I rush back to my bedroom to grab my phone and call out to them again—my phone ready—and catch them off-guard.
“What are you two doing?” I ask them.
“You weren’t supposed to be up yet.”
“The smell woke me up,” I say. “Whatcha making?” I step toward the kitchen island and lift a tea towel covering a mountain of something. Underneath is . . . something that looks a lot like flour tortillas.
“Those, uh, didn’t turn out so great,” Adrian admits, scratching the back of his neck.
I pick up one of the soggy tortillas, and it wilts, limp, over my fingers. It’s translucent with oil and looks rather sad.
“I told you the oil wasn’t hot enough yet,” Karl whines, flipping something over with tongs.
There’s something grainy on the surface of the greasy tortilla. I dab my finger in it and bring it to my mouth, tasting sugar and cinnamon.
“Uh, dude,” Adrian says after a moment, nudging Karl.
“What?” Karl snaps.
“I think you made her cry.”
Karl turns to look at me, and now both men are studying me curiously.
My voice is chopped when I find it. “You—you, you’re making buñuelos?”
“Well, we’re trying, but I’m not a damned cook, and Adrian was supposed to help, but he’s done nothing but get in the way—”
After I set down the pastry abomination, I cut Karl off as I surprise him with a hug, clinging to his neck and sobbing into his chest.
“This is the sweetest thing anyone’s ever done for me,” I say. “Thank you.”
Karl’s strong arms wrap around me, and he lets his cheek fall to the top of my head. “Don’t cry, Iggy. This was supposed to be a happy thing.”
“They’re tears of joy,” I whimper, then let go of him so I can hug Adrian. “Thank you too, Adrian.”
I have to laugh through my tears because it’s almost as if Adrian doesn’t know what to do with a hug. He’s stiff, and his arms hang like dead weight at his sides. I nudge him. “Hug me back,” I tease.
One arm, only one, comes up to pat my back awkwardly, and I laugh, pulling away from him.
“Thank you. Really,” I say to both of them as I dab my tears with my shirt. “Now, give me those tongs.”
I make the rest of the buñuelos and fix a pot of hot chocolate. When I set the stack of flaky pastry in front of them, Adrian picks one up, breaks a corner, and tastes it. He then smacks Karl’s arm. “I told you they were supposed to be crispy.”
“But you didn’t know how to make them crispy,” Karl shoots back, and we all laugh, nearly spitting out our hot chocolate.
* * *
Becareful what you wish for because sometimes, miracles are a double-edged sword. Waking up to a beautiful snowstorm on December twenty-fourth was the stuff of dreams. But now the Weather Service is advising against driving, and I don’t take those warnings lightly anymore.
This means we can’t go to Ileana’s for dinner as planned. She sounded disappointed when I called her to let her know, but she agreed staying safe is best. Plus, she said she could save us leftovers. She and Isael are going to have a feast.
We invited Adrian to stay this evening, but he declared that Christmas isn’t his thing and that he feels good today, which I think means he feels strong enough to not drink tonight. I did, however, ask him to come back in the morning for gifts.
So Karl and I are alone. We don’t have much grocery-wise, so I pop a frozen pizza in the oven after a short guitar lesson.
“So what shall we do this evening? Any other traditions I can make happen for you?” Karl asks.
I think for a moment. “My Dad and I would usually have a Quentin Tarantino marathon.”