Will pursed his lips together in a silent laugh. “We don’t eat ’til late. The first few hours of Thanksgiving are for dancing, ponche crema, and explaining to thirteen great-aunts why you don’t have a girlfriend.”
“Ponche crema?”
“It’s kind of like a Venezuelan eggnog, but it’s way better.”
“Alcohol?”
Will rolled his eyes at me. “I’m not drunk. I only had a little bit.”
“My parents would literally kill me if I drank.”
Will led me outside, Crista and Dylan in tow. “I’ve been having wine at dinner since I was a kid. It’s normal.”
Outside, several tables were lined up on the porch, with chairs squeezed in wherever possible. Straightaway, I saw what Will meant about the cold. The sides of the porch were enclosed by detachable clear vinyl sheeting, so while some frigid air blew through u
