Page 75 of Nacho Boyfriend

IGNACIO

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The farmhouse is officially at capacity. If there were a hotel within an hour from here, I’d tolerate the drive each day just so I wouldn’t have to share a room with Mateo and Tío Enrique tonight. Mateo talks in his sleep and Tío Enrique snores—I’m talking Formula One race car noises coming from the back of his throat. I’m not looking forward to it.

Even with a full house, Abuela made sure Olive gets her own room, saying that she wants her to feel all the comforts of the farm. Then she went on to say the next time we visit, Olive won’t be sleeping alone, wink wink, because we’d be married.

The way Abuela’s invested in our relationship, I’ll be fake dating Olive forever. If I’m being honest with myself, I don’t want it to end.

Or maybe I do want it to end—at least the fake part.

She’s invading every inch of my life, and yet I still can’t get enough of her. I find myself unable to take my eyes off her, dreaming about her, wanting her. I look for excuses to touch her every chance I get. To kiss those sweet lips and feel her pressed against me. And the few times I have kissed her, pretending it was all for show, I almost passed out from pure bliss. And the way she gives back, her little moans, the exquisite dance of her lips on my mouth, fingers digging into my ba—

“¡Nacho!” Abuela throws a raw pinto bean at me. “Qué haces?”

“Wha—what does it look like I’m doing? I’m cleaning beans.”

“Spanish,” Mom warns.

Abuela snorts.

I take a breath. “Abuela, te estoy ayudando a limpiar los frijoles.”

“No!” she snaps. “Que haces adentro con nosotras viejas cuando tu novia está solita?”

Right. Of course I know Olive is alone. I can see her through the window, swinging on the rope swing on the old cottonwood tree. It’s the whole reason I chose this exact spot to help Abuela and Mom sort the beans. Also, my fingers are burning to touch Olive and I’m afraid to be alone with her. So, I decided these fingers are put to better use in the kitchen, where they are most comfortable.

I look to my brother, Memo, for support. He’s stuffing his face full of strawberries at the moment after a car ride with my parents he described as the longest day of his life. Apparently, they stopped every few miles to let the dog out to do her business and took twice as long to get here.

“Lulu has a small bladder,” Dad had said, kissing the dog on the nose. I’m just grateful that January's assistant has Brownie for the next week.

“I should stay here to make sure Memo doesn’t eat all the strawberries,” I say.

“Don’t drag me into this,” says Memo. “And good luck taking away my aggregate fruit, brother.”

I roll my eyes at Memo’s propensity for technical accuracy. He’ll talk your ear off about how strawberries aren’t berries, but bananas are. An hour later, you still won’t really care, but he’ll expect you to call it an aggregate fruit in his presence forevermore.

“We don’t need you in here,” says Mom. “Go.”

It’s futile to argue with the women in my family, and I might as well escape the genus fragaria lecture while I can. So I wash my hands and reach in my pocket for the Altoids tin, popping one on my mouth.

I love this time of day in the summer. The golden hour. The hottest part of the day is behind us, and there’s a certain magic in the Arizona mountain air before the sun falls behind the horizon.

After a loud and rowdy dinner with the whole family, Francesca and Bernadette stole Olive to do girl things. I have no idea what that could be. Now that the day is winding down, everyone is preparing for the early morning surprise we have for Abuelo, but trying to act nonchalant about it. Dad hired Mariachis who are coming all the way from Flagstaff at five in the morning, and my brothers drove into Seligman to buy a cake.

The crunch of my footsteps alerts Olive to my presence before I reach her. She’s swinging gaily, kicking off the trunk of the tree. Smiling at me, she leans back so her hair falls almost to the ground and the rope twists on itself, spinning her around.

I stuff my hands in my pockets, just enjoying the sight of her having fun.

“Are you done with your work?” she asks, letting the rope spin in the opposite direction.

“They kicked me out of the kitchen,” I say. “Care for some company?”

She skids her feet on the dirt to stop the swing. “I would love your company.”

Taking her hand, I help her off the swing, then let it drop away.

Keep your hands to yourself, man. You can do this.

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