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IGNACIO
* * *
Ilean in to whisper in Olive’s ear. “How do you know all the responses and gestures?”
“I’m a quick study,” she whispers back. “Also, YouTube.”
Of all the whacky situations I could have imagined myself in, kneeling in the pews next to my Jewish fake girlfriend at Sunday Mass would never have crossed my mind.
Yes, yes. I know. I was very much against bringing Olive to the Sunday-with-the-fam thing. Turns out I’m easy to bribe. All it took was Mom and Dad agreeing to keep that pink-dress-wearing dog for the rest of the summer while Enrique and January are on their ludicrously long honeymoon. I have a feeling my parents would have taken Brownie anyway since they have a Yorkie of their own from the same litter. It’s not a big ask. But here I am, victim of my own botched negotiation. I was never good at making deals outside of a restaurant. It’s why Enrique always beat me at Monopoly.
And apparently, I can’t even talk my fake girlfriend into waiting until after church to meet me at my parents’ house for dinner. She insisted we ride together. “For appearance's sake,” she’d said.
“Are you sure you’re not uncomfortable?” I ask. It’s time for us to go up for communion and I’m not so sure she knows to stay in her seat.
“Don’t worry,” she assures me, scrunching her adorable little nose in a way that spreads warm sparks through my chest. “I’m aware of the rules.”
This was a horrible idea—simply because, after that kiss, I can’t seem to look at Olive the same way. Her rosy cheeks. Her soft, pink lips. Her—
Stop it, man. You’re in church.
I look over at my sister Francesca, singing up there with her guitar, beautiful as ever. And then my gaze drifts to that boyfriend of hers on piano. I don’t know what she sees in the guy. He spends half his time in New York. I’m not on board with that for my sister. And I just can’t trust a guy named Edmund—I read too much Narnia as a kid.
After Mass, we walk back to the house. I usually rush ahead of my Mom and siblings to get dinner started, but Dad’s cooking tonight—his self-proclaimed famous pork ribs he’s been slow cooking in his new smoker. Francesca, of course, will have tofu, and my Jewish fake girlfriend—well, I guess if she’s okay with pork, I’ll go along with it.
“You have a lot of siblings,” Olive says as we leave the church. “We took up an entire row.”
“Yeah, well. Not all of my brothers are here.”
“The one on his honeymoon?”
“Him, yes. And my brother Guillermo. We call him Memo for short. He couldn’t get away tonight.”
She grins, taking my hand for show. “Cool beans.”
I’ll take that a sign of her approval—not that I’m seeking it. I’ve decided to end our charade when Abuela goes back to Mexico. I just haven’t told Olive yet.
The smell of the meat reaches my senses before we even reach the house. I find Dad in the backyard sipping on Trader Joe’s beer, listening to Carlos Santana on a Bluetooth speaker while watching soccer on the big screen T.V. he installed under the patio covering. The volume is turned up full blast on both devices.
The two Yorkies sit expectantly at his feet, going crazy over the aroma of the meat. Brownie’s in a sparkly pink t-shirt today, but Mom’s dog, Lulu, isn’t even wearing a collar. I have a feeling the state of Lulu’s nakedness has something to do with how Dad has absolutely claimed the dog as his own, even though January and Enrique adopted her for Mom. There’s no way he’d allow any dog of his to wear pink. According to Francesca, Dad is smitten with that tiny dog—carrying her everywhere he goes and speaking baby talk as he feeds her treats. I don’t think he was this enamored with his own children when we were babies.
“Awww,” coos, Olive. “Puppers.”
Olive is committed to play her part well—clinging to my arm like a doting girlfriend who can’t keep her hands off me for one second. If I did have an actual girlfriend, I wouldn’t need her so frickin’ close all the time. I don’t do P.D.A. nor would any woman I date. But somehow, it doesn’t bother me with Olive as it would with other girls. I suppose it’s because I know she won’t expect anything when I take her home tonight. No expectations. No complications. Just how I like my life.
Then a miracle happens and Dad turns off the game when he sees Olive. This must be an alternate universe. Dad turns off his game for no one.
Olive hugs him (as she did with Mom and every single one of my siblings earlier), and—wonder of wonder—he hugs her in return.
“How’s Orangie?” he asks her.
She ticks her head in confusion. “Orangie?”
“Your neighbor’s fish.”
Oh boy.
“Great,” she says, brightening. “He made a full recovery.”
