Chapter 15 #2
“Blue. Not red,” Truett repeats with a salute.
I linger for a moment in case he needs help and to calm my body before running off to help my uncle.
I do my best not to cringe when Pablo instantly starts in, making fun of me.
Not because I’m gay—he doesn’t give a shit about that.
No, because I jumped like a “little bitch” when he scared me.
Thank fuck I’m not as sensitive as some of my cousins, because insults are how we show love in my family.
You just have to roll with the punches. I let him tease me as I help him unload the food from the back of his truck.
By the time we return to my backyard, the blue cooler sits on the porch with the rest of them, but I don’t see Truett.
Not until I take a peek inside and learn my mom and her sister have enlisted him to help with the cooking.
Unfortunately, I don’t get any more alone time while we prepare for the rest of my family to get here.
My dad’s side arrives first, all kissing my cheeks and telling me just how much I remind them of my father.
A random tía I barely know starts crying at my “uncanny” resemblance to him.
We share eyes and a hairline, but I mostly take after my mother.
This particular tía is known for her dramatics though, so I just let her cry as I awkwardly try to comfort her until her husband pulls her away for drinks.
I know when my mom’s sisters—six in total—arrive because the kitchen suddenly gets loud with laughs, and everyone tries to talk over each other.
From the corner of my eye, I spot Truett escaping the kitchen, looking around once he steps outside.
I love all my family, but they can be overwhelming for someone not used to such massive gatherings. Hell, I’m overwhelmed.
After a moment, our eyes meet, and I reserve a smile just for him. Truett walks in my direction, looking relieved he found me again. “So, I saw you naked,” he says, approaching me.
I choke on my own spit. “You what?”
My discomfort is clearly hilarious to him because he laughs at my mortification. “Your mom brought out the baby album. Tons of cute baby photos of you in the tub.”
I groan. “Fuck, she told me she got rid of those.”
“Nope. She even gave me one to take home.”
“She did not.” My eyes widen in humiliation.
“Nah, she didn’t. But, hey, the day’s still young,” he teases, winking, nudging my side with his elbow.
That reality is still very possible because my mom always has too much to drink when all her sisters come over.
That’s when the true embarrassing childhood stories happen.
I vow to keep Truett away from her for the rest of the night to spare my ego.
My backyard is packed to the brim with primos—some tossing a football back and forth, others climbing all over the same rickety playscape we’ve had since I was a kid. The thing has to be at least twenty years old—one strong gust of wind away from collapsing—and yet somehow it’s still standing.
While the kids run wild, the adults cluster around the food table and coolers, staking out their spots like they plan to stay there all day.
Laughter and happy shouts rise up around me, filling the air, and I can’t help but smile.
I love days like this. Even when my family gets overbearing, I love every single one of them.
I know how lucky I am to have a big, tight-knit family that shows up like this, over and over again.
It’s usually just us—family only. No friends, no outsiders. The only exception is significant others. And that thought snags in my chest. Is that how my mom sees Truett?
Despite the loud chaos happening around us, I hear Truett’s stomach growl. “They didn’t feed you inside?” I’m shocked since my mom’s favorite pastime is feeding everyone who steps into her kitchen.
“No, she did,” Truett assures. “But it was just a tease. It somehow made me hungrier. Your mom can cook, dude. Did you know that?”
I can only laugh. “Yeah, I did. It’s hard not to indulge in food all day.”
“Don’t let Carlada hear this, but I think she’s a better cook than her.”
“Who’s Carlada?”
“Oh, my family’s personal chef. I’ve known her for years. She’s a tough Italian woman.”
I raise an eyebrow. The idea of a personal chef washes over me like a foreign language. I suppose, in a way, my mom is that to me. “Let’s get a plate then before the little ones start stealing all the good shit.”
On instinct, I reach for Truett’s hand, our fingers lacing together. Holding his hand proves helpful as I navigate him through the sea of my family, carefully dodging drunk uncles and rambunctious cousins flying by, as well as the start of a few interrogations all wanting to know who the gringo is.
Two long tables—both of which I set up earlier—are filled with pans of food, most of which my mom made, but some come from her sisters or Tío Pablo.
Heavy-duty paper plates are stacked at one end, and I grab two, handing the second to Truett, who seems to salivate over the table. Can’t say I blame him.
“There’s so much. I don’t know where to start! Also, your mom already said I could take home leftovers, and I fully plan on taking her up on that.” Truett grins.
“Get a little of everything, but make sure you take some rice and beans. My mom will be insulted if you don’t.”
“I’m not insulting that amazing woman. I’ll eat all the rice and beans she wants me to,” he proclaims.
“Better keep your voice down, or she might hear you.” I nudge him playfully as we weave through the buffet line.
The table is packed with food, every dish carefully laid out for us.
There are frijoles de la olla, fluffy rice, spicy elotes, creamy guacamole, and my mom’s homemade pico de gallo—and that’s just one side of the spread.
I pile my plate high, loading it with everything in reach, only to realize I’ve made a rookie mistake.
There’s barely any room left for the meat. I should have grabbed two plates.
“Hm, I don’t see the potato salad. I should grab it from the fridge. Your mom might have forgotten about it.”
“Urm, let’s walk to the other side. Don’t want to lose your place.” I keep my smile easy as I push Truett along, hoping he’ll forget about his long-lost side because I doubt it’ll make it out of the fridge.
At the other table, I carefully stack carne asada and an extra-charred hot dog precariously on my mound of food. Anything else I want, I’ll have to come back for. “Want a beer?” I ask when we reach the end. “Or the good coke from Mexico?”
“Does it really taste different from American coke?” Truett asks, balancing tortillas at the top of his plate. It’s honestly a little impressive.
“Coke it is. Your whole world is about to change, True. Trust me, once you go Mexican, you never go…well, back doesn’t rhyme, but you get what I mean,” I end lamely, shoving two cokes under my arm to keep them secure.
Truett takes one look around the circus that is my backyard. “Where are we going to sit?”
Normally we don’t have quite so many people over, but with a lot of my older primos dating, engaged, or recently married, our family has expanded.
Most of the tables and seats are accounted for.
Though I can’t quite see inside the house, I’m betting my kitchen table and living room are both full of people too.
“We could eat in my room,” I suggest, my voice softer than I intend, as if I’m already bracing for the vulnerability that comes with the invitation. The air between us shifts, charged with something unspoken, something heavy.
I don’t let people into my room often. It’s more than just four walls and furniture—it’s an extension of me, the one place where my guard is always down. Letting someone in feels intimate in a way that words can’t capture; it’s like peeling back a layer of myself that I usually keep hidden.
Now I wonder if I’m ready to break that rule. Everything in me tells me it’s a bad idea. Getting close to him can jeopardize everything. But there’s another part of me asking, am I willing to risk it?
The answer is easy. For Truett? Yeah, I am.
Truett hasn’t answered me yet, and I feel like maybe I misspoke. Took things way too far, too fast. It’s just food, but it isn’t, is it? It’s food alone in my room with a man I can barely keep my hands off.
I would kill to know what Truett is thinking right now.
After a few moments of tense silence, Truett glances over at me and smiles. “I would love to eat in your room. I promise I won’t spill a single grain of rice on the mattress.”
“I’m going to hold you to that.” I chuckle and then beckon him to follow. I try to stay calm and collected, but deep down I’m a mess of nerves and horniness.
This will be fine, I tell myself as I open the door to my room. Then I brace myself.