Page 113 of When Ben Loved Tim
I scrunch up my face. “Even in here?”
“Just… No gay stuff. All right?”
“No gay stuff,” I repeat, before slugging him on the arm playfully. “Buddy.”
Tim looks even more distraught. “This is going to be a disaster.”
“It won’t!” I promise him. “I’ll be on my best behavior.”
“Good,” he says, consulting the notebook again. “So who’s your favorite player and why?”
“That’s easy,” I say to buy time. And it works, because we hear his mother shout from downstairs.
“Gordito!”
“Is that your dad’s name?” I ask in confusion.
“Jesus Christ, no! Don’t call him that.” Tim gets up and eyes me with transparent concern. “I can tell them there’s so much work to do that we need to eat in my room.”
“Stay here if you want,” I say, getting up and going to the door. “I’m having dinner with your parents.”
I’m the first one down the stairs, but I fall back when nearing the dining room, because I really do want this to go well. I’m not here to upset anyone. The opposite, in fact.
“Hey, Dad,” Tim says when pushing past me. His tone is more reserved than usual. “This is my friend, Benjamin.”
A man stands up from the table. I’ve seen photos of him, so the short white hair and silver eyes are expected. His build is much more intimidating in person. He’s even bigger than Tim. Not as toned, I would guess from the brief impressions I get when my eyes dart down to his body, but the dress shirt sleeves are rolled up over thick forearms and his grip is strong when he wraps a hand around mine in a formal handshake.
“Nice to meet you, sir,” I say.
“Welcome,” comes his terse response before he nods to an empty chair.
Tim and I sit across from each other on the long sides of the table, his parents at each end. A spread of steaming food is laid out before us. I don’t have to fake my enthusiasm, because it looks and smells incredible. I’m trying not to drool when the others fold their hands and bow their heads. I stare for a moment before doing the same, grateful that Tim prepared me for this. The voice I hear is rougher than my boyfriend’s.
“Bless us, oh Lord, and these, thy gifts, which we are about to receive from thy bounty. Through Christ, our Lord. Amen."
“Amen,” I add a little later than the others, but I’m pretty sure I scored points anyway.
“Tim insisted that I make his favorite,” his mother says while serving helpings onto each of our plates, “but if I was going to represent Mexico City, I would have madetacos al pastor.”
“I bet you’d like those,” Tim says. “It’s pork and pineapple. Sort of like the pizzas we order.”
“I can come back tomorrow,” I say to his mother with a hopeful expression.
“I don’t cook like this every day!” she says with a laugh. “Besides, the Mexican rice is my mother’s recipe. You can’t get more authentic than that.”
We talk about food during the beginning of the meal. The main course,chiles rellenos, consists of battered and fried peppers stuffed with cheese that are served in a tomato sauce. When I take a bite, the suspicions of my nose are confirmed by my mouth. It’s delicious! While we eat, his mother shares memories of cooking as a child, which is interesting, but I’m eager to get to the really personal stuff.
“So how did you two meet?” I ask, looking to Tim’s father.
“I was a Catholic missionary,” he replies.
“Even though eighty percent of Mexico is Catholic?” I ask. “Or was it way lower before you got there?”
His father smirks. “If only I was that effective. No, we were both missionaries overseas when we met.”
“In a foreign country? Wow, that’s romantic!” His father raises an eyebrow at this until I add, “My parents met in a bowling alley. And neither of them bowl.”
The others laugh, which helps me feel more at ease, so I follow up with another question.
