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“BABE, WHAT SHOULD WEdo for Christmas this year? It’ll be our first together,” Massimo asks.
“What do you usually do?” I respond.
“I’m with my parents on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. What about you?”
“Christmas Eve, orNoche Buenaas we call it, is the big night for my family,” I begin telling him. “We celebrate that night more than Christmas Day. We usually go to myTioRamon’s house forNoche Buena; his house is known as the party house. Christmas Day, we go to my parents’ house to open gifts and have an early dinner. We keep it chill.”
“Do you want to do the twenty-fourth with your family, and we can have Christmas Day with mine?”
“Sounds like a plan.”
I load the car with the gifts I have for my aunts, uncles, and cousins. My mom is making the potato salad to take, and she asked me to makecoquito. Earlier this week, when I was making it, Massimo came over to hang out. He was curious about the drink since he’d never seen it. Puerto Rican egg nog was the easiest way for me to explain it. Coconut milk, sweetened condensed milk, evaporated milk, egg yolks, rum, and cinnamon. It’s my father’s recipe. I hope everyone likes it as much as they like my dad’s, although his is undoubtedly better than mine.
When he backs out of my driveway, Massimo asks, “Where in Cambridge are we going so I know which way to go?”
“Broadway, near Kendall Square. I usually take the Pike and get off at the Allston-Brighton exit.” I’m searching the radio for some music and stop when I hear *NSYNC singing “It’s Gonna Be Me” and crank up the volume. As he’s driving, Massimo is stealing glimpses to watch me sing along, trying to hide his smirk.
When the song ends, he turns the volume down and says, “You and your boy bands.” He chuckles.
“You jealous?”
“Nah.” His hand lands on my leg and he runs it up toward my apex. “This is all mine.”
I bite my lip at his gesture and my heart pounds in my chest.
“Are you ready for the Puerto Rican house party?” I ask.
“What should I expect?” he responds, glancing over at me before switching lanes to get off at the exit.
“There’s gonna be a ton of people there.TioRamon is my father’s brother. All of my aunts and uncles from the area go over, plus most of my cousins and my cousins’ kids. You’ll see. It’s a serious house party with a lot of people, loud music, dancing, drinking, and tons of food, which is my favorite part.”
“Of course, it is. It’s one of the things I love about you; you enjoy food as much as I do.” He lifts his hand, brushes his fingers across my cheek. My heart skips a beat at his admission.
“Oh, and my dad and uncles sing old school Puerto Rican folk songs with their instruments.”
That catches his attention, and his eyes widen when he asks, “What kind of instruments?”
“My father plays thegüiro, which is this long wooden percussion instrument. It’s open on one end and has notches cut into one side. It’s played by rubbing tines along the notches to make a ratchet, scratching like sound—tsch, tsch, tsch, tsch—like that. MytioRamon plays thecuatro, which is a small guitar with five strings. And, depending on the night, one of my other uncles plays the conga drum. My father is the one who likes to sing the most.”
“Wow, that’s pretty cool. I can’t wait to hear that.”
“I think so too, although as a kid I hated it because I thought it was so boring.”
We make the rounds saying hello to all the family, and I introduce Massimo to everyone. My aunts all fawn over him, saying he’s so handsome, squeezing his cheeks, touching his arms, “Que guapo, guao” or “Que lindo nene.” It’s a little embarrassing, but he’s such a good sport about it.
“You seem to be a big hit with my aunts.”
“I’m a charmer—what can I say?” His shoulders shake in quiet laughter. We stop when we see my parents in the far corner of the kitchen, my father with a beer in hand, and my mother sitting and talking to one of my aunts.
“Hello, Mr. Lopez,” Massimo says, extending his hand to greet my father. “It’s good to see you again.”
Last month we had Thanksgiving at my house, which is when he met my parents and siblings for the first time. I was more nervous than he was about it, worried that they’d grill him or make him feel uncomfortable. But I worried for nothing because Massimo immediately felt comfortable, fit right in with my family, and spent most of the night talking with my brother and father about cars and football.
“Please, call me Hugo. Good to see you too,” my father responds and hugs me, pressing a kiss to my temple. “Hola, Nena.”
“Hi,Papi,” I say, before bending to kiss my mother. “Hi,Mami.” Massimo is right behind me doing the same.
“Hi, Mrs. Lopez.”
