Page 28 of Nacho Boyfriend

“Are you okay?” I offer. “Can I get you a water?”

“He’s fine,” says Ignacio. “And he’s not as funny as he thinks.”

Mr. Precio taps my knee. “I’m okay. Thank you.”

“Alright, well this has been fun,” says Ignacio, getting up from his chair to shoo us out. “But I have piles of work.”

“I can tell when I’m being kicked out.” Mr. Precio flicks his hand at Ignacio, then turns to me. “This used to be my office, you know,” he says, as though I’m his new confidant.

“Really?” Of course I knew that already.

“Would you like to have a cerveza with me?”

Aww. He seems so sweet, I’d be a monster to refuse.

“No beer for you, Dad. And nothing with sugar.” Ignacio scowls at me behind his dad’s back, slicing his hand across his own throat. Okay, okay. I can take a hint.

Looping my arm through Mr. Precio’s elbow, I walk out of the office with him, heading to the front of the house.

“I would love to have a drink with you sometime,” I say as sweetly as possible. “But I suppose I really do need to check on that goldfish. Can I take a raincheck?”

The old man covers my hand with his, squeezing me in tighter by his side.

“What are you doing Sunday?”

“Laundry, probably.”

Ignacio, who’s following behind us, clears his throat in an extremely obvious way.

“Then I expect you for dinner,” says Mr. Precio with a wry smile, the old bugger. “My house. Good food. Buen vino. Do you like ribs?”

“I love ribs,” I say.

We’re at the bar now, and Ignacio clears his throat again.

“Olive, may I have a quick word?”

“Pork or beef?”

“Dad, she’s Jewish. She doesn’t eat pork.”

I toss up a hand and blow a raspberry. “I’m not Kosher. Pork is fine.”

“Olive?” Ignacio warns.

I give Mr. Precio another hug, which he reciprocates this time. “It was nice to meet you, Mr. Precio. I’ll see you Sunday.”

“Call me Francisco. And come casual. We’re not fancy, unlike my son. Pretenciosos.”

“Casual is my middle name,” I chirp, even as Ignacio squeezes between me and his father to get the bartender’s attention.

“No sugar for my dad,” he orders, tapping the bar.

Josh, the bartender, gives him a nod and then greets Mr. Precio with a familiar smile. The old man says something under his breath and Josh laughs, both of them glancing over at Ignacio.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Ignacio hisses as he leads me by the elbow to the busser station.

“What? Nothing.”