31
ALASKA
Today it’s The Hunger Games , mansion edition, because there’s a family lunch and when more than three of these women get together it looks like they’re about to crown a queen—Game of Thrones style, life or death.
The whole house smells like spices I can’t even pronounce—turmeric, curry, something sweet that makes me instantly hungry.
Julia’s making the rounds with the tray held high, full drill-sergeant energy, moving it at a studied speed, and don’t think she’s spreading peace; she’s handing out ham and little spicy chorizos with the same authority she’d use in another life to hand out smacks upside the head, all to keep complaints to a minimum and everybody with their mouths full and their shirts stained.
"Don’t use your hands, I see you," she says, without even looking at me, and I’ve already grabbed a little napkin to cover my tracks, because I plan ahead for the worst.
Irina plants herself in the doorway, back straight, ready to run a human TSA checkpoint; not even a fly gets in without her say-so. It cracks me up because she runs it in silence, with eyebrow signals and a pointing finger. It works. People obey.
"If you’re bringing sad, back of the room. And no lingering," she tells Nora, who’s got the Sunday scaries written all over her.
Sabina walks in and carves out her own space—Nordic-goddess blonde hair, eyes that wipe out your witty comebacks, and the clothes don’t matter, jeans, a black dress, whatever, because she always broadcasts that she could leave any minute with a secret agent or drop three lines and rearrange your ego.
"It’s boiling in here, you guys are going all out," she says, and Asia, her sister’s girlfriend, straightens up on the spot.
I give her a very civilized wave and, on the inside, I put on a floor-length gown, hang fake diamonds, and tell her, I hate you and worship you at the same time, blonde queen, and in reality I only go, "Hi, gorgeous, there’s ham."
Amaia comes in behind her, a redhead with tight curls, real volume, an intense but good-vibes gaze, and when she drops a sentence you feel like answering properly for your own mental hygiene, because she commands without raising her voice.
"We came by cab and the driver blasted flamenco the whole way—I almost meditated," she says.
I nod and do a cheap little tuck-behind-the-ear. She looks at my T-shirt.
"Black looks good on you," she says—friendly and boss at the same time.
"I picked it because it hides stains," I tell her, and I’m not lying; I’m already two drops of oil in.
Julia strides past again, tray gleaming. I step aside and switch on my logistics-assistant mode, which is making sure no one notices the olive bowl is dead and buried and I’m the culprit, so I shove the empty bowl behind the vase and smile at an imaginary camera, very natural.
"Weren’t there olives?" someone asks.
"They vanished—sign of success," I say, and I crack open a bag of potato chips, garlic-flavored, end of story, to distract.
At the big table there’s real hunger and controlled posing, because here we talk and chew at the same time.
Lip gloss gets refreshed every ten minutes and there’s glitter on eyelids, shoulders, nails—you name it—mandatory per internal protocol.
I love the collective effort to breathe pretty while you eat a bite of chorizo on bread.
Sabina brushes my shoulder as she passes, lets out the tiniest laugh, and I project a limo escape with Rihanna, the two of us sprawled in the backseat, nails perfect, AC right, and the driver named ángel who calls me boss.
But I lean over the ham and slice a paper-thin piece that comes out so-so, but it goes down, which is what matters.
"You’re very prep-school princess today," Luna breathes in my ear, pressing in way too close, the bitch.
I choke a little and sip water at the wrong time.
"It’s the wrinkle-free T-shirt, don’t get used to it," I say, and I fiddle with the tacky bracelet I bought myself at a flea market.
Julia comes back, drops the tray, pats the table, coordinates.
"Heads up: nobody leave dirty plates on the furniture, it triggers my OCD," she announces.
And everyone goes, "Yeah, sure, totally." But I spot three plates parked on the sideboard, pick them up by reflex, and feel useful, which always pays off.
And with this whole parade, I catch myself staring at these women and thinking I hope I hit that age that put-together: glowing skin, shoulders back, medium patience.
Anyway, let me spill some more tea: the day I first set foot in this house and saw Luna, my heart stopped for a second and I had to grab the doorframe so I wouldn’t make a fool of myself.
