Page 65 of Mutual Discord

“¡Wepa! Alex, you’re here! Lo siento, no queremos ignorate.” My mother stepped around me to Alex, who lingered near the kitchen table. She bussed his cheeks in greeting. “We received the best Christmas present this morning, so we’re all a tad distracted.”

“The very best present. Congratulations, abuela,” Alex murmured, patting her hand. He looked toward our little group and waved awkwardly. “Um, hi. I’m Alex, and congratulations.”

Laughter filled the kitchen, and soon introductions had been made and Alex had been swept away by my father and Javi to share a celebration cigar on the back patio. As I settled at the kitchen table to assist with pasteles construction, Olivia nudged me in the side with her elbow.

“Girl, why didn’t you tell me Alex was so…” She paused, her gaze bouncing around the kitchen.

“Handsome,” Mamí chimed in from her place at the stove where she was stirring the pork. “That is a beautiful man.”

“He’s a nice guy, too,” I said, hoping neither woman noticed the flush creeping up my neck. “Caitlin is very lucky.”

Olivia hummed her agreement.

Eventually the men returned, and Alex pulled out the chair next to me at the table, the faintest whiff of tobacco clinging to him.

“You ready to put in a shift on the pastel assembly line?” I asked, bumping my shoulder into his.

Alex’s eyebrows disappeared into his hairline as he surveyed the spread of ingredients before him. “You’re going to have to show me what to do.”

“I got you.” Pushing back my chair, I rose to my feet and walked to the opposite side of the table. With all the flair of a game-show beauty, I pointed to each item on the table. “This stack of parchment paper is to wrap the pasteles, and this butcher string holds them together. These plantain leaves have been washed and cut to size. Now, this is the masa my mother and Olivia prepared earlier today. It contains green plantains, malanga, and pumpkin. Sometimes she adds batata, if the grocery store has it. We’ll add a dollop of the masa to the center of a plantain leaf and then add a spoonful of pork”—I gestured to the bowl filled with richly seasoned diced pork shoulder—“and an olive, if you want. Then you fold the leaf, wrap it in a piece of parchment paper, and tie it with string. Make sense?”

“Umm…” Alex rubbed a hand along the back of his neck. “Maybe I can watch you assemble a few before I try.”

“Cop-out,” I replied, fighting back a smile. Taking my seat, I grabbed a parchment square and centered a plantain leaf on top of it, meeting his gaze. “Now watch what I do so you can try next time.”

Alex mumbled something under his breath I couldn’t quite catch, but it sounded like “One of my favorite things.” That couldn’t be right, though.

He sat by my side as I gave step-by-step instructions for how to construct a pastel, and when Javi offered what he deemed “expert tips” as he stopped at the table to pilfer some choice pieces of pork, Alex chuckled but returned his attention to me. There was something so heady about being the sole focus of Alex Castillo’s attention.

Reaching for a slip of parchment paper and a plantain leaf, I set them on the table in front of Alex. “Now it’s your turn. You got this.”

With a nod, Alex reached for the masa spoon, spreading a healthy amount in the center of the plantain leaf. Next he topped it with the pork filling, and after a bashful glance at me, added an olive. But when it came time for Alex to fold the parchment paper and leaf, he struggled, his lip tucked into his teeth as he tried to fold and crease it as I had shown him. After watching him struggle for a time, I stood and came to stand behind him, placing my hands on top of his. I swallowed heavily when I became aware of how close we were.

“Here, like this,” I whispered, steadfastly focusing on directing his hands to fold the pastele, like he was my marionette. They were so much larger than my own, but he followed my every move with only the barest amount of pressure. Because I was leaning so close to him, it was impossible for me not to notice how Alex’s breath quickened. “There, that’s it.”

I pulled back slightly, and my gaze slowly shifted to Alex. I wasn’t surprised to find he had turned his head to look at me, but my heart lurched out of rhythm when his eyes dropped to my mouth. Ay dios, I couldn’t afford—

The loud opening brass intro to “Abusadora” by Wilfrido Vargas suddenly burst from the Bluetooth speaker on the countertop. Alex and I jumped apart, and we both turned to see Papí with a breakfast pastry in his mouth. His eyes darted between Alex and me, and he shrugged unapologetically. “You can’t make pasteles without merengue.”

“¡Wepa!” Mamí cried from her spot at the stove where she had started a batch of coquito. With a laugh, she danced over to my father, who swept her into his arms as they twirled around the kitchen.

“Do you know how lucky you are?” Alex whispered, watching as my parents laughed and danced.

My throat bobbed up and down on a swallow. I had always known that I won the lottery being born into the Mendoza family, but hearing Alex say it reiterated the fact for me. My professional future might feel chaotic and unsettled, and my personal life twisted into knots by the things I could not have, but I knew I would always have people in my corner ready to help in whatever way they could.

A break in the song carried Olivia’s laughter to us, and I peered into the living room, spying her and Javi in each other’s arms as if they were dancing, too. “Mi Reina” by La Makina pulsed through the speaker next and Javi immediately directed Olivia into a spin, and soon my parents joined them in the living room, where there was more room to dance. I watched with a smile as they stomped their feet and swayed their hips to the beat. I was so engrossed, I hadn’t noticed that Alex stood next to me.

“Dance with me.”

I pulled back my chin and blinked up at him. “Do you know how to dance merengue?”

Alex scoffed, his expression adorably offended. “There are so many things about my Puerto Rican culture I don’t know, but my parents did teach me how to dance.”

“Really?” I regretted how doubtful my tone was when Alex arched a brow.

“Let me show you,” he said, holding out a hand.

My parents and brother and sister-in-law continued to smile and dance, and I really wanted to join them. With that certainty, I placed my hand in Alex’s.