17. Erica #2
“Never been here,” I admit.
“Oh! Well, next time we’re in DC, you’re taking us where the locals actually eat. Not this.” He gestures at the room, the string lights, the laminated menus, with real disdain.
“I’m not a local. I’m just visiting DC.”
I don’t look at Jeremiah when I say it. I don’t have to. I feel the half-second hitch beside me anyway, small and quiet. He doesn’t say a word. He just reaches for the chips.
Careful, I tell myself, and keep smiling.
Nacho glances between me and Jeremiah, a chip halfway to his mouth. “Got it. So you came out to see my cousin play?”
“This guy? I just met him.” I turn to Jeremiah with a squint. “What did you say your name was?”
“Zesty.”
I snap and point at him. “That’s right. Zesty.”
Nacho and Dante volley their eyes back and forth between us.
“Explain,” Dante says.
For some reason, I feel so comfortable with these guys. Like they’re an extension of Jeremiah. And I can’t help myself. I point at Jeremiah.
“So I was just minding my business, when this strange man started stalking me. He just jumped out of the bushes and said, ‘Hey, my name’s Zesty. Would you like a hockey stick?’”
Nacho and Dante almost spit out their margaritas. Jeremiah turns beet red.
Dante is practically choking on a full-on laugh but says, “Why do I get the sense this isn’t far from the truth?”
“You were the one stalking me, if you recall… Sticky fingers,” Jeremiah says through his teeth. “And you said the present I did give you was soooo much better than… how did you put it? Some little stick.”
Nacho guffaws so hard, margarita almost comes out of his nose. “Dude,” he says, recovering from a laughing fit. “Quit while you’re not ahead.”
I take a dainty sip of my Coke. “Anyway, I’m just in town on a girls’ trip.”
“We had commemorative hockey sticks to give to fans!” Jeremiah cries, trying too hard to explain the truth.
Dante shakes his head. “Primo. Just stop.”
“I gave her a nice present. Her birthday was on the Fourth of July.”
“No way,” Nacho says. “My abuelo’s birthday is the Fourth of July. But Zesty here probably already told you that.”
“Nope.”
Jeremiah blinks at him. “I did not know this information.”
“How do you not know your own grandfather’s birthday?” I squawk.
“Well.” Jeremiah rubs the back of his neck. “He’s not actually my grandfather. He’s my father’s cousin’s father.”
“If you think American family trees are confusing,” Dante says, “Mexican ones are a whole other level.”
“Technically my grandfather is Jeremiah’s great-uncle,” Nacho says.
“And my dad is Jeremiah’s first cousin once removed,” Dante adds.
“And we’re second cousins,” Nacho finishes, like this settles everything.
“But we just call each other primo,” Jeremiah says. “And out of respect, even though he’s technically a great-uncle, I call their grandfather Abuelo.”
“Same as how he calls our dad Tío,” Nacho says. “Even though in English, that’s just cousin.”
“Okay.” I hold up a hand. “You’re right. It’s confusing.”
“Much simpler to just use uncle and grandpa for anyone older than you,” Jeremiah concludes, like that settles things.
I turn to him. “That doesn’t change the fact that you didn’t know his birthday.”
“Hey.” He holds both hands up. “I met that side of my family seven months ago.”
“It’s true,” Dante says. “He’s been hiding from us his whole life.”
Jeremiah flicks a chip at him across the table. Dante doesn’t even flinch, just plucks it off his shirt and eats it.
“Next year,” Nacho says, turning to me. “We should have a party at Abuelo’s ranch. Big cake, for Abuelo and you both. He always says the fireworks are just for him.”
“Same,” I say, and something in my chest goes soft and stupid for half a second, thinking of my own dad, who used to say the exact same thing to me every birthday.
Nacho promises, with total conviction, to show me what real salsa tastes like the next time I’m out his way.
Dinner is tasty and the conversation easy.
Nacho does judge the salsa. And the carnitas.
And the rice. He does, however, concede that the fresh-made tortillas are good.
Jeremiah orders a plate called the El Jefe Platter, and I think his eyes are too big for his stomach, but he polishes off the whole thing.
Somewhere between the entrees and the flan, Dante leans back in his chair and tells Jeremiah, “Once you’re settled in California, you have to make it to Sunday dinners when you can get away. I know LA is a little far. Are you staying in Irvine?”
“Newport Beach,” Jeremiah says, dipping his spoon in his flan he absolutely would not share with me. I had to order my own.
“Oooh.” Dante whistles low. “Newport Beach. Ricachón.”
“What does ricachón mean?” I ask.
“Moneybags.” Color climbs the back of Jeremiah’s neck.
“Just promise us you won’t be driving around PCH in a Cybertruck,” Dante ribs.
“I’m not going to suddenly turn into a snob.” Jeremiah points his spoon at him. “Enrique’s the one who married an actual heiress.”
“That’s fair,” Dante concedes.
An heiress. My ears prick up before I can stop them. An actual heiress would be so much more useful on a job than inventing one from scratch, the way we did with Miss Capucine de Montfleury.
No. Absolutely not. This is the last job. There is no next job. There is no heiress to recruit, real or invented, ever again.
“What do you mean, heiress?” I ask, mostly to drown out my own brain.
“You’ve heard of January Madison?” Dante says.