Page 62 of The Girlfriend Agreement (Conwick U #1)

Lucia, possibly noticing my lack of understanding where her native language is involved, spares me the discomfort of asking for a translation and says in English, “You are welcome any time. Ah!” She raises her hands at the clack of paws on the earthy terracotta tiled floor as her attention shifts to the hallway behind me.

“And there is Xolo, no doubt coming to see what all the fuss is about.”

“Xolo?” I ask just as Damian shouts, “?Ven acá, Xolo!”

Barking ensues, and I glance toward the sound, turning as a medium-sized hairless dark brown dog bounds into the room and into Damian’s awaiting arms.

“Buen perrito,” he croons in a baby voice I would never expect to hear coming out of that mouth, scratching the whining dog behind the ears.

I watch them for a moment, taken aback by the unexpected display of warmth I’ve just witnessed, then—because I’ve never met a dog I didn’t immediately want to pet—I squat down to the floor beside them.

“Wow. What a cool-looking dog,” I murmur, reaching out and stroking a hand along Xolo’s smooth skin. It’s a weird sensation, but I am fascinated by it.

Damian casts a sidelong glance at me. “He’s a Xoloitzcuintli, also known as a Mexican hairless dog. And he is the goodest boy in the whole world. Yes, you are,” he adds in that sickly sweet baby voice again before smacking an obnoxiously loud kiss on Xolo’s nose.

A grin slides across my lips. Who would’ve thought that Damian Navarro, a guy who would rather pay someone to be his fake girlfriend than form any meaningful human attachment, would be such a simp for dogs?

“Damian.” Lucia taps her grandson on the shoulder to get his attention, then waves him over to the kitchen island where several plates of pastries and a floured chopping board cover its surface.

She gestures to one of the platters. “Take these bunuelos to your abuelito’s ofrenda.

It will give you a chance to say hello before we leave. ”

Leave? To go where? I nearly say, but I keep quiet and shoot covert daggers at the back of Damian’s head instead.

Curse him for not telling me anything about what to expect on this trip.

And curse me just as equally for not thinking to ask.

I was so focused on meeting his parents—and internally celebrating that I wasn’t having a massive panic attack on the plane—that I didn’t stop to think about the real reason for this little foray out of the country.

I wish I knew more Spanish. Any Spanish.

Does Damian’s abuela think I’m disrespectful for coming here during a family holiday?

Not that I had much choice in the matter.

I wish I knew more about Día de los Muertos.

Ugh , why did I leave my phone at home? I could really use Google right now.

With one final pat to Xolo’s head, Damian rises and walks over to the counter, scooping up the plate, then promptly returns to my side.

“Come with me,” he says, taking my hand again.

At my questioning look, he jerks his chin to the doorway behind me, and I follow his line of sight to where his parents are seconds away from entering the kitchen.

“Lest my parents try to interrogate you again,” he explains.

Before I can nod or say a word in agreement, he tugs me toward the opposite end of the room, through an archway leading into another hallway.

My eyes swivel all over the place, jumping between the shining tiled floor to the wooden beams overhead, each one beautifully carved with patterns and painted in those same bold colors seen throughout the rest of the house.

As we walk, I take in every detail of my surroundings, peering into the open doorways we pass in an effort to consume as much of this stunning home as I can in the limited time I have here.

It’s crazy to think we’re going to be in Guadalajara for less than twenty-four hours; I don’t think I could even fully appreciate this property in that time frame, and the expense of just flying here for such a brief visit must have been nauseatingly immense.

But then, I suppose that kind of money is just a drop in the ocean to people like Damian and his parents—and from the grandeur of this mansion, his abuela.

“So, I’m not sure how much you know about Mexican culture,” Damian begins, steering me into a two-story living room, the upper level surrounded by ornately carved mesquite banisters, overlooking the open space below.

Like the other rooms I’ve been in, the walls are that warm, welcoming ocher color, and wood accents and plants cover nearly every available surface.

Opulent red sofas frame a wooden coffee table with a large brick fireplace serving as the centerpiece of the room.

“I’ve seen Coco ,” I quip.

