What If It's Us(58)

“I’ll get the door,” I say.

Please don’t be them, please don’t be them . . .

“Hey!” Arthur says, holding a box of cookies. His parents are behind him with bottles of wine.

It feels a little next-level to kiss Arthur in front of his parents, so I hug him and shake their hands.

“How are you doing?” Mr. Seuss asks.

“Starving,” I say.

“It smells great,” Mrs. Seuss says.

I don’t know if she’s talking about the candles or the dinner, but it’s a win either way. “Come in,” I say. The hallway feels too tight for four people, and I’m more self-conscious of that now than ever before. No matter how much cleaning I did, there’s no pretending that the apartment isn’t way tinier than they’re used to, or that the two chairs we borrowed from my neighbor don’t stand out at the dinner table, where we’ll all be elbow to elbow shortly. “Ma, Pa. This is Mr. and Mrs. Seuss. And Arthur.”

My parents know better than to make fun of their last name considering how much shit they’ve gotten for theirs, especially my mom, whose maiden name is Almodóvar, and people pretty much made a game out of butchering how to pronounce it.

“Thank you so much for coming,” Ma says. “I’m Isabel, this is Diego.”

“Mara,” Mrs. Seuss says while shaking their hands. “Your home is lovely. Thank you for inviting us over.”

“Of course. And you, Arthur,” Ma says, her head tilting with a smile. “The legend.”

He smiles at me and back at her.

“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Alejo.” Not going to lie, I love the way he says our last name. It’s not a perfect pronunciation, but he’ll get there with time.

Arthur gives Ma cookies from Levain Bakery, which is a tiny shop on the Upper West Side known for its huge cookies and long lines out the door. The fact that they waited in that line to bring us dessert means a lot.

Dinner is almost ready, and I feel like the world’s most unnecessary tour guide as I show them around the living room. But when I see Arthur studying every picture hanging from the wall, I remember that home isn’t about how big the space is but how we fill it. Above the TV is the framed Puerto Rican flag that Abuelita brought over when she and Ma moved from their home city of Rincón to New York. The side-by-side first-day-of-school photos of me and Pa, where we would look like identical clones if it weren’t for Ma’s freckles across my face. The oil paintings my parents made on their first date because Pa wanted to wow Ma with an experience more memorable than just dinner. The coffee table we found on the curb outside our building, which slides open to reveal decks of cards and board games. I still feel exposed, but I’m no longer worried about being judged.

“Where’s your bedroom?” Arthur says.

“Don’t worry about it,” Mr. Seuss says.

Pa walks over with some coquito for everyone to try, which is basically just coconut eggnog. Arthur and I get the virgin coquitos, and normally I can have some of the regular one, but they want to make a good impression in front of Arthur’s parents, which I respect. Team Seuss seems into the coquito. Mrs. Seuss already wants the recipe, and she and Mr. Seuss follow Pa over to the kitchen.

“So far, so good, right?” I say. Arthur doesn’t seem to hear me. He’s looking around like he’s in Hogwarts. “Arthur?”

“Oh. Sorry. What?”

“Nothing. What are you thinking about?”

“I still can’t believe I’m here. I’m in my boyfriend’s living room. I have a boyfriend. You are that boyfriend. This is your living room.”

“You really like it?”

“I really do.”

“I’ll show you my bedroom later. Let’s wait until they’re super buzzed.”

We rejoin the group and Ma gets everyone seated. She doesn’t want the families bunched together so she’s sitting next to Mrs. Seuss and Pa is sitting next to Mr. Seuss and I’m across from Arthur. We’re all still really close, like we’re huddled around a fireplace in a cold forest instead of a dinner table that has no business seating six people. The table is set with pernil, ham with pineapple sauce, yellow rice, pink beans, and salad. Maybe Arthur’s family should come over every weekend so we can eat like kings more often. I just hope they like the food now. I was almost tempted to ask my parents to fry some chicken and mash some potatoes and grill some corn on the cob, but that would’ve only stopped Arthur from discovering more about me. The little things that form the bigger picture.

“Mind if we pray?” Ma asks.

“Ma, no, they’re Jewish.”

“Oh, it’s absolutely fine. Please do,” Mrs. Seuss says.

Ma looks mortified as she turns to Arthur’s parents. “Oh no—Benito neglected to mention you’re Jewish. I made pork. I am so sorry. I can make some—”

Mrs. Seuss leans forward. “Oh, please don’t worry! We don’t keep kosher.”

“We love pork,” Mr. Seuss adds. “No objection to pork. Pigs die for us constantly. It looks delicious, by the way. What do you call this dish?”

“Pernil,” Pa says.

Team Seuss just got their word of the day.

I’m holding Mrs. Seuss’s and Pa’s hands and resting my foot on Arthur’s as Ma prays. She thanks God for the food and for bringing me and Arthur together so we can enjoy this food with new friends, and I peek at Arthur, whose eyes are still closed, but he’s smiling so hard I can see his beautiful teeth. Like he wished on enough stars that his dreams are coming true. We all say amen.