Page 29 of Fruit
Sebastián sighed at the mention of the bullying, but he nodded. “If we get enough interest from the members, that sounds good. We can brainstorm ideas with them. See what they would like, and then see how often you would want to set it up if it were to be something consistent.”
“I’m good with consistent.”
“Good.” He smiles at me, and there’s a brightness in his eyes that makes me want to lean closer for a moment.
Everything feels light and bright in the summer air.
**********
Sebastián and I have set up an unspoken routine as I cart Nina back and forth between our places every weekend. I’ll show up around two, and he’ll have some it’s-totally-not-for-you-I-just-made-extra food waiting. I set the table while he dishes stuff out and we have a meal together.
I don’t want to admit it’s my favourite part of the week, but it kind of totally is.
“I know it’s totally clichéd ’cause I’m from Puerto Rico, okay, but, like, if I was gonna die tomorrow, my last meal would have to bepasteles. Made withgreenplantains, okay, not ripe ones, yuck.” I stick my tongue out to indicate my disgust.
“I’ve never had those,” Sebastián admits.
“They’re so good. Although, I don’t know. I think a lot of people who aren’t used to it find the plantain taste weird, but it’s like…total comfort food for me. Like thattaste, you know?”
“I don’t know, but I get you.”
“What about you? If you could only have one more meal, what would it be?” I ask him, digging into the pasta he’d made today.
“I guess…porkbirria.”
I raise my eyebrows. “Really? Your parents made youbirria?”
“No, I don’t really…I didn’t eat much with my actual family. But, the silent partner I told you about is Mexican, so. He got out of juvie a few days before me. I went straight to his house after I got out, and it was the first thing I ate. He owns a chain of restaurants now, actually.”
“Wow. That must have been some goodbirria.”
“Yeah. Although pretty much anything would have tasted good that day.”
“How old were you?” I venture.
“Seventeen.” Seventeen, and his parents hadn’t picked him up from juvie.
“Well. I’m glad you had them, then.”
“Yeah. I was lucky. Not that I felt lucky then, but. Yeah.”
There are a few beats of silence, filled with the clink of our cutlery scraping against plates as we eat.
“You close to your family?” he asks. I nod, swallowing my mouthful.
“Mm, yeah. My parents immigrated from Puerto Rico before I was born, and they were lucky enough to find, like, a community of people in the town I was raised in. I’ve got a friend, Joaquin—he’s from another Puerto Rican family, but he’s like a brother to me. And I don’t have any siblings, so. It was nice. What about you? Any brothers or sisters?”
An unnaturally long silence follows my question. I tense, sensing I’ve pressed a sore spot.
“Yeah. A little brother.”
“You two close?”
More silence. His face is flat and closed-off. “We were. Yeah.”
The use of a past tense doesn’t escape me. My gut clenches, sensing what that means. I want to know more but I can tell he doesn’t want to talk about it, so I nod.
“What about dessert? If you could have one sweet thing for a last meal, what would you have?” I ask, helping him change the subject. He lifts his eyes to meet mine, and I can see the gratefulness there.
