Page 111 of Forever Then

“Oh Dios, mio,” the woman says, hands over her mouth. Accent thicker than Miguel’s, her hair is cut short and runs black with thick streaks of gray scattered throughout.

“Mom. Dad. This is our daughter, Gretchen.” Pride swells in Miguel’s eyes.

The dark brown-skinned gentleman sweeps the pads of his fingers over his cheeks, then brushes them on his shorts when they come away damp with tears. His hair is mostly gray, but his thick mustache still remains black as night. Deep brown eyes flank a nose dotted with freckles, like his son and eldest granddaughter.

“Gretchen. This is Antonio and Rosa Ortega. Your grandparents.”

Rosa shakes her head in disbelief at the same time she pulls me in for a hug. “It’s nice to meet you,” I say.

She takes my face in her hands. “Oh, mija. I’m so glad you found us. Happy birthday, sweet girl.”

“Simplemente no puedo creerlo,” Antonio says. “Cheyenne, you weren’t kidding.” We all chuckle knowing Cheyenne’s decades long claim has finally been vindicated; I look just like my dad.

My grandfather hugs me next, whispering a “Happy Birthday” into my ear.

Soon, everyone swarms the buffet of homemade tamales, rice, and beans that Miguel’s mother, sister, and sisters-in-law have made a tradition of preparing every year. Miguel’s brothers are the self-appointed bartenders, serving up an assortment of different flavored margaritas and, not to be overlooked, a tequila shot for the birthday girl.

That gets Connor’s attention.

Breaking away from the full-fledged football game now underway with MJ and a bunch of boy cousins whose names I don’t recall, Connor rushes to my side amidst the birthday chants. I toss back my shot glass, his smile beaming wide when my face sours and I cough into my wrist.

“Does thegringowant a shot?” One of my uncles—Gustavo, maybe—looks to Connor with a conspiratorial grin.

Connor’s eyes leap between the three men. With a playful challenge in his smirk, he answers, “Just one.”

“Eh!Gringo!” my three uncles singsong in unison. A shot glass twice the size of mine appears on the table and they fill it to the brim.

Connor throws it back with little fanfare other than a shake of his head as he plops the empty glass back down. “Should I be offended that you call me ‘gringo’?”

Amusement shines in my uncles’ expressions.

“Don’t let them fool you,” a female voice comes from behind us. One of my uncles’ wives, I recall. “Half the Ortega brothers married agringa.” She smiles, moving around the table to pull Gustavo’s face down for a kiss.

She wraps her arms around her husband’s waist and turns to Connor. “You’re agringo, I’m agringa.”

Another uncle—Diego, I think—points to a fair-skinned woman sitting at a table behind us. “That one’s mygringa.”

The third uncle—Carlos, with the full sleeve tattoo—finally chimes in. “If Gretchen says you’re hergringothen you’re a part of the family.”

Connor tugs me into his side. “Gretch, can I be yourgringo?” He accentuates the word with a terrible attempt at a Mexican accent that makes us both laugh. I lift on my tiptoes to kiss him.

“Connor! Stop making out with your girlfriend and get back out here,” MJ hollers from the yard where all the boys wait impatiently for his return.

“Duty calls.” He runs off and then flips to a backward jog and says, “No more tequila, Fish. We both know what a lightweight you are.” He tosses me a wink before turning back to the boys.

I’m smiling after him when a little hand tugs on the hem of my shirt. My youngest sister, Tally, looks up at me, as my other sister, Rosie, stands at her side.

“I like your braid,” Tally says shyly, twirling one of her curls around her finger.

I run a hand down the length of the single fishtail braid that hangs over my left shoulder. “Thank you.”

“Ask her, Tally,” Rosie prods.

“You ask her.”

“Ask me what?”

Rosie sighs. “We were wondering if you could braid our hair like yours.”

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