Page 75 of Forgiving Utah

Music pumps from speakers near the back door, drawing me out of my thoughts. There are people everywhere. Kids run barefoot through the grass while adults mingle, dressed to the nines with drinks in hand. I'm pretty sure the girl with the huge puffy dress in the middle of the dance floor is Christian's sister.

Then there's me—slouching in my only pair of jeans and Christian’s leather jacket, looking like a fucking douche canoe with a giant-ass pink box in my arms.

Fuck you, Christian. You absolute dick.

He'd texted me the bakery’s location earlier and said he'd only be an hour or so late. They left hella early this morning, apparently, because he wanted to make it back in time, but I don't think he'll be here soon enough—especially because I've already been noticed.

A teenage girl scrutinizes me from the gift table, dark curls running down her back. Another one of Christian’s sisters, I think. As soon as she starts toward me, my palms start to sweat.

“¿Y tú quién eres?” she asks, not unkindly, and I try to remember what little Spanish I know.

“I, uh, soy… un amigo de Christian.” Internally, I cringe at how bad my accent is. “He asked me to bring the… el pastelito.”

That's cake in Spanish, right? I think that's what Christian calls me.

Her lips purse together. “Christian?”

“Yeah,” I nod quickly. “Uh. El hermano?”

She snorts and glances over my shoulder, like she’s expecting him to materialize. Which he does not, of course, so the girl just rolls her eyes before taking the heavy box from my arms. “Food's over there. Make a plate and go sit down.”

Embarrassment floods my cheeks, but I mask it with a smile as best I can and thank her. The uncomfortable feeling only worsens when people start singing, dancing, and taking photos. Don't get me wrong, I've always been the outsider my entire life, but now I viscerally feel it.

I don't belong in places like this. My version of a “happy” family gathering was when I got through dinner without one of my grandparents citing scripture at me. Even better if they left me alone at the table to finish my meal. There are so many relatives here, aunts and uncles and cousins—a whole community. It's overwhelming. They don't even want me here. What the fuck am I doing?

Just as I decide to bolt, Christian be damned, someone speaks from beside me.

“I should have worn what you did, man.”

I stiffen on instinct, but the sight of Christian’s younger brother relaxes me. At least, I'm pretty sure it's him. I only met him once, the last time I was here, and for the life of me, I can't remember the kid's name.

“Huh?” I mumble, taking in his clean suit and perfectly coiffed hair. He definitely belongs to Christian. I can see it in the hazel eyes and cut of his jawline.

The kid gestures at me. “Jeans. Comfy clothes. This monkey suit pinches my chest hairs.”

“Pfft.” Another guy approaches with a smile on his face, close in age to the brother. “What, all three of them?”

“Shut up, primo. At least I can grow a mustache.”

“Who's this?” The guy asks, eyeing me up and down.

“Christian’s boyfriend.”

I choke on my own spit as I inhale sharply. “His what?”

Both boys burst into laughter, but it's not… mocking, or condescending. Just happy.

“I'm just fucking with you,” Christian’s brother says, offering a hand. “Name's Carlos. Not sure you remember me.”

“Kind of.” I shake his hand, still reeling from the comment they made.

“Thomás,” the other guy says, giving me a fist-bump. “You hate my tía's cooking or something?”

When he gestures to all the food I was staring at, I shake my head quickly. “No, I'm just… nervous as fuck. I don't know what I'm doing here.”

Why did I stay instead of hightailing it the fuck back home?

Carlos chuckles. “Don't be scared, we're cool. Any friend of my brother's is a friend of ours.”