Page 29 of The Odds of Happily Ever After
“Okay, now I’m not sure whether you actually mean that or you’re just making fun of me.”
“I do. I like your spaghetti.” Because she deserved full honesty, I added, “Even though it doesn’t taste like traditional bolognese.”
She threw her head back and laughed. “Of course not. We like to put our own twist on things.”
“It’s definitely unique.”
“I learned it from Lola. She had, like, a mental file of all these amazing recipes she learned from her mom.” Luna’s gaze grew distant, her lips pressing together. “I wrote down the ones she taught me, but they never turn out exactly the same way she did them.”
“Good idea, you writing them down.”
Her eyes met mine, and they held a slight sheen. “We weren’t sure she’d make it the second time around.”
Tala had told me about their grandmother’s battle with breast cancer and how it had recurred two years after she was declared in remission. She’d decided not to restart chemotherapy, and she passed away four months after the cancer was detected.
I knew how much Tala regretted not going home to see their lola one last time. She’d missed out on years with her grandmother, and she carried that loss to this day. Luna, on the other hand, had been there through it all. I could only imagine how difficult it must have been to see her grandmother’s relapse firsthand.
I cleared my throat and wished I knew the right words to say. In the end, I settled on what I hoped was a safe response. “Tala said you were the only one who inherited your lola’s cooking skills.”
She smiled. “That’s probably the only thing I got that my siblings didn’t.”
I’d heard her say something similar before—how Tala had the talent and Alonzo had the brains. Back then, I thought Luna was angling for praise. Now I wondered if she truly believed she was somehow less than her siblings.
Whether it was a case of self-deprecation or middle child syndrome, I had no right to ask.
“I’m glad I got it, though,” she murmured before I could muck things up with the wrong words. “I only wish my spaghetti came close to her original version.”
“Did it also contain sugar and processed food?”
Her laughter made me smile. “Oh, yeah. That’s Pinoy spaghetti for you,” she said. Then she nodded at the baking sheet she’d left covered with foil. “You should try the bibingka.”
“Does that mean I can stay?”
“I guess so. ItisChristmas.” She tilted her head. “That reminds me—do you have noche buena in Brazil? The Christmas Eve celebration?”
I picked up my fork and twirled noodles around it. “Yes, but we call it Ceia de Natal. Some families have it after Missa do Gallo?—”
She jerked. “We have that, too! Ours is Misa de Gallo,so only slightly different.”
I nodded, already knowing that from Tala. “We have this stuffed chicken dish that we call a chester, some potato salad, and salpicão.” Noticing how her eyes widened, I added, “That’s a chicken salad, not the beef dish you might be thinking of.”
Her excitement dimmed. “I guess you’ve already gone over this with Ate.”
“We did celebrate two Christmases together.”
“Then I came along and ruined your tradition.” She bit her lower lip. “I’m sorry about that.”
“Don’t be. I’m glad she had you here. Nothing beats Christmas with family.” Even as I said it, resentment crept in. It had been over a decade since I’d last celebrated with my family, and I’d long ago convinced myself I didn’t miss that.
Luna chewed on her bottom lip. “Can I ask why you don’t celebrate with yours?”
I lifted my glass and wished it held something stronger than soda. “My mother has her own family in Texas. My father lives with our relatives in Rio.” And I didn’t belong in those places.
Taking a long drink, I braced myself for her reply. Would she say sorry again? Or maybe she’d ask why I didn’t choose to visit either of my parents.
“Well,” she said carefully. “You can crash my party whenever you want.”
My brows rose. “You’re giving me an open invitation?” I asked, relieved she didn’t press the topic of my dysfunctional family.
