Chapter Seventeen #2
With a nod, Alex reached for the masa spoon, spreading a healthy amount in the center of the plantain leaf.
Next he topped it with the pork filling, and after a bashful glance at me, added an olive.
But when it came time for Alex to fold the parchment paper and leaf, he struggled, his lip tucked into his teeth as he tried to fold and crease it as I had shown him.
After watching him struggle for a time, I stood and came to stand behind him, placing my hands on top of his.
I swallowed heavily when I became aware of how close we were.
“Here, like this,” I whispered, steadfastly focusing on directing his hands to fold the pastele, like he was my marionette.
They were so much larger than my own, but he followed my every move with only the barest amount of pressure.
Because I was leaning so close to him, it was impossible for me not to notice how Alex’s breath quickened. “There, that’s it.”
I pulled back slightly, and my gaze slowly shifted to Alex. I wasn’t surprised to find he had turned his head to look at me, but my heart lurched out of rhythm when his eyes dropped to my mouth. Ay dios, I couldn’t afford—
The loud opening brass intro to “Abusadora” by Wilfrido Vargas suddenly burst from the Bluetooth speaker on the countertop.
Alex and I jumped apart, and we both turned to see Papí with a breakfast pastry in his mouth.
His eyes darted between Alex and me, and he shrugged unapologetically.
“You can’t make pasteles without merengue. ”
“?Wepa!” Mamí cried from her spot at the stove where she had started a batch of coquito. With a laugh, she danced over to my father, who swept her into his arms as they twirled around the kitchen.
“Do you know how lucky you are?” Alex whispered, watching as my parents laughed and danced.
My throat bobbed up and down on a swallow.
I had always known that I won the lottery being born into the Mendoza family, but hearing Alex say it reiterated the fact for me.
My professional future might feel chaotic and unsettled, and my personal life twisted into knots by the things I could not have, but I knew I would always have people in my corner ready to help in whatever way they could.
A break in the song carried Olivia’s laughter to us, and I peered into the living room, spying her and Javi in each other’s arms as if they were dancing, too.
“Mi Reina” by La Makina pulsed through the speaker next and Javi immediately directed Olivia into a spin, and soon my parents joined them in the living room, where there was more room to dance.
I watched with a smile as they stomped their feet and swayed their hips to the beat.
I was so engrossed, I hadn’t noticed that Alex stood next to me.
“Dance with me.”
I pulled back my chin and blinked up at him. “Do you know how to dance merengue?”
Alex scoffed, his expression adorably offended. “There are so many things about my Puerto Rican culture I don’t know, but my parents did teach me how to dance.”
“Really?” I regretted how doubtful my tone was when Alex arched a brow.
“Let me show you,” he said, holding out a hand.
My parents and brother and sister-in-law continued to smile and dance, and I really wanted to join them. With that certainty, I placed my hand in Alex’s.
Leading me farther into the room, Alex held both my hands in his, his gaze locked on mine, as we both started the merengue march, our hips and feet moving to the beat.
Alex looked comfortable and at ease with the steps, and Lord knew I could watch his hips sway all day long.
I was so busy watching him move that I was caught off guard when Alex pulled me toward him, spun me around, and whipped me back again, stretching our arms high over our heads in a circle.
I couldn’t fight the grin that spread across my cheeks, especially when Alex smiled back at me.
Then he grabbed my left hand as he brought me flush against his chest. Staring up at him, I laughed.
Alex led me into a spin, his arm and body curling around my back, before he spun me out. His hand kept a tight hold on mine the entire time.
I don’t know how much time elapsed of Alex spinning me about, our feet moving forward and back, left to right to the beat, our laughs mingling as we came together over and over. We were so focused on each other, it took me a long moment to realize my mother had brought us to a stop.
“Ay bendito, why didn’t you tell us you could dance so well?” Mamí asked, planting a hand on her hip.
“I told Sofia, but she didn’t believe me.” Alex’s dimple flashed as he glanced at me. “So I had to show her.”
