“You don’t follow it, do you?” Jo’s dad says.
“No.” I know better than to lie. Fans know everything. They can sniff out a phony faster than a dog can smell a steak.
“You gotta start watching. It’s family tradition,” Angel says helpfully.
“I’ll be sure to do that.” Or at least watch some highlights, so I can talk about it if that would please Jo’s dad.
“Jo doesn’t get it. Not like we do.” Jo’s dad sighs.
“She’s a girl,” Diego says in that “what can you do?” tone. “And Tía Gwen likes gymnastics.”
Jo’s dad extends and curls his fingers at Rafael. Jo’s eldest brother grabs a red leather-bound volume from a bookshelf. It also contains other unmarked leather-bound books in different colors, as well as some classic literature. Makes sense. Jo said her dad is an English teacher.
“Since you don’t get soccer, maybe we can do this instead,” Jo’s dad says as he takes the book from Rafael. “It’s Jo when she was a little girl.”
That piques my interest. I’ve seen childhood pictures of my exes before. Their parents were always eager to show them to me—beautiful posed studio shots designed to maximize cuteness. But I have a feeling Jo’s family doesn’t do monthly studio shots.
And I’m right.
The album contains candid photos of Jo. She looks adorable in pink, red, yellow, blue… Actually, she looks adorable in every color, her innocent eyes wide, her lips soft and curved into smiles.
A hot fist clutches my heart. I feel as though I’m seeing what our daughter will look like. Contrary to Jo’s misguided belief, I’m certain we’re going to have a daughter who’s a carbon copy of her mom.
“She loved clothes even at that age,” Jo’s dad says, gesturing at various dresses she’s in. “She had so many dolls, and she was always dressing them in different outfits. My mother made doll dresses for Jo’s birthday and Christmas. They were always her favorite presents.”
Then we reach a page where the toddler Jo’s glaring at the camera, her face redder than a boiled crawfish and cheeks puffed out. Her hands are clenched into fists, and stubbornness glints in her eyes.
“What’s this picture?” I ask.
Pablo looks down then starts chortling. The other men quickly glance down and burst out laughing.
“That’s Mad Jo,” her dad says fondly. “She used to threaten that she’d hold her breath until we did what she wanted.”
“Except she could never hold her breath for long,” Rafael says, giggling.
“She cheated.” Jorge inhales some air, then puffs his cheeks out and closes his mouth stubbornly…and starts breathing through his nose.
“Until she realized screaming is harder to ignore than silent self-suffocation,” Hugo says almost mournfully.
“Regardless, she was perfect as a little girl, and she’s perfect as a young woman.” Jo’s dad’s eyes grow soft. “And she’ll be perfect as a mom, too.”
I look down at the Mad Jo, and a grinning Jo in a pink tutu next to it. Her family’s in the tutu picture, surrounding her, laughing, smiling, happy.
An unbearable longing for something I can’t identify cuts through me, and it feels like my heart actually aches.
Laughter from the kitchen catches my attention. I lift my head and see Jo giving her uncle a thumbs-up, a bit of red sauce in the corner of her mouth. Her eyes are bright, sparkling with joy. The sunlight coming in through the windows catches her, making her glow.
Her mom and aunt are smiling, and she says something to them.
They break out into laughter again, and the ache in my chest intensifies until my entire body is rigid. I wish I could name what’s making me yearn with such intensity. If I could just identify it, perhaps the universe, perhaps life itself, would start making sense.
Chapter Forty-Three
Jo
The lunch goes well, and I’m happy with the way my family seems to accept Edgar’s new role in my life—and the fact that we’re living together. The sonogram picture helps. Everyone lets out a long sigh. Then they become immediately convinced that the baby is going to be the most gorgeous thing ever.
But the picture wouldn’t have been enough if my family was dead set against Edgar. I’m pretty sure Mama had a lot to do with it. She’s the diplomat.