Page 25 of A Curvy Girl’s Hurricane Survival Guide

“Out of sight, out of mind,” Lucas adds.

“You guys would not have made it back in my day,” Cai says with a sigh.

“Come on,” Cai says to all of us. “Dinner’s being served. And they’re treating it like it’s the last supper, so bring your appetite.”

Funny she should say that, because suddenly I’m ravenous.

Rule #11

ANY MISTAKE CAN AND WILL BE USED AGAINST YOU AT THE DINNER TABLE

CAI

The storm sounds like it has begun in earnest. Rain lashes the boarded windows, and wind howls against the house like percussion leading us into battle. Inside, the battlefield is three mismatched tables of differing heights and widths pushed together, covered by a random assortment of tablecloths and piled high with platters of food.

The smell of garlic, onion, and cumin wafts through the air, wrapping around me like a familiar blanket. People are meandering toward the table, chatting warmly, laughing, and look like they are about to sit down for a celebration rather than hunker down for a hurricane.

I glance over at Sonny. He looks like a kid on Christmas morning—eyes wide with wonder, a soft, genuine smile playing on his lips as he takes in the chaos. For a moment, the sight of him, openly delighted by my loud, messy family, makes something tight in my chest loosen.

Then the guilt hits again, sharp and familiar. How can I let myself feel this when I was willing to chase Trevor to Puerto Rico recently to win him back? When I have just lied through my teeth in the kitchen to protect the mere idea of him?

“So what do we do here?” Sonny’s voice breaks into my thoughts.

For a brief moment, I stand stunned, wondering if he has been listening to my thoughts. All I manage to do is grunt, “Huh?”

Sonny gestures to the table. “Do we sit anywhere, or is there a methodology to this?”

“Oh,” he is talking about the seating arrangements, not my internal tumultuous thoughts. Duh. “Don’t worry, the moms will direct things here shortly. They’re the most adulty adults.”

As if on cue, my mom comes over and waves people around, “Niños! Kids down there.”

Sonny looks at me. “So do we count as kids or…?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. We aren’t cool enough to sit with the kids.”

Sonny smiles, amused.

My mother finishes guiding us to our seats, and, ironically, we end up near the kids.

Rey and Alex are across from us, and Abuela, who insists that sitting at the head of the table makes her look old, is next to me.

The game my family plays is to introduce Sonny, who’s never had Cuban food, to as many dishes as possible. They treat it like a science experiment, having him taste each one and then measuring his reaction.

“Try this, it’s lechon with mojo. It’s like a garlic-citrus sauce,” Crispi says.

Sonny tries it with gusto.

“Ok, now this, it’s called picadillo, which is like ground beef in a tomatoey sauce,” Rey adds.

“Yum,” he replies happily.

“Black beans with rice. Mama makes the best!” Alex joins.

Sonny moans in delight.

All bets are off when he tries the maduros. “Oh my god,” he says, closing his eyes. “This might be the best thing I’ve ever eaten.” He honestly looks like he might cry. Tia Julia, who had fried up the plantains, beams with pride.

We eat and laugh, hardly noticing the house shuddering and groaning against the turbulence outside.