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He shrugs. “Why should I be mad? You are simply telling the truth about your abuelo. If he wanted to be remembered better after death, he should have behaved better in life.”

“You haven’t let me talk to Abuelita.”

My father holds up his hands. “I am not about to go to battle with your mother and tías. But you’re here now. Go talk to her yourself.”

He puts the needle down and the rich sounds of jazz piano fill the room.

“Come,” he says to me. “I would like to meet Eloise.”

We walk into the kitchen just as Caro and my mother laugh at something Tía Cristina is saying. But I only have eyes for Eloise. She’s sitting at the counter with a bowl full of masa and Abuelita’s orange tortilla press in front of her, expertly rolling out balls of dough and then pressing them. Then she hands them off to Abuelita, who is manning the comal, placing the flat circles on the hot surface until they puff and pop, browning just the right amount before she whisks them off the heat and piles them up on a nearby plate.

“Dude, your girlfriend is really good at making tortillas,” Caro says to me in English, so Eloise can understand.

Eloise smiles at me. “Just like making sopes,” she says. “But thinner.”

She looks so content, here among my family. Not nervous. Not scared.

She fits here.

39Eloise

I’m really surprised at how not overwhelmed I am, all things considered.

I’ve met so many people. I’m surrounded by newness. But there’s something about Agustín’s family that reflects the warmth I’ve come to know from Agustín himself over the past few months. I can see exactly why he is the way he is.

And honestly, I kind of love that I can’t understand most of what they’re saying. Caro has been translating for me here and there, but once Abuelita gave me my task, I’m happy to sit and press tortillas and let the sounds of Spanish wash over me in musical phrases. I don’t need to understand the words to know that Martha and Cristina are always on the verge of an argument, that Lupe is a strict rule-follower, and that Caro likes to stir the pot.

It’s freeing. There’s no pressure for me to speak when I don’t know the language. There’s no fear of saying the wrong thing.

And even more than that, the love that permeates this kitchen is a palpable, living thing. It inhales joy and exhales laughter. Even Lupe, who is by far the most intimidating member of Agustín’s family, isn’t immune from its warmth.

As Agustín slides onto the stool next to me, his palm rests on my lower back for a brief second. That gentle touch says so much more than he knows—it says to me, I am here. You are safe. You belong. And I don’t think I’ve ever really felt that way anywhere, outside of my own home with the Pack.

I wonder if I’ve been afraid of families. Like if I were to be around them, it would only prove that I’ve never been meant to be in one—that there is some fundamental flaw in me. And somehow, in the most unlikely of places, I’ve been proven wrong.

He introduces me to his father, José, a short man with a kindly, weathered face and black-rimmed glasses. As his aunt puts the charred tomatillos and chiles into a blender, his mom opens the stove in a cloud of steam and removes a baking sheet containing a misshapen form wrapped in banana leaves. It smells amazing.

“Cochinita pibil,” Agustín whispers to me as his mom begins to unwrap it, to the delight of everyone in the kitchen. “Pork shoulder marinated in achiote paste, orange and lime, garlic, Mexican oregano, and other spices. It’s been slow roasting for hours.”

Abuelita says something approving, and Martha looks pleased. Caro and Lupe jump into action, grabbing plates and cutlery and heading out to the garden. I hear Lupe shooting orders to her kids at rapid speed. The sounds of jazz wind throughout it all, a comforting background melody. José takes over the meat, expertly moving it into a deep, ceramic dish. There’s a smattering of activity as salsa is poured into bowls, avocados are sliced, and pickled onions are retrieved from the refrigerator. Abuelita lovingly wraps the mountain of tortillas we made in a white cloth, then places them in a wicker basket.

And through it all, Agustín sits beside me, his presence warming my side like the sun.

I can see him growing up here—well, not here, of course, but in a home like this, the place he lived in before his family got evicted. I can imagine that even in that tiny, cramped apartment where he spent his teen years, this same permeating love would have hung in every corner, painted every nook and cranny.

As Abuelita ushers us outside, I gasp in delight. The small backyard garden is ringed with a brick wall, one tree hung heavy with bright green avocados, a wild thatch of raspberry bushes, a carefully pruned hedge along one wall, ivy growing wild up another, a fig tree and a lemon tree and a spiky agave, along with various plants and bushes I can’t name. There’s a long table with chairs under the avocado tree, and Agustín’s nieces are chattering away at one end, as Agustín pulls a chair out for me at the other.

I’m grateful for that. The kids are cute as buttons but they’re a lot. José sits beside me, at the head of the table, and Agustín takes the chair on my other side. Abuelita is across from me. Martha and Cristina start to serve, shredding the decadent meat with forks and placing portions onto plates, passed around the table, while Lupe wrangles the kids down at the other end. The basket of tortillas is passed, along with all the bowls of toppings, and I happily make myself a taco and let the chatter wash over me.

I take a bite and moan, as the richness of the meat, the creamy avocado, and the sharp punch of pickled onions burst in my mouth. Agustín chuckles softly next to me.

“You like it?”

“It’s orgasmic,” I say and Caro snort-laughs so hard, I blush. I kind of forgot that his sisters can understand me even if his parents can’t.

“It is,” she agrees, shooting me a wink. “Our mom only makes it on special occasions. So I guess we should be thanking you, Tín.” She brushes an electric blue curl from her eyes and grins at me. “Are you excited about the wedding?”

“Oh …” Honestly, I had forgotten about the wedding. It seems like another universe where I started this day on a party bus surrounded by penis balloons. But then I think about how happy Rachel has been this week, and even though Diego’s family sounds a bit stuffy and over the top, Diego himself isn’t like that at all. He’s a pretty nice guy, to be honest. And I can’t deny he cares about Rachel as deeply as I do. “Yes,” I say. I’m glad it doesn’t feel like a lie anymore. I mean, am I excited about all the people? No. The speech? Hell no. But Rachel getting the happiness she deserves? Absolutely.