The Unhoneymooners

I try not to be dramatic and overthink what Ethan said. I try to give him the benefit of the doubt and imagine how I’d feel if someone accused Ami of doing this. I don’t even have to think about it: I’d do anything for my sister. And that’s when it hits me. I remember Dane’s smiling face at the airport, and my shock today that he would hit on me with his own brother just a few feet away. Dane’s confidence in both cases isn’t about me or my ability to keep his secret. It was about Ethan and his inability to believe his brother would intentionally do anything bad. Ethan is his ride-or-die.

I consider going to Ami’s to wait for her, but if Ami was planning to meet us all at the restaurant, she won’t be there anyway. They’d come home together later, too. I certainly don’t want to be there when Dane gets back.

I didn’t think it was possible, but my mood plummets even more when I pull into my parking lot. Not only is my mom’s car there (and parked in my covered space), but so are Diego’s and my cousin Natalia’s, which means Tía María is probably here, too. Of course.

With my car parked on the other side of the c

omplex, I trudge through the slush and up the stairs to my apartment. I can already hear Tía María’s braying laugh—she is my mother’s sister and the one closest to her in age, but the two of them could not be more different: Mom is polished and fussy; Tía Maria is casual and laughs constantly. And whereas Mom has only me and Ami (apparently having twins was plenty for her), Tía Maria has seven kids, each neatly spaced eighteen months apart. It wasn’t until I was in the fifth grade that I realized not everyone has nineteen first cousins.

Although our nuclear family is relatively small compared to the rest of the Torres and Gonzales crew, a stranger would never know that only four of us lived in our house when I was growing up because at least two other people were always there. Birthdays were enormous affairs, Sunday dinners routinely had thirty people at the table, and there was never any place to sulk alone. Apparently not much has changed.

“I’m pretty sure she’s a lesbian,” Tía María is saying as I close the door behind me. She looks up at the sound and points to Natalia. “Tell her, Olive.”

I unwind my scarf from around my neck and stomp the snow from my boots. After the slushy walk through the parking lot, my patience is already thin. “Who are we talking about?”

Tía Maria is standing at the kitchen counter, chopping tomatoes. “Ximena.”

Ximena, the youngest daughter of Mom and Tía Maria’s oldest brother, Tío Omar. “She’s not a lesbian,” I say. “She’s dating that guy, what’s his name?”

I look at Natalia, who tells them, “Boston.”

I snap, pointing. “That’s right. God, what a terrible name.”

“It’s what you name your dog,” Natalia agrees, “not your kid.”

I shrug off my coat and toss it over the back of the couch. Mom immediately steps away from the dough she’s rolling and crosses the room to pointedly hang it up. Stopping in front of me, she pushes my damp hair off my forehead.

“You look terrible, mija.” She turns my face from side to side. “Eat something.” Kissing my cheek, she heads back into the kitchen.

I follow, smiling gratefully when Natalia sets a cup of tea down in front of me. For as much as I complain about my family always being in my business . . . having them here is admittedly pretty great. But this also means I can’t avoid telling Mom that I was fired.

“A haircut doesn’t mean someone’s gay, Mom,” Natalia says.

Tía María looks up at her incredulously. “Have you seen it? It’s all short on the sides and blue on top. She did it right after”—she drops her voice to a whisper—“the wedding.”

Both Mom and Tía Maria make the sign of the cross.

“Why would you even care if she’s gay?” Natalia motions to where Diego is watching TV on my couch. “Diego is gay, and you don’t care about that.”

At the sound of his name he turns to face us.

“Diego came out of the womb gay,” Tía Maria says, and then turns to him. “I swear you had copies of Vogue under your mattress, instead of dirty magazines.”

“Nobody gets porn from magazines anymore, Mom,” Natalia says.

Tía Maria ignores her. “I don’t care if she’s gay. I just think we should all know so we can find her a nice girl.”

“She’s not gay!” Diego says.

“Then why did I find a dildo in her sock drawer?” Tía Maria asks the room.

Diego groans and pulls a pillow over his face. “Here we go.”

Natalia turns to face her mother. “She’s thirty-three. What were you doing in her sock drawer?”

Tía María shrugs as if this information is irrelevant to the story. “Organizing. It was purple and huge with a little”—she moves her finger in front of her to indicate what she means—“wiggly thing on one side.”

Natalia presses her hand to her mouth to stifle a laugh, and I take a sip of my tea. It tastes like sadness and hot water.