32. JULES #2
‘How are you enjoying Miami so far?’
I adjust my tiny sunglasses, the ones more skilled at letting light in than deflecting it. At least they look cute. ‘It’s great, thank you. Very hot.’
‘I’ll bet. You’re from London, right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Amazing city, but a little chilly for my taste. Did Tiago tell you? Colombians are famously afraid of the cold. Our mom’s cousin walked outside in seventy-two-degree weather and just dropped dead. No reason, just cold. Mom swears it.’
Seventy-two degrees? Isn’t that over twenty in Celsius? As in, sunbathing weather in the UK? I decide I like her anyway.
‘I was your original fan, you know,’ she goes on, swirling her cocktail. ‘I told Isa about your podcast. She was having identity issues some time ago and I told her you have some great episodes on how to be authentically yourself.’
Wow, I had no idea. It’s a joy when anyone says they like my work, but this is personal. Often I feel like I’m speaking into the void so it’s surreal knowing I had an impact on someone who’d become so important to me in the future. ‘Thank you for sharing. I really hope they helped.’
‘They sure did.’
Why do I get the impression it was her who forced Tiago to watch Gilmore Girls? She gives bossy older sister vibes in the best way.
‘Santiago!’ someone barks from the house.
‘Oh shit, it’s Mom. Come meet her. After all, you love her. You said so,’ he jests, reminding me of our lunch in Barcelona. That was a throwaway comment. I didn’t think I’d actually meet the woman.
Terror flares bright in my chest. Sisters, I can handle. Cousins, fine. Aunts who don’t speak English, whatever.
But mum?
The woman who climbed from poverty to obscene wealth, who birthed twelve children – including the man I’m currently having sex with, and whose brother wears snakes and was involved in an armed robbery? Could she sound any more terrifying?
Tiago’s fingertips run down my arm and capture my hand. ‘C’mon.’
I might wee myself.
She’s standing in one of the side doorways, dressed in a flawless fluid linen blend.
Her jewellery’s simple and unflashy. No one would ever believe she’s had twelve babies – there isn’t a millimetre of fat on her.
Her dark hair’s shoulder-length and blown smooth, despite all the humidity and wind.
As we get closer, her immaculate facelift is unmistakeable.
Literal Kris Jenner grade. She could be anywhere between thirty and fifty, though she must be older.
Tiago’s eldest brother’s nearly forty. She’s what I want to be when I grow up, even though I’m currently quaking in my slingbacks.
Her stiffness dissolves when we reach her and she pulls me in for a tight hug. Long, manicured fingers grip my shoulders and she holds me at arm’s length while her eyes peer into my past, present, and future. ‘Yools,’ she declares. ‘Gracias por cuidar de mi hijo.’
Smile. Just smile. Maybe nod.
‘She said thank you for coming to my home,’ Tiago says, and I glimpse a cheeky smile out the corner of my eye.
His mother smacks him with the back of her hand in a way that makes me think his translation was total bull.
‘Eres un cansón,’ she mutters, ignoring his chuckling. ‘Come. Por aquí.’
She leads us from one living room into another, towards a sideboard covered in framed photos.
‘Mami,’ Tiago whines when he grasps what she’s doing.
‘Looook,’ she says slowly, like I’m the one who doesn’t speak English. It’s a photo of a sweet little boy missing his front teeth. The excitement’s palpable in her eyes – but not the rest of her face. ‘Mira esto.’
I look closer. The swooping hair, the thin lips. He looks more like—
‘That’s not even me. That’s JC.’
She scolds him in a vicious torrent of Spanish until he picks up another one, of a boy around six with a big cheesy beam in front of the Santiago city limits sign. It makes my heart hiccup. Could he be any cuter?
The universality of it surprises me. I have a photo of nine-year-old me standing in front of Juliet’s balcony in Verona.
Someone calls for Tiago’s mother and she glides off, leaving us alone – as alone as you can be in a room full of teenage boys arguing over someone called Lucho Diaz.
I take the photo from him and study it. ‘Thank you for bringing me here,’ I whisper.
‘I know they’re a lot, but they mean well.’
We’re side by side. His heat’s burning into me. The urge to kiss him is a magnetised tug.
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ I say. ‘They’re amazing. I didn’t know families could be so…’ I can’t think of a word that sums them up. Warm. Affectionate. Caring. Hospitable. Full. No adjective is big enough. Whole enough.
Home Tiago’s calmer, more open, more tactile. Home Tiago switches language mid-sentence and I have to clamp my thighs together. Home Tiago’s dangerous for a girl like me.
He puts the photo back on the shelf. ‘If it gets too much, say the word and I can tell them I’m not feeling well. If you say it, they’ll get in bed with you, and only I’m allowed there.’
I grin. ‘They wouldn’t—’
‘Am I interrupting?’ asks a mid-twenties woman I haven’t seen before.
‘Yes, you are,’ he snarls.
‘That’s a shame,’ she replies, voice raspy. She offers me a platter of something smushed, deep fried, and yellow, served with avocado crema. ‘Patacones? I’m Espy, by the way. Tiago’s big sister. Two above Tiago and one below JC.’
‘They’re fried plantains,’ he explains, dunking one in the dip.
I’m quite full from all the arepas his abuela pushed on me earlier, but I don’t want to be rude. I can go on a long run tomorrow. I take a big bite when she says—
‘I’m so glad Tiago has you. We were getting worried he’d be a slutty party boy forever.’
And the flush is back.
He descends into big, spluttering coughs. ‘Esperanza. She’s not my girlfriend. We’re just friends.’