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Her dad, Miguel, keeps going on and on about games from years ago, and I have no idea how or why he watched any of them, especially the ones where I was playing really badly. It’s kind of sweet that he’s making an effort. But I’m not really sure why he’s making an effort. As far as they care, I’m nobody to Olivia. I’m just a guy.
As far as Olivia cares, I’m just a guy.
Olivia sits down next to me as her mother, Andrea, starts bringing food out to put it on the table. She’s shockingly casual today, her hair down, fluffy socks on her feet, a cozy cardigan wrapped around her shoulders. Even when we’ve been together, she’s always gone right back to professional after. I’ve seen her in my T-shirts, but that’s not that same as seeing her with her guard down like this.
Chris gets roped in to help too, looking miserable the whole time as they bustle about. Olivia and I could definitely sneak away now and no one would notice for five minutes.
Not that that’s long enough for what I want to do with her.
I try to curb my thoughts about sneaking off to have sex in her childhood bedroom and pull my focus back to dinner. I’ve never had real Mexican food at all, and it all smells great. “Hey, this looks fab,” I say, not wanting to be rude or for Andrea to feel unrecognized. She must have done a shit ton of work for all this.
She smiles warmly at me. “I made it a little milder than I usually would because I know British people can have sensitivities to flavors.” She says sensitivities slightly under her breath, like an old person commenting on something indecent.
“Hey!” I say, pretending to take offense. “I mean, you're not exactly wrong. But I’m a man of taste. I can handle my spice.”
She gives me a look like she doesn't quite believe me — and she’s right not to. I desperately hope I don’t get put to the test on this, because the truth is I don’t really like spicy food at all. I am a baby about it, and I don’t want this meal to embarrass me. I scoop a healthy serving of everything on the table onto my plate and just dig right in. No use in holding back, I figure.
Fortunately, there's nothing about this that I would describe as spicy at all. It is incredibly flavorful, though. “I never knew beans could be so good,” I say with my mouth full.
“You know, I went to England once,” says Miguel. “I tried your baked beans. Why you call them a delicacy, I will never know.” He makes a face of disgust, and I giggle, amused at the idea of this guy, clearly used to having great meals every day, tucking into a tin of beans and hating every second.
“Not a beans-on-toast fan there, then?”
He shakes his head and sticks out his tongue, making a noise of repulsion. “I would not describe anything about most British foods as a delicacy,” he says. “You folks have a very interesting palate. Though there was a pudding I enjoyed. Like pancakes, but tall.”
“Yorkshire pudding?”
“Yes, that's it! You really thought of some strange ways not to starve over there, huh?”
“Wait until you hear about the toast sandwich,” I say with a smirk.
As we eat, I keep noticing Olivia throwing me little glances, as if she's checking to see that I'm still behaving. In reality, it’s taking all my effort not to reach over with my toes and start playing footsie with her. I almost want to make a scene to wind her up, but her family have been so kind letting me in here that the idea of making a fuss isn't that appealing.
We laugh and eat and tell stories, and time runs past without me even noticing. Even after all our plates have been empty for ages, we stay, engaged in making fun of my old games, of stories about home, Britain and Mexico, and Miami.
This is the deepest chat I’ve had with anyone in ages, and I’m shocked by how good it feels. By how much I could almost belong here.
At last, Andrea slowly rises to her feet. “Okay, Chris, my baby. Help me take the dishes through.”
“Mom,” he whines but she shuts him down with a swift, cutting glare. He doesn’t argue any more.
Miguel looks at me, and Olivia and beckons us through to the living room. It occurs to me only when I sit down that maybe I should have offered to help with the dishes, but it's too late because Miguel has already started loading up a game for us to watch.
“I hope you’ll agree,” he says as he wrestles with the TV, “this is one of your best.”
The game flickers into life, and I squint, trying to figure out where and when it is. It’s the Canaries, from a few years ago. I come running through the tunnel in our away orange, arms outstretched to soak in the noise of the crowd as I take up my position on left field. “Oh, this is against Luton, yeah? 2021?”
“Yes, a great game.”
I nod in agreement, settling back into the sofa. “I hate those guys.”
Miguel laughs in agreement. “Yes, their defense is terrible.”
“And their attack was all over the place,” I add. “It’s like they don't even want to get the ball in the net.”
Miguel laughs again, way more loudly than the joke deserves, clapping his hand on my knee. Olivia, next to me, looks away in embarrassment.
A swell of affection rises up through me. I do my best to squash it down but I can’t quite manage it. This must be what having a family is like. I loved Grandad more than anything in my whole life, but he was getting old before I was even a teenager. He did his best for me, and I wouldn’t have had him do anything different in a million years.