My whole body went hot, and I dipped my head to hide my embarrassment.
“Well, come show me if you can dance salsa,” Mamí said as Celia Cruz’s “La Vida es un Carnaval” started playing through the speaker. “And you, nena, go finish assembling the pasteles.”
“Hey, that’s not fair,” I grumbled, scowling. “Alex is supposed to help me. He’s learning.”
“Alex is supposed to be learning more about his culture. But he can also do that by dancing with me,” Mamí said, patting the back of his hand.
“I always listen to my elders.” Alex lifted a shoulder, not at all apologetic. “I’ll come help you in a moment.”
“Javi will, too,” Mamí said. Turning to where my brother was chatting with Olivia, she called, “Go help your sister, mi hijo.”
Despite his loud complaints, Javi joined me at the kitchen table, where he accepted the filled plantain leaves and expertly folded them into the parchment paper before handing them to Olivia, who tied two pasteles together with string.
I watched Alex and Mamí dance about the living room, and it was obvious he was just as comfortable dancing salsa as he was merengue.
The pain of what I could not have twisted uncomfortably in my chest. I had become used to wanting, often ignoring it or explaining it away.
But sometimes, like now, as I watched Alex exchange a laugh with my mom, it felt like a poison I would never find the antidote for.
When the song ended, Alex came to sit next to me at the table, helping fill the remaining plantain leaves and handing them to Javi.
We didn’t speak, and I was afraid that if I tried to, my bitterness would bleed into my words.
Instead we worked side by side, listening to Javi’s inane comments with Olivia.
Soon Mamí brought us each a glass of coquito, and the creamy alcoholic drink quickly erased the starch from my spine, and I felt at ease enough to laugh and joke with my family.
As the afternoon bled into evening, I excused myself to change.
Nochebuena—my first with Alex—was too special to celebrate in my jeans, chunky cardigan, and mules.
Instead, I slipped into a fire-engine-red jumpsuit with an off-the-shoulder bodice.
Aiming for “more is best” with my curls, they cascaded about my shoulders and face in wild abandon, held back by two strategically placed bobby pins.
While the family liked to dress up a bit more than usual for Nochebuena, my outfit was markedly dressier than anything I had worn in the past. And I could tell my family noted the difference because my mother exclaimed in delight while my father kissed my hand before spinning me in a circle.
I pretended to ignore the raised-brows look Javi and Olivia exchanged, which was easy to do when Alex approached me, stars in his eyes.
“Wow, Sofia, you look stunning—”
The doorbell chimed, and anything Alex intended to say next was lost in the cacophony of the arrival of my Tío Alejandro, Tití Sara, and their family.
My father’s youngest brother, my tío, and his wife lived in San Diego with their children, and although it wasn’t an insignificant drive from southern California to southern Arizona, it was manageable, and we had spent many a Nochebuena in their cozy Kensington home.
To no one’s surprise, my tití Sara and my twin cousins, Gianna and Andrea, were particularly taken with Alex.
Their questions came fast and furious: How old are you?
Why aren’t you spending the holidays with your family?
What do you do for work? What part of Puerto Rico is your family from?
Alex handled their questions with aplomb, answering some with detail and others succinctly, the only sign of his discomfort the flush on his cheeks.
After he flashed me a Help me look, I asked loudly if it was time for dinner. Thankfully, it was.
Alex sat on my left at the table as the family managed to stop talking long enough for Papí to offer a blessing in Spanish, immediately ratcheting up the noise again as everyone served themselves from the platters of food laid out across the sideboard and temporary tables my parents had constructed.
Along with the pasteles, there was red beans and yellow rice, fried tostones, alcapurrias, beef-and-pork-filled empanadillas, and a big salad with sliced tomatoes, cucumbers, and wedges of cheddar my mother insisted everyone take a serving from.
Alex followed directly behind me as we made our way down the line through the selections, whispering questions every so often.
Overall, though, Alex recognized the majority of the dishes and filled his plate high in a way that showed he was eating with his eyes and not his stomach.