That unforgettable bubblegum-pink hair, that look of “do whatever you want, I’m not scrubbing a damn thing.” And me there, brain in stereo: it’s the same Luna from Chueca two years ago—the kiss, the gum, the ghosting without a goodbye.
Smash cut to Chueca. Me in full vodka mode, walking into a dyke club—other people’s sweat, lights, smoke, a DJ with fluorescent nails—and suddenly, boom: pink hair, a face that has never met a morning alarm.
Not even hello. She jammed a piece of green gum into my mouth, then kissed me.
My pulse spiked and my knees went wobbly.
Hands here, hands there; two songs in, we were plastered together, dancing a routine we’d never rehearsed.
And I was thinking the night was my own French indie film—weird dialogue, tons of subtitles, open ending.
Then she vanished into the lights; I ended up leaning against DJ Toxic Kitty’s booth.
I remember her name because I ended the night with her—memory can be selective and a girl does what she can.
I was giddy, drunk, melancholy, ready to invent myself a new life and then sleep for three days.
Luna, more zen or more high, I couldn’t tell.
I’d bet my split ends she doesn’t even remember.
I do. A girl like that sticks gum to your tongue and dances on you—that installs itself.
I wish it were the other way around, wish it wiped fast. Nope.
Brain: She was hot as hell. Mouth: “Hi, Luna. Nice to meet you.”
And now, by decree of fate in a shitty mood, it turns out she’s kind of family, which if you’d told me a year ago I’d have told you to sit down and breathe.
I’m waiting for Aunt May to pop in with an afternoon snack and adoption papers; I’ll sign with a glitter pen without reading the fine print.
Wish my superpower were scarfing slices of chorizo without thinking dumb shit.
But I can’t help it, because Luna has just walked in with Martina on her arm.
Martina’s her girlfriend and also Julia’s daughter, the one who became a mom back when we still watched shows on tube TVs and blew on tapes to make them work.
Martina has that vibe like she knows something you don’t and won’t rub it in; she looks at you, scans you without hurrying, and when she finally speaks it’s one exact line, not one word more or less, and you laugh even if you don’t want to.
“We’ll sit here,” she says, sets down her bag, lines up her keys, organizes our chaos without asking.
“How’s it going, Martina? You’re glowing—moisturizer or happiness?”
“Six hours of sleep,” she replies, calm as ever.
They sit together. Svet, who’s got pickpocket hands because—she confessed to me in secret—Valeria’s teaching her, lifts the phone off them in a blink.
“Hand it over.” Martina doesn’t even blink, hand out.
“I just wanted to watch cartoons,” the little one says, already wearing that punished-puppy face she loves.
“No,” Martina says, in documentary voice. “Retinas, dopamine, habits. At this age, minimal screen time. Go read a story.”
“I’ll tell you some gossip later,” Luna says to her.
“There’s gossip?” Svet asks.
“Two,” Luna finishes, tucks the phone into her bag with a click-clasp. End of chapter.
I look at her and I’m back to that night. Luna yawns, shoots me one of her looks, all laziness and perfect nails.
“What?” she asks, lazy, amused.
“Nothing,” I say. “That green gum brings back memories.”
“It was radioactive mint,” she says, and laughs with a half-smile.
Inside I’m hitting pause, rewind, play, pause again; outside I’m very normal.
“There’s chorizo,” I announce, lifting the plate. “Superpower of the day: chew and shut up.”
“That one you’ve got,” Luna says without changing her tone, and winks at me.
And me, calm again, more or less, because in this house you come for bread and leave with plotlines, houseguests, glitter-dusted memories, and a silent girlfriend watching you from the other corner.
“What are you talking about?” Mikel butts in, mouth full.
“Your squatter résumé,” I shoot back, “since you already have more pajamas here than at your place.”
“You’re missing the blue striped ones,” Vega says, who laughs at everything he does. And she touches his arm like, “this is your living room now.”
I breathe, because as long as they don’t start making weird noises while I’m watching cat videos, we’re good.
That said, the other day I caught Mikel naming the couch cushions, Pokémon edition, and now if you sit on the green one he tells you you’re on top of Bulbasaur.
Look, I laugh, but at the same time I think a therapist would make a killing off this house.