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Gracie’s outlook on a fun night was very different from my own. To me, a fun night consisted of some cafecitos, no bra, and a murder show. Maybe throw in an overpriced FoodRun delivery.

Hers usually involved a margarita and a man.

I walked to the kitchen, taking my time to finish the heavenly cool water I’d poured myself so I could weigh my options on how to respond.

I’d put her off since getting to Dallas, and if I didn’t agree to go out with her soon, I was afraid she’d hire someone to kidnap me and force me out of the house.

Probably one of the guys she matched with on an app because, apparently, that was how my cousin got everything she needed done.

Leaky sink? Get a Tinder match.

Need new tires? Get a Tinder match.

I wasn’t sure if she was setting female empowerment back or shooting us forward…

Sighing at the thought, I finally asked, “When you say fun, what exactly are you talking about, Graciella Xochitl Barrera?” She opened her mouth to answer, but I cut her off, concerned by the twinkle in her eyes. “I do mean, exactly what are you talking about? Because I do not want you to tell me we are going to some kickback at your friend’s with only a few people, and then I find myself crammed into the random room of a frat house off of 11th and San Antonio St. where a random dude is playing his DJ set while a bottle of UV Blue is being passed around. It’s shocking we are even alive,” I scolded, my hands on my hips to keep from flailing them around.

A habit that was hard to break, truthfully. I was pretty sure it was a trait ingrained in our cultural DNA to talk with our hands and add emphasis with sound effects.

As if to prove my point, Gracie made a clucking noise with her tongue, waving away the accusation. “Well, the first problem in that scenario is we aren’t in San Jose, so there’s no chance of that. Plus, how pathetic would it be if two twenty-five-year-old women showed up to frat parties to get drunk? I’m not that desperate for a man. You, on the other hand…”

She fell into a fit of laughter when I chucked my sandal at her, grazing the top of her head while I called her every insult I could think of.

“Okay, okay.” She held her hands up in surrender, attempting to control herself. “No men. It will be a primas night. One of my clients knows of a sports bar’s soft launch happening tonight. The guest list is all athletes, agents, and marketing people.” She sat up on her knees, looking like an excited puppy. “It will be fun,” she promised, wagging her eyebrows, trying to entice me.

There was definitely no way I was getting out of going somewhere with her tonight.

“So let me get this straight. You want to have a primas-only night at a bar crawling with hot athletes?” I asked, the cold stainless-steel biting into the exposed skin of my torso as I leaned against the countertop.

Her smile was so sickly sweet I was shocked she still had all her teeth. “Nothing says girls’ night like free margaritas and staring at athletes’ asses,” she said.

“Oh, now the margaritas are free, too?”

“They are if you wear that black halter top that makes it look like your boobs are in your chin.”

I shook my head at her logic. She wasn’t wrong, but I wouldn’t tell her that. It would go to her head.

Pointing my finger at her, I tried my best to sound stern, “Mira, we will go—” An ear-piercing cheer cut me off.

She’d been hoping for that answer for days, but I’d avoided going out until now, using that time to try and adjust to the new time zone, weather, and the fact I didn’t live in my childhood home anymore.

There was a reason I’d applied for the job in Dallas. I’d needed a reprieve from my family’s expectations, and there was no way in hell they’d be okay with me moving out of state by myself. Explaining that concept to my white friends was always a humiliating experience. It led to some variation of the same questions.

“What do you mean you can’t make those decisions yourself?”

“But you’re twenty- five…you’re an adult.”

Yeah, it wasn’t that simple in my household. Cultural expectations and generational normatives loved to cockblock a woman’s independence. What made my situation particularly difficult was that I loved my family.

It would be far easier to be the family’s disappointment if I didn’t care what they thought. Sometimes I wished they were shittier to me so I could justify cutting them off completely and living my life on my terms.

Ironically, thousands of miles didn’t stop my dad and brother’s onslaught of questions or attempts at control. They wanted to know what I was doing, where I was going, or the million-dollar question—who would I see?

I sighed, rubbing at my chest. I hoped that with more time apart, they’d start to see I was living my own life and that the weird sense of guilt sitting on my sternum for wanting to do my own thing would subside.

Gracie hopped off the couch, rushing to the mini bar she’d set up on a wall shelf. “This calls for a shot.”

The declaration caught my attention. Tequila and Graciella had trouble written all over it.