Chapter 12 #2
“Did you ever eat those watermelon lollipops as a kid? The Mexican ones?” I ask. Seeing his blank stare, I elaborate. “You know, with the chili powder on the outside?”
He shakes his head, then says, “I didn’t really eat Mexican candy growing up.”
“None of it? No Lucas? Pelon Pelo Rico? Rockaleta? Pulparindo?”
He shakes his head again, and maybe I’m imagining it, but I think he looks slightly upset.
“I’m guessing these are all candies? There was never much Mexican candy in my household. Except that de la Rosa marzipan my mom loves. Sorry.”
Yeah, he’s definitely upset. And the weird thing is, I have no idea why.
Maybe that isn’t that weird—but it feels weird.
I mean, sure, we were never close, and there were seven years of us actively avoiding one another, but we saw each other regularly throughout college.
We were the only two Mexican people—the only two Latino people, period—in our friend group, and it’s strange to realize we never really talked about that.
I remember little things, small moments when he and I bonded over stuff our friends didn’t quite get.
Like when I mentioned my parents storing pots and pans in the oven, and the only one who didn’t act like it was weird was Alex—I hadn’t known that was a Latino thing.
Or that time Ellie didn’t know who Selena was, and Alex and I spent twenty minutes explaining her legacy before putting on the movie and making our friends watch it.
Tiny things. Innocuous moments I never gave much thought to until now, when I realize Alex has an emotional hang-up about Mexican candy, of all things.
In an attempt to lighten the mood, I say, “Well, I know what our next date is.”
I wait to see how he takes that and feel my tension thaw when he cracks a smile.
“Is this you asking me out? It’s my amazing taste in diners, isn’t it?”
“You’re right, I better wait to see if your taste in food is atrocious before I commit to anything. You’ve already got a point against you for the lobster.”
“Bad taste in food is a deal-breaker. Good to know.”
“Of course food is a deal-breaker. You spend so much of a relationship eating together. I wouldn’t be able to spend the rest of my life with someone who wants to eat bland food all the time.”
He smiles, but I can see that something’s changed on his face at my words. Only then do I realize I just spoke about the potential of a long-term relationship for the two of us. Which is… not how this is supposed to go.
To change the subject, I say, “Please tell me it’s just candy. If I have to introduce you to the entire canon of Mexican cuisine—”
“Canon?” He laughs.
“Yeah. Like—entire literary canon. You know.”
“I think that only works in the context of books. I’m not sure you can apply it to food.”
“Well, I just did. And you’re deflecting.”
“I’m simply marveling at your creative interpretation of the English language.” I stare at him blankly, and he continues, “Right. Mexican food. No, I’m good on that front. My mom loves to cook—growing up, it was Mexican food for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.”
“Oh my God,” I groan. “That sounds amazing. Both my parents hate cooking. I grew up on takeout. And every Sunday, my mom would pick up pan dulce from the panaderia. What I wouldn’t give for a pink concha right about now.”
“Why a pink one?”
“Because it’s the best one.”
“It tastes the same as the white and yellow.”
“No, it definitely tastes better.” I gasp. “Does pan dulce count as candy?”
“Obviously, pan dulce does not count as candy.”
“You never know. ‘Dulce’ and all.”
The food arrives. By the time we’re done eating, I’m convinced: This is a great choice as far as favorite restaurant in LA goes.
It isn’t just the food, though the food is admittedly great.
The whole atmosphere is a vibe. I feel comfortable, like I could come here every day and feel at home, as weird as that might be to say about a diner.
A good part of it has to do with the fact that the people at the tables on both sides of us are speaking Spanish.
“What are you thinking?”
I shrug, unsure if it’s an odd train of thought, and say, “I might really like Van Nuys.”
“I love the Valley,” he says. “It feels like home. Not like—I mean, technically, home is New Jersey, but it never felt like it. The Valley feels how I imagine home is supposed to feel.”
I realize I don’t know where Alex’s home was in 2026. Strange. Usually, that’s the first thing an Angeleno will tell you, right before we complain about the traffic.
“That’s how I feel about the east side. Just this sense of belonging. It’s funny. I don’t even speak Spanish, but whenever I hear it, it’s… comforting. I’ve always wanted to learn, but I don’t really have a knack for languages,” I admit.
“I could teach you,” he offers.
“I didn’t know you were fluent.”
“Fluent is a stretch. My mom is from Mexico, but my siblings and I spoke English growing up. My dad’s from New York, and he insisted we speak English at home.
I felt like…” He trails off, searching for the words.
“Like my mom was always working overtime to speak his language, meet him on his terms. Eventually, I realized that was bullshit. So I learned.”
“Just like that, you learned a second language?” I laugh; he would make it sound easy.
“I wouldn’t say it was just like that. It took a lot of studying. Practicing with my mom while she struggled not to laugh at my terrible pronunciation. But I really wanted to learn. It was a small thing, to give her the comfort of her first language back.”
“That’s not a small thing,” I murmur.
“The weird thing is, as I’ve gotten older, I’ve started to gain more sympathy for my dad—even though he’s the last person who deserves it.
I just think… everything he did, all the things that made him such a terrible father—the gambling, the leaving, even the coming back—stemmed from a place of self-hatred.
How can you be a good father, a good husband, when you hate yourself?
It’s possible, probably, but harder, for sure. ”
“Why do you think your dad hates himself?” I ask, leaning forward.
And I hate that I think this, but part of me wonders if there’s a similarity between Alex and his father.
Two very different men, but both bad at marriage.
I wouldn’t be surprised to discover that self-loathing is the root of Alex’s flaws—his greed, his cheating, his arrogance.
“Oh, a load of reasons. Toxic masculinity. Internalized racism. Generational trauma. The usual.” He pauses, then continues, “My dad has a Chicano accent. Not thick or anything, but I remember one time, I was six—maybe seven—and this guy in a store acted like he couldn’t understand what my dad was saying. Called him a stupid immigrant.
“My dad was furious—he covered emotions like shame and embarrassment with anger. And I remember I brushed it off so easily, because I knew and my father knew that he wasn’t an immigrant, he was as American as that other guy.
And I thought, Man, look how dumb that guy looks.
And I also thought, I’m glad it didn’t happen to my mother, who actually is an immigrant.
“But for my father, insults like that work exactly like they’re meant to. That guy didn’t care about my dad’s birthplace, he just saw a man with brown skin and wanted him to know he wasn’t welcome.
“So as much as I hate that he forbade us to speak Spanish in the house, when I think of it in the context of comments like that, I get it.