But I don’t. If anything, I feel sorry for him. He almost looks like a little boy as he steps forward. He starts to open his arms, and I give a quick shake of my head.
“Let’s not do that,” I advise.
Disappointment clouds his eyes. “Come on, Demi.”
The next thing I know there’s a glass in my hand. Granted, it’s just a soda, and not the full-to-the-brim glass of tequila I would’ve preferred. But still. Mom to the rescue!
“Let’s help Dora with dinner,” she chirps as she whisks me toward the kitchen.
I follow her without a backward glance at Nico.
Dinner is awkward, at least for me. If it is for our parents, they’re not showing it.
Each time Nico speaks to me, I answer politely. But I don’t engage or elaborate on anything he asks. He reveals that he quit the moving company, and I don’t even blink because I don’t care. Then he talks about his new job as a line cook at Della’s Diner. I don’t care about that either, except to make a mental note to not eat there anymore. He’ll either spit in my food or mix a love potion into it.
After dinner, the men go outside on the bricked patio to smoke their Cubans, and the women tidy up. Old-fashioned, maybe, but that’s how it’s always been. Alicia and I load the dishwasher and then wash the bigger dishes by hand. She chatters on about the eighth grade and her friends as I pass her pots and pans to dry.
“I can’t believe you and Nico aren’t together anymore,” she whines. “I’m so sad.”
“I know, hon, but things don’t always work out the way you want them to,” I answer ruefully. “Go grab that huge salad bowl from the table, will you? I think it’s the last thing we need to wash.”
As Alicia dashes off, Dora comes up beside me. “Nicolás told me what he did,” she says softly. “I want you to know how disappointed in him I am, Demi. I raised him better than that.”
I meet her unhappy eyes. “I’m surprised he actually told you the truth and didn’t conjure up some story that painted him as the victim.”
She snorts. “That boy is incapable of lying to his mama, you know that.”
True. Nico is a total mama’s boy. Besides, Cuban women are scarily perceptive—they can read minds. Even if he tried to lie, Dora would’ve known.
“It’s his loss, Demi. I mean that, even though he’s my son. And you know you’ll always be a daughter to us, no matter what.”
“I know.” I give her a warm hug, and for the first time all evening I experience the rush of longing I hadn’t felt with Nico earlier.
I do love his parents, and it elicits genuine sorrow, the reminder that things will never be the same now that Nico and I are no longer together.
But things change. Relationships evolve. The same people could remain in your life, people you’ve known for years and years, only they play a different role now.
I blink back tears as I turn off the faucet and dry my hands on a dishrag.
Dessert is served in the living room, where Alicia demands we play a board game. “I got this new one called Zombies!” she exclaims, and I burst out laughing.
“Oh, I’m quite familiar with that one,” I inform the thirteen-year-old. “I’ve played it numerous times at a friend’s house. He killed me off the last time.”
She gasps. “You got sacrificed!”
“Yep.”
“What friend?” Nico asks suspiciously.
I want to tell him to mind his own damn business. But I can’t be rude in front of his family. “Nobody,” I say vaguely.
He raises an eyebrow. “Really? Nobody?”
For some reason, Dad decides this is a hill he wants to die on, too. “Which friend is this?” he asks.
I roll my eyes at his stern tone. “My friend Hunter.”
“The hockey player?” Nico demands, eyes flashing.
“Yes, the hockey player. You know the one that you and your little buddies—”
“I know who you mean,” he interrupts, a warning note in his voice.
Aw, he doesn’t want me to rat him out to his parents. Of course not. Dora wouldn’t like it one damn bit if she knew her baby boy was beating people up for no reason.
Our eyes lock for a beat. Nico looks worried I might tattle, and relaxes when I don’t.
“Hunter and his roommates are hilarious,” I say instead, glancing at Alicia. “They have a board game night a couple times a month, and this is their game of choice at the moment. But I don’t think it’s a good Christmas Eve game, hon. Maybe we should just play charades?”
Mom claps her hands. “Yessss! Let’s do it!”
Dora smiles at her daughter. “Go find those charades cards we wrote up last year, mami. They should be in the game drawer in the family room.”