Page 31 of Nacho Boyfriend

This woman. Even her made up stories have a happy ending.

Dad smiles—as much of a smile I’ve ever seen on him—and clasps a hand over Olive’s.

“Glad to hear it,” he says. “Beer?”

“Ah, gevalt,” she says, snapping her fingers. “I left the Manischewitz in the car. We parked and went straight into temple—I mean church.”

Yeah, I was hoping she’d forget about that bottle of wine.

With a sigh, I offer, “I’ll go grab it. I have to park the car closer to the house, anyway.”

Finding it faster to go through the side gate, I head through the rose garden, fishing the keys out of my pocket. I get as far as the Saint Francis statue Mom placed at the edge of the garden, when I hear the banshee shriek of Tía Lucy.

Rushing back in two seconds flat, I come upon the scene—Tía Lucy, recently arrived with her purse still slung over her shoulder, pointing an accusing finger at Olive.

“You!” she cries, really putting the back of her throat into it. She’s gearing up to light a torch and lead a mob with pitchforks.

Somebody please tell Tía Lucy this isn’t the Salem witch trials, nor are we at an eighteenth century hanging.

Olive points at her own chest, backing up slightly, and as Tía Lucy prowls toward her (in her portly Tía Lucy way), awareness dawns on Olive’s features. And I realize I didn’t prepare my family for this. Of course, at the wedding, my parents were too far away to see, and the crowd was too thick, the chaos too wild for my siblings to get a good look. But Tía Lucy never forgets a face. What’s worse, she’s a grudge holder to the tenth degree. And right now, there’s murder in her eyes. Murder with four layers of fondant fresh in her memory.

Hobbling after Olive, she charges, and Olive—not knowing where to go—dodges behind the long, rustic farmhouse table we sit at for Sunday dinners. It’s a bespoke piece crafted by an old Peruvian woodworker Dad had traded favors with back in the day. We have a lot of memories with this table. But right now, it’s acting as a barricade for the woman who wronged Tía Lucy and a five thousand dollar wedding cake.

For a full minute, Tía Lucy chases Olive around the table, stopping to change direction and back again. Lucy’s shouting something imperceptible as Olive squeals, interjecting apologies while circling the table. At one point, she kicks off her shoes, which Lucy almost trips over. Dad finds this whole show quite entertaining, sipping his beer, bobbing his head to “One Como Va” by Santana.

Meanwhile, a crowd has formed—Mom, Abuela, my tíos; Enrique, Pedro, and Borris, and of course, my siblings.

It only takes Tía Lucy to run out of breath before the chase is over, at which point, Dad starts a round of applause, his brothers joining in.

“Échale vampiro,” shouts Tío Pedro. I have no clue what he means by that, but Tío Pedro rarely makes any sense at the best of times.

Some of Olive’s hair has fallen loose from the two clips she had above her temples. She’s like a disheveled sprite. Tía Lucy doesn’t look quite as fresh. Her face has turned Day-Glo pink, and she’s panting as though she’d just come from the Pamplona bull run. Sebastian fetches her a glass of water, and, seeing as there’s nothing else to see, my uncles join Dad for a beverage and turn the game back on.

“Tía?” I say, approaching her tentatively. “I see you’ve met my… girlfriend?” Probably not the best thing to say under the circumstances.

Her head slowly turns like a Chuckie doll to glare at Olive. If she wasn’t so winded, she’d have a few choice words, none of which are proper to repeat.

“Why don’t you sit down, okay?” I guide her to a chair and she flops on it, leaning an elbow on the farm table. Once she takes a few swigs of water and catches her breath, she croaks out, “Am I living in a nightmare? Oh, my head.”

Any minute now, she’ll be asking for smelling salts.

Abuela, who has very little patience for her son’s crazy sister-in-law, swats her hand and goes back inside the house. Mom comes over to comfort her sister, but has a tick of a grin on her face. It’s been a while since she’s had any form of entertainment, apparently. Well, not since the wedding. Leave it to my Olive to spice things up.

She’s not your Olive, idiot.

“Tell me what she’s doing here,” Tía Lucy demands.

“That’s Olive, hermana,” says Mom. “Nacho’s girlfriend.”

Olive is still on the other end of the table, guarding herself behind one of the heavy wooden chairs. I extend my hand, inviting her to come. She shuffles over, gliding under my arm. She fits perfectly at my side. So pillowy soft.

“Tía, when you hear what we have to say, you’re going to love Olive just as much as I do.”

Olive shifts under my arm. Why did I have to bring up the L word? As far as anyone is concerned, we’ve been together for six months. That seems like a reasonable amount of time to tell your girlfriend you love her. Right?

If it bothers Olive, she doesn’t show it other than a slight twitch. She goes on to tell the same story she told me. How there was a bug on Lucy’s food. How she had to act fast, or Lucy would have had a creepy crawly in her mouth. Olive actually says the words ‘creepy crawly’ to dramatize her point.

I see a transformation come over Tía Lucy’s face. She’s not completely appeased, but her skin is returning to a normal color, at least.

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