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He wraps one arm around me, securing me close. He would do anything for me. I want to return the favor. And just like that, a lightbulb goes off. I can feel it, like in the cartoons, hovering right over my head and bathing me in a warm glow.

“I could come with you,” I say. “To see your family.” As soon as the words leave my mouth, I want to snatch them back. That’s so rude! And he probably doesn’t want his family meeting me yet. It’s way too soon, and yeah, Rachel said he’s my boyfriend, but he hasn’t actually said it and—

“Really?” His whole face lights up, like this is the best idea he’s ever heard.

“Just … I mean … if you think they wouldn’t mind,” I mumble.

“Mind? They’d love to meet you!” He whips out his phone. “Mamá! Hola.” That’s all I get before he chatters away in Spanish for a moment. He ends the call and beams at me. “They’re so excited you’re coming. And my mom is making her famous cochinita pibil. You will love it.”

“Are you sure?” I ask nervously. “This isn’t too weird or too soon or—”

“Too soon?” He sweeps me up in his arms and kisses me right there on the front steps of the Four Seasons. “No,” he says tenderly, brushing a curl from my eyes. “It is not too soon.”

I feel nerves start to wriggle in my chest as he texts Enrique to see if he’s available to drive us, which he is. Once we’re in the car, Agustín chatters away happily about all the people I’ll meet. “I don’t think all of my aunts are there, just Cristina, she and my mom are really close. And you’ll meet Caro, of course, she’s so excited you’re coming. And Lupe.” He purses his lips. I know he and Lupe have been on the outs over that article he’s writing. “And the Minions!”

I laugh despite the wriggles. “I can’t believe you call them that.”

He grins, his left dimple popping. “They’ll probably get sick of it once they’re older, so I need to use it as much as I can now, while I’m the cool tío.”

I nudge him with my elbow. “You’ll always be the cool tío in my book.”

He chuckles and slings his arm around my shoulders. Enrique takes us through the smaller streets, crossing the larger avenues where the big red busses collect passengers waiting on the platforms under metal awnings. We drive past a large rectangular building, all pristine blue glass, with some of kind of enormous abstract art installation out in front of it.

“That’s the World Trade Center,” Agustín says, and I can’t help the shiver that runs through me at the name. The streets are lined with trees, and there are patches of construction, hidden behind plywood walls papered with advertisements and graffiti. The farther out we go, the more the streets feel residential, fewer apartment buildings and more houses. And everywhere there are pops of color, the bright bursts of orange marigolds celebrating the Day of the Dead. We pass grocery stores and pharmacies and little cafés, until we turn down a narrow street near a park, and Enrique pulls up to a two-story stone house, painted white with brick trim and a red tiled roof. There’s a black gate that fronts a tiny patch of yard with a stone path leading up to the front door and a few scant bushes. Agustín presses a button on a buzzer next to the gate, and we wait.

I can hear a child laughing inside, and my pulse kicks up a notch. I grab Agustín’s hand, then drop it. Should we be holding hands in front of his family? What do they know about me? I’ve said hello to Caro once or twice on FaceTime, but as far as I know, his family assumes we’re just plus-ones. Transactional. It makes my stomach hurt thinking of how this all started. How terrified I was to let anyone into my life.

As if on cue, both our phones buzz with a notification in the group chat. Agustín glances down and smiles.

“The Colonel,” he says, showing me his screen. Mr. Bloom has sent a picture of the Colonel in the park. He has his head in Madame Boularès’s lap. She’s reading a book and wearing her usual black ensemble but this time with a yellow kerchief around her neck. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen her wear a color.

Agustín and I look at each other.

“Definitely something going on with them,” he says, grinning.

The front door opens.

“Tinito!” A woman in her sixties, wearing a red sweater and slacks, bustles down the little path to open the gate, speaking rapid fire Spanish. Her thick dark hair is just like her son’s, albeit with some strands of gray, and I see a dimple in her left cheek when she smiles up at him, opening the gate and enveloping him in her arms.

“Hola, Mamá,” Agustín says, hugging her back. He gestures to me but before I have a chance to do or say anything, Agustín’s mother sweeps me up in her arms. She’s short, like me, and smells faintly of vanilla.

She gives me the longest, warmest hug and something inside me softens as she squeezes me, her embrace all encompassing, like she’s speaking to me through it. As if she’s saying, you are welcome here.

Agustín got hugs like this his whole life. I feel a pang of envy and also a pinch of sadness—for the little girl with the silent uncle, living among ghosts. I wonder if my mom would have hugged like this.

Unexpected tears prick my eyes, and I quickly blink them away.

“Martha,” she says, pointing at herself.

“Eloise,” I say, doing the same.

“Mucho gusto,” she says. Then she grabs Agustín’s hand and pulls him toward the house, chattering away in Spanish.

The interior is cool and dim, a foyer with a tiled floor, a weathered sideboard with a ceramic white lamp set against one wall. In front of me, the hall opens up into a comfortable sitting room, sturdy beige couches, a woven rug on the floor, and a squat leather armchair. Curtained windows look out onto a garden in the backyard. To my left, through an open doorway, I hear the laughter of children, the sizzle of food, and the scent of spices tickles my nose.

Agustín deposits the backpack he brought on the sideboard and glances at me. “Ready?” he asks.

I take a breath and nod.