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“Nene, mi nombre es Blanca. You call me that, okay?” she declares, more than asks, and places her palm on his cheek, patting it gently.
“Okay, Mrs.—I mean Blanca.” He smiles at her, and my heart constricts seeing his interaction with my mother. My parents asking to be called by their first names is their way of letting Massimo know that they like him. I had introduced Stefano to them, but they didn’t warm up to him as they have with Massimo. It’s funny how we see things so clearly in hindsight.
“Okay, let’s go eat,” I say. “I wait for this night every year because all my aunts make their best dishes, and I overeat—like a lot! It’s all so good, so I hope you’re hungry.”
There are so many food choices that I make sure to load up both of our plates with my favorites,arroz con gandules,pernil,yuca con mojo,maduros. Before sitting, I grab amaltafrom the fridge, and we sit down with one of my cousins, Felix. We don’t see each other often, mostly at the family events throughout the year and always onNoche Buena. Turns out Felix and Massimo have some friends in common because Felix is a DJ around the city, and Massimo is well-known in the restaurant/club circuit.
When we finish eating, we go into the cellar, where it’s an open space for everyone to dance. It looks the same as when I was growing up. The walls are wood paneling from floor to ceiling, the floor is a dark gray concrete, and there’s a wooden bar in the back-right corner. The congo drums are along the back wall, and there are a few folding tables and chairs opened up around the perimeter. In a few hours, nearly everyone will be down here singing and dancing, and it’ll be as packed as any nightclub.
We gravitate to the left side of the room where it’s less crowded. From here, I can point everyone out as a way for him to know who everyone is. One of my cousins is to our right with her three kids settling a fight between them, the youngest of the kids crying over whatever happened.
“Do you want kids?” Massimo asks me.
I look at him, adjusting the frames on my face. “Um, yeah, I do.”
“Doesn’t sound very convincing,” he responds, raising an eyebrow.
“You just caught me off guard is all. I wasn’t expecting that question.”
“With so many kids around, it just popped in my head. Figured I’d ask.” He shrugs before pushing back the curls falling over my left eye.
I continue scanning the room. “That’s Felix’s wife in the orange shirt,” I say, pointing across the room to my left. “And their two daughters, the youngest one is adopted. She became part of the family when she was six because her parents were drug addicts.”
“She’s lucky she found a family. Adoption isn’t for everyone.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Not everyone is open to adopting a strange kid into their family.”
I give my glasses another nudge. “That sounds kinda heartless.”
“I’m not trying to sound that way. Just saying that it’s not for everyone.”
“Would you adopt if you had the opportunity?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I want my own biological kids.”
“Nena.” My father interrupts us, and I’m glad for it. That conversation with Massimo was awkward and uncomfortable, and we’re not in the place to have that discussion. “Vamos a bailar.”
Felix is at the DJ table he set up and Los Hermanos Rosario’s “La Dueña del Swing” starts playing, which is one of my dad’s favorite songs. He grasps my hand and starts pulling me toward the center of the floor to dance, something he’s done since I was little. I learned to dance with him from a young age by placing my feet on his while he carried me around the dance floor. As I grew, we would always dance merengue and salsa at all of the family parties.
“I’ll be back,” I say to Massimo. “Watch and learn so we can dance later.”
My father and I dance among the others—aunts, uncles, cousins, friends, all crowded together, shaking our hips as we spin and twirl. I see Massimo off to the side, watching us with mischief in his eyes. No doubt he’s enjoying watching me shimmy my hips. When the song finishes, I go see Felix and ask him to play Marc Anthony’s “Nadie Como Ella” before walking over to Massimo.
“You and your dad dance really well.”
“He’s my favorite dance partner,” I admit.
“Daddy’s girl,” he says, rubbing his thumb across my beauty mark. “I can see it all over his face.”
“Yeah, my brothers and sisters rag on me all the time. Tell me that because I’m the baby, I have it easy, and my parents treat me differently.” I shrug.
When the Marc Anthony song begins playing, I grab his hand. “Come on. I asked Felix to play this so we can dance. It’s a good song for you to learn how to salsa.”
