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“We were inebriated and in close proximity.”
Cora clicks her tongue and looks lovingly at Jay, grabbing his hand, “Remember the first time we were inebriated and in close proximity?”
Jay smiles sugar-sweetly at her. “The back seat of my car still smells like us.”
“Okay,” I groan, pinching the bridge of my nose. “That’s more than I need to know about you two. Let’s settle this once and for all: Nothing happened between Angie and me. Nothing will ever happen, because we’re friends. Always have been. Always will be.”
Jay turns his smirk to me. “Did I ever tell you about the time I fell in love with my best friend Marco?”
“You mean your other partner?”
He pauses briefly and huffs a little laugh. “Yeah.”
Chapter 4
March 30th
Rafael
“I’m kind of embarrassed that I haven’t visited your moms much since you’ve been away,” Angie says, looking outside the window as we roll up to my moms’ house in Radnor—a mere half-mile away from her childhood home. They’ve been here since Mamá, Joaquín, and I moved here from Texas when I was nine. Back when Joaquín was Gabriela. Fuck, it’s weird to think about him before he transitioned.
“It’s okay,” I say. “We were here at Christmas time with them.”
“Yeah, but I feel like I should have been here on my own when you were living in DC. They’re as much my moms as they are yours at this point.”
Something irksome kicks up inside me when she says that. “Don’t worry about it,” I say, stepping out of my Range and coming around to open her door, like I always do. “You usually come with me when I’m back in town anyway.”
She steps out of the SUV looking so…Angie. Which is to say cute and sophisticated. Tonight she’s wearing a casual, long, olive-green wrap dress with sleeves. It’s a far cry from the ensembles we wore in high school, but Angela Johanssen’s style has certainly found its mark in the last five years or so. She shows herself off now. Gone is the insecure chubby girl hiding behind her once-long brunette hair and massive costume jewelry. Now, she’s a woman who knows her body—knows it looks good. Knows how to expertly style herself, even if it is with out-of-fashion clothing. She can make any garment look like it was just invented.
But that’s always been my Angel. She’s always reinventing herself. Exploring. Trying something new.
When we reach the front steps to the house, the door swings wide open before we’re even in range of the doorknob. “¡Bienvenido a casa!” Christina, my bonus mom cheers, opening her arms wide to grab the both of us for a tight hug. She’s a good foot shorter than me, with short-cropped auburn hair that’s whiter these days, pale-as-snow skin, and her signature cargo pants and basic cotton long-sleeve. Her ‘home uniform’ as Angie and I lovingly refer to it as.
“Hi,” Angie says, switching to Spanish. “Do I smell tamales?”
Mom lets go of us. “Of course.”
“The spicy ones?” I ask, charging inside to make my way to the kitchen.
“We made them extra spicy for you two.”
“Yes,” Angie bellows. “Thank you!”
Being second generation Mexican in this country, I grew up speaking Spanish in the house and English outside it. Mamá was determined her children would speak it since most second-generation kids lose it. Since Angie was in our home constantly as a child, she picked it up quickly, and subsequently, her brothers and sister did too.
I set the bottle of wine down on the counter before hugging Mamá at the sink. As always, her black hair is perfectly curled and flowing down her back. She’s wearing simple leggings and a long sweater, and of course, her makeup is flawless. The only time you see Ana Webber without makeup is when she's about to go to bed and before breakfast is ready. Even working as a nurse practitioner, Mamá always looks like she’s ready for the cameras. Like she’s expecting paparazzi to show up and take notice of her normal, suburban American life. Like the tabloids will finally see the rags-to-riches story she made for herself—where she dragged herself out of a fractured hetero-presenting marriage, and finally became herself when she found her true partner.
The partner who supported her and wanted her to achieve her dreams. The partner who stuck by her and held her hand when our ultra-religious family back in Mexico tried to shun her for being outwardly queer. She forced her way back into the family and made them accept Christina and herself. Then did it again when I came out as bisexual. Then did it again, with way more ferocity, when Joaquín transitioned.
I’ll never forget the way she yelled at my tios and abuelos, told them right to their faces, “If you ever want to see us again, you will call him by his name and love him as you love everyone else!”
Hearing her say that to them was earth-shattering. In our family, children never speak to their parents or elders like that. Never. There’s a huge respect barrier between the generations, and even if you know you’re right, you don’t talk back. You don’t yell. You don’t sass. To us, family is everything; so to hear her say she would cut ties with them if they didn’t accept him—us—was a huge risk to our familial connection.
Except for the occasional slip up every now and again, they’ve been pretty good about it. Do they secretly refer to us as the gay side of the family and pray for our souls? Sure. But I don’t know anyone with a perfectly accepting extended family.
I’ve been a little luckier with the family’s acceptance than Mamá and Joaquín though. Seeing as I’ve never brought any love interest around them, there’s been no human proof of my bisexuality—and I think to them, that’s been easier to digest and ignore.
Whatever. It’s not my job to show off my queerness to them.