He snorts. “Oh, so you know all about Día de los Muertos, then.”

I shrug. “A little. But it’s been a while, so maybe don’t quiz me on it. You know, to be safe.”

Damian gives me a look that clearly says I’m a smart-ass, then smirks, gesturing for me to keep following him.

He stops just as the wall opens up on my left, and that’s when I see it: the explosion of color that encompasses the display in the corner of the room.

I hadn’t been able to see it from where I was standing when we first walked into the space, but now that I do, I realize this is the true centerpiece of the house, at least for today.

A table covered in white linen with three smaller identical tables atop it stands in the middle of an arched nook, which is bordered by marigolds of the richest orange and paper banners in every possible color of the rainbow, each one cut into intricate patterns of flowers and skulls.

The tables are accented with even more of the marigolds along with a magenta runner that unfurls down the center of the display toward the floor like a waterfall of fabric, with framed photographs, ornaments of all shapes and sizes, and lit candles filling almost the entire space.

On both sides of the shrine, two additional surfaces are decorated with even more of those vibrant orange marigolds and plates of so many different foods that I don’t even know where to look first.

Noticing my gawking stare, Damian says, “Well, the abridged version is that this holiday is a way for us to honor the people we’ve lost. It’s about remembering them and celebrating their lives rather than mourning them…though, that’s easier said than done in my family.”

He steps forward, placing the platter of fried pastry on one of the side tables, and I notice that it resembles the fried dough I used to have at the Fourth of July celebrations in Newport when I was a kid.

As Damian inches back, I follow his now forlorn gaze to one of the photographs before us—of him and an older smiling man that I realize, based on his age, must be his grandfather.

I glance at the other pictures around it.

There’s one of his grandparents’ wedding day, and another of Damian’s abuelo and abuela with Hector when he was a child.

But most of the photos on display feature Damian—some when he was young, others more recent, though none within the last few years it looks like.

In many of the pictures, he’s alone with his grandfather, and their close bond is evident in the matching smiles they wear.

There are also images of Damian with both of his grandparents—a happier, younger version of him that I struggle to see in the Damian I know now.

Then there are the other photographs, and a creeping feeling of dread rouses from somewhere deep in my gut as I examine the one face I don’t know among the other Navarros.

Except…he isn’t entirely unfamiliar. I see glimpses of Lenore and Hector in his features, and Damian’s mischievous nature reflected in his toothy smile.

If Damian wasn’t also present in the pictures, I might assume I was looking at a younger version of him, but he’s also there in every image—as the teenager I never knew.

My mouth goes desert dry as I stare at the little boy’s grinning face.

The little boy who isn’t Damian.

“This is the ofrenda your abuela mentioned, right?” I force myself to ask to fill the silence, though it’s another question altogether that beats against the inside of my skull. “And it’s like…an altar?”

Damian nods. “Every ofrenda is different, but they typically all have pictures, candles, mementos, food. In the case of my abuelo, we put out things like pan de muerto, tamales, atole. Basically, all his favorite stuff. As you probably remember from Coco ”—he shoots me an amused smile—“during Día de los Muertos, the veil between the living and the dead is temporarily lifted, which means it’s the one time of year when we can reunite with our deceased loved ones.

This”—he waves a hand toward the ofrenda—“is meant to guide their spirits back to us.”

I once again take in all the plates of food cluttering the two round tables on the sides of the shrine.

“So…the food is an offering.” It isn’t a question so much as a confirmation, to help me understand his culture and the significance behind this holiday that is clearly a monumental part of their lives. Especially if they would travel so far for such a brief time just to pay their respects.

“Right. Bunuelos”—I follow Damian’s gaze to the plate he just set down a few moments ago—“were my abuelo’s favorite treat. If he does come back to us, I guarantee it’s for these.”

My focus shifts to the pictures atop the ofrenda once more—to the smiling face of the Damian in those photos. To the kind face of his grandfather. And to the face of that young boy, notably missing among the still living Navarros.

That feeling of dread intensifies, and I blink up at Damian, my heart aching with the weight of that unspoken question. A question I can’t bring myself to ask.

So, instead, I say, “And you do this every year?”