Page 114 of Espíritu

Julian returned it with a grateful look. He might be pushing people away left and right, but some of them—these people—still showed up.

After helping to clean up, Yadriel and Maritza approached Julian as he folded his last chair.

“Ready for the party?” Yadriel asked.

Julian frowned. “What party?”

“Carlos’s,” Yadriel said, like it was obvious.

Julian stared, stunned. His friends had been furious about him missing it. The idea of Yadriel suggesting they go knocked the air out of him.

Maritza crossed her arms, chin tilted. “Hell yeah. I hear Carlos throws a mean party. And Paola owes me her car anyway.” She smirked. “We’ll meet you there. Besides, it’s not even that late—Latinos don’t stop until the sun comes up.”

Rio appeared at Julian’s side, his voice low and reserved. “I’m heading back to Carlos’s anyway. Jules can ride with me.” He jerked his chin toward the Stingray parked outside.

Julian blinked, chest loosening for the first time all day. “Really?”

Sometimes it knocked him sideways how smart his boyfriend was. Always finding the simplest way through when Julian felt tangled in knots. And Maritza, backing him up without question, making space where he couldn’t. The weight of it hit him all at once.

He was loved, really loved, and they were both trying so hard to show him. It was overwhelming in the best way.

“Really,” Yadriel confirmed with a sweet smile. “We’ll go together.”

Rio drove, engine rumbling past rows of Christmas lights strung across porches. Behind them, Maritza peeled out in Paola’s car, headlights flashing as she followed.

Carlos lived a couple of houses down from the mechanic shop. Julian’s chest squeezed just seeing the yard lit up—like nothing had changed. Like his dad might be waiting inside, beer in hand, teasing him for showing up late.

Folding tables sagged with aluminum trays of tamales, pozole, mole, and stacks of pan dulce. A giant cooler overflowed with Jarritos and Mexican Cokes. String lights glowed in red, green, and white while cumbia thumped from a battered speaker on the porch. Kids darted underfoot with sparklers, nearly colliding with tías balancing plates piled high.

Carlos himself, broad-shouldered and grinning, pulled Julian into a bear hug. “You’re late, cabrón!” he boomed. Then his eyes flicked to Yadriel and Maritza behind him. “And you brought company. Bienvenidos!” He waved them inside with exaggerated flourish.

A huge grin spread across Julian’s face. This was the first time he’d ever brought anyone from the brujx side of his life to Carlos’s, let alone a boyfriend, and Carlos welcomed them without missing a beat.

The house was packed, laughter and music spilling from every room. The kitchen smelled like fried plantains and cinnamon. Carlos’s mom fussed by the oven, her gray hair tied back in a bun.

“For Omar,” she explained proudly when Julian passed through, setting the sweet bread on the stove. “Semita de yema. He misses home.”

Omar stood at her elbow, embarrassed but glowing as she pressed the first piece into his hands.

Nacho, Carlos’s lanky son with long hair tucked behind his ears, appeared a moment later, a joint tucked into the brim of his snapback.

“Bro!” he crowed, clasping Rio into a dramatic handshake-hug. “About time you showed.” He winked at Julian. “Dude, your brother is the only reason I haven’t been arrested yet.”

“That cop didn’t care about your ollie, Nacho,” Rio deadpanned. “He cared that you were on a church roof.”

“Artistic expression!” Nacho said with mock gravity, then turned to Yadriel. “You skate?”

Yadriel shook his head quickly. “Uh, no.”

“That’s okay. I’ll teach you.” Nacho slapped his back, already dragging him toward the garage. Julian bit back a laugh as Yadriel shot him a panicked look. Seeing Yadriel in the chaos of his world—awkward but welcomed—made something warm unfurl in Julian’s chest.

Meanwhile, Maritza had joined a table of tías playing dominoes, shamelessly trash-talking in Spanish as she slammed her tiles down. The clack of bone-white pieces echoed through the kitchen.

One tía pointed at her with mock outrage. “Mira esta niña—she’s stacking tiles under the table, I swear!” The whole table burst into wheezing laughter as Maritza gasped in fake offense.

Julian made his rounds, sheepishly apologizing. “I ditched. I’m sorry,” he said to Omar, who finally shrugged and muttered, “Don’t do it again.”

Rocky gave him a sharp hug. “Stack plates if you mean it.”