Chapter 43 Bougie On A Budget （Kind Of） #2
The sauce hits first, tangy with this slow-building sweetness that punches right through the gooey mozzarella blanket.
The crust is crisp on the bottom, chewy where it counts, with this perfect little char that tastes like a secret recipe passed down by someone’s abuela.
It’s everything pizza is supposed to be.
I close my eyes, savoring the absolute audacity of this bite.
I hear him hum across from me, pleased as hell. “You get it now, huh?”
I chew, slow and defiant, but I’m not about to give him the satisfaction. Swallowing, I glance up, licking a spot of sauce from the corner of my mouth. “It’s alright,” I say, deadpan.
His dimple flashes. “Liar.”
“Okay, fine,” I admit, grinning as I fold another bite. “This is disgusting. I hate how good it is.”
He leans back, smug and satisfied, sipping his soda like he just taught a masterclass. “Told you, Lee. You fold it right, it’ll never disappoint you.”
I shake my head, laughing as I dive back into my slice. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And yet,” he says, tilting his head, “you’re sitting here with me. Eating meat. Folding pizza. Having the time of your life.”
I roll my eyes, but he’s not wrong.
And as we sit there—me, elbow-deep in pepperoni grease, him looking like he’s won the damn lottery—I realize I could get used to this. To him. To us.
We toss our empty cups and step out into the night, the door swinging shut behind us with a jingle. The oven’s heat still clings to our clothes, a ghost of garlic and fire and grease lingering like a second skin.
The streets in Washington Heights hum with life, but it’s a softer kind now—quiet salsa slipping from a third-floor window, someone yelling “Merry Christmas” across the street, a corner bodega glowing like a beacon.
It doesn’t feel like the city that never sleeps.
It feels like a city that remembers to exhale.
August slides his arm around my waist, pulling me close against the chill. “You warm enough?” he asks, his lips brushing the shell of my ear.
“Now I am,” I murmur, tucking my hands into his coat pocket like it’s second nature.
He leans down, voice low and smug. “Told you, baby. You fold it right, it’ll never disappoint you.”
I shoot him a look. “Are we still talking about pizza?”
He grins, slow and unbothered. “That depends. You disappointed?”
The answer’s obvious, but I don’t give it to him. I just shake my head and keep walking, letting him tug me closer like we’ve always fit this way.
It’s not just the cold—it’s the energy. Christmas lights wrap every fire escape like candy canes. Inflatable Santas crowd balconies. A Feliz Navidad flag flaps beside a worn Puerto Rican one.
But it’s the music that hooks me.
“Volvió Juanita” thumps from a speaker down the block. People pass by bundled in puffers, carrying foil-covered trays. Somebody’s headed to somebody’s mother’s house for pernil. The air smells like smoke, spice, and joy.
“C'mon, babygirl.” August grins, tugging my hand. “Lemme show you where I grew up.”
We turn a corner and land in a pocket of rhythm. A folding table’s got dominos, coquito bottles, and a speaker blasting Hector Lavoe. CLACK. BAM. Shouts of “?Wepa!” and “?Mira este tigre!” echo like a block party sermon.
“?Augustito!” someone calls, and suddenly they’re trading Spanglish that sounds like music. I catch pelotero, mangu, culo.
“They’re clowning me for getting smoked on this block.” August smirks.
I sip from the solo cup someone shoved into my hand—coquito, thick and sweet with cinnamon. A beat later, an abuela in plaid slippers shuffles over with pastelón in a to-go container. No words. Just a nod and a handoff.
August shrugs. “Dona Belkis. If she feeds you, you’re in.”
My heart cracks open. It’s too much. It’s perfect.
Across the street, kids chase each other with light-up foam sticks. Someone passes me tamarindo candy and my whole face puckers.
“This is the most chaotic, beautiful, wholesome shit I’ve ever seen,” I say, spinning slowly in the middle of it all.
August smiles. “Yeah. We didn’t have much. But we always had Christmas.”
“You love big,” I say, linking my arm with his. “Like this block.”
He kisses my temple. “And now it’s yours too.”
We wander until we hit a tiny park tucked between two buildings. Rusted jungle gym. Crooked swing set. A carousel mural, faded but still full of color.
“Race you to the swings.”
He doesn’t get a breath in before I take off. I win. Obviously.
He catches up, laughing. “No countdown?”
“Gotta stay ready, papi.”
His hands find mine on the chains. “Te ves hermosa así. Like you belong here.”
Then, from down the street, music stirs the air—tamboras, güira, maracas. A parranda.
We round the corner and there they are: fifteen deep, singing, dancing, joy on tap. Someone opens their door. The whole squad’s welcomed inside like it’s tradition. Because it is.
August pulls me close, one hand in my coat pocket, his thumb grazing my hip. The tamboras echo behind us.
When we finally sit again on the swings, I whisper, “I love seeing you here. You’re so... you.”
His voice is soft. “This is my everything.”
“You’re not just showing it to me,” I murmur. “You’re weaving me into it.”
He kisses me slow, deep and passionate. And as snow begins to fall, he presses his forehead to mine.
“Feliz cumpleanos, baby.”
And under string lights and fresh-falling snow, he kisses me like he means it.
The following morning, we are up and out, August determined to fix Wynter’s slutty packing job. One overpriced athletic boutique, two shopping bags, and a pair of Timberlands later, I was winterized.
Bougie, but winterized.
First stop: a Black-owned boutique tucked between flagship stores like it has something to prove—and does. The second I step in, the energy shifts. R pop-up stalls and knit scarves and overpriced hot chocolate I pretend not to love. He buys me ridiculous gingerbread-shaped earmuffs and I don’t even argue.
There’s ice skating—me wobbling, him swearing he’ll “observe” until his hands are on my waist, laughing as he steadies me.
Streets where every brownstone is competing for Most Extra in the Christmas decor Olympics.
Hot pretzels and caramel popcorn eaten curbside near Rockefeller, the tree blazing across the street like it’s trying to outshine the city itself.
Somewhere in Harlem, we duck into a jazz bar warm enough to melt the cold from my bones. Christmas classics with a sultry edge. August pulls me onto the tiny dance floor and the world narrows to just us.
We end the night wrapped in a carriage blanket in Central Park, bells jingling, the city blurring into lights. Snow starts to fall—soft at first, then steady. August tips his head back, catching flakes on his tongue, and I laugh.
“This is a movie,” I whisper.
He smiles at me, quiet and sure. “Nah, mi vida. This is us.”
By the time we make it back to the hotel, my cheeks hurt from smiling. Christmas in New York isn’t just a vibe—it’s a whole damn experience.
And for once, I’m not watching it from the outside.
The suite feels like a cocoon, the city lights twinkling below us like earthbound stars.
There’s another surprise waiting—of course there is—but I don’t even pretend to be shocked anymore.
I just look at him, this man who folds pizza like scripture and shops like a love language, and let myself feel it.
Not just the ease. Not just the joy.
And for once…
I’m not questioning it.
I’m deciding what I’m about to do with it.
And judging by the way he’s been looking at me all night?
Yeah.
I am about to swallow all of that man's kids tonight.