the cunty broccoli?”
Vale nearly coughs right into the orzo hearing that, and I almost drop a bottle of vodka. When I turn around, Kat’s staring at P é rez like they can’t even begin to figure out where he learned that from.
“The—what now?” they ask.
“I thought you grabbed this kind because it looks cuntier. Like, fashion broccoli. Like—” He lets one of his hands go limp and then does this pose poking his hip out.
“You have too many queer friends,” Kat says.
“When we get back, I’m scheduling you some cishet enrichment time with Khaled and Nam and a straight anime.
Like, I don’t know, straight boys love Dragon Ball .
I’m tying you down to the couch and forcing every episode of Dragon Ball on you.
And no listening to Charli XCX for at least a week. ”
“Fine. Do you still want your cunty broccoli?”
Kat lets out a defeated sigh, one hand massaging their forehead and the other motioning for me to hand them the liquor.
“Yes, I want my cunty broccoli.”