Page 36 of Nacho Boyfriend

I can only roll my eyes and shrug.

“Now I’m curious,” says Mom. “I hadn’t paid attention to her shoes.”

“Show us your shoes, Olive,” says Dad.

Borris agrees. “Yes, show us your shoes.”

Oh, good grief.

Dad won’t give up until he gets his way, and now my whole family wants to see her Crocs. So my easygoing fake girlfriend, instead of getting up to walk around the table like a normal person, scoots her chair back and kicks up her leg—right next to my face. My jaw hits the floor. Abuela applauds. Dad gloats as if he’s the grandmaster of fashion.

“You see? Those are some nice shoes.”

Olive, casually sitting with her leg stretched straight in the air, looks up at her foot, rotating her ankle side to side. “They’re just your average classic clog.”

“A mi me gusta,” says Abuela, nodding approvingly.”

Francesca gapes at Olive. “How are you so flexible?”

“Karate.”

“You can put your foot down now,” I say.

Olive lowers her leg and scoots her chair in.

My brothers glance between themselves and then over to me. Mateo wags his brows suggestively. I glower at him.

“No las he visto en el T.J. Maxx,” Abuela says dismally.

“Regresamos al T.J. Maxx tomorrow,” says Borris. “There’s another one on Martin Luther King Boulevard.”

Abuela nods. “Martin Luther King. Buen tipo ese hombre.”

Dad groans. “Todos los días, T.J. Maxx. Why don’t you take her to the beach or a museum?”

“I don’t have time for that,” says Borris. “I have to work.”

Dad slams his fist on the table. “Aye que la fregada.”

“Where did you get your shoes, Olive?” Mom asks.

Olive, who has been trying to keep up with the Spanish but is left with a baffled expression simply responds by saying, “Jersey.”

Tío Enrique scoots his chair back and rubs his belly, clearly uninterested in where Abuela might find a pair of Crocs. “Estoy lleno, mi chavo. Pero que rico los ribs.”

“Six hours in the smoker,” says Dad.

As if on cue, Tío Pedro sneaks another serving of ribs and a baked potato, taking his plate into the kitchen where he’d left his to-go containers.

“I’ll bet we can find Crocs at the fashion district,” says Mom.

“Ese lugar me pone feo,” says Dad.

Mom frowns. “What do you mean you don’t like it? You love the fashion district.”

“I only like the soccer store.” He waves his hand dismissively. “You can go if you want to. Just the women.”

“Me alone with your mom? In downtown L. A.?”