Page 23 of Nacho Boyfriend

“The thing is, Olive, I’m in a position of authority over you and I overstepped a line. For that I’m sorry.”

“No need to apologize. I apologize for making you feel like you need to apologize. And I apologize for using the word apologize too many times.”

Can somebody please stop me?

“Good. I’m glad we cleared the air. Now about your schedule…”

“Did your dad say anything to you? Those nicknames you didn’t think I should be around to hear?”

He sighs and shakes his head. “It was more my grandma. She’s not afraid to speak her mind.”

“Oh! So… how much exactly did they see?”

My face is on fire right now. It’s one thing to put on a show for my horrible ex and his hussy, it’s quite another to scandalize one’s grandma.

“Let’s just say I got a mouthful. But she’s fine now. Don’t worry.”

“I’m too curious. You have to tell me one little juicy tidbit. What did she say?”

“Just some choice words in Spanish. You don’t want to know.”

“Oh, but I do. How am I supposed to learn Spanish if no one tells me the bad words?”

“I’m not going to teach you any bad words.” He circles around behind his desk and sits, firing up his computer. “So we have you for three shifts a week at this location…”

“I’d like to meet your grandma,” I say cheerily. “My bubbe, rest her soul, was a lot like yours. If she didn’t like something, she’d let you know it. ‘Olive, don’t eat so much, you’re getting a muffin top. Olive, your hair looks like a bird’s nest. Olive, why do you have to go out with that goy’?”

“Goy?”

“It just means non-Jew.”

He blinks. “You’re… Jewish?”

“Of course, I’m Jewish. My last name is Isaac. What did you think?”

“Right. I just… never mind,” he grumbles. And then, “Is your ex-boyfriend—the guy from yesterday a… goy?”

I snort. “Aaron Lipshitz is definitely not a goy. He still brags about his accomplishments in Hebrew school.”

“Well, I suppose if it got him into a good college…” says Ignacio, rubbing the back of his neck.

“He was twelve.”

“Oh.”

There’s an awkward silence between us, neither of us knowing where to look. I guess talking about an ex can be a real downer.

Then, like every cliche in every rom-com ever, we speak at the same time.

“I think—”

“It’s getting—”

I laugh stiffly, and motion for him to go on. “Sorry.”

“No, no. What were you going to say?”

What I was going to say was how I was done with Jewish boys and would very much prefer a Spanish guy. But that would be super cringe to the power of ten.