"You're much more than this, Hugo," I said to myself as I walked toward Isabel's house, trying to pump myself up like some discount motivational speaker. "You've got this, cabrón. You're a smooth Spanish stallion, not some nervous virgin."
But my brain wouldn't shut the fuck up: "Girls like short forms of their names, right? Isa... no wait, that sounds stupid as hell. Isabel is already perfect. Don't mess with perfection, idiota."
My thoughts were racing faster than a Formula 1 car, and I knew that son of Mr. Lee was probably watching from my bedroom window like some creepy voyeur, waiting to see if his new Spanish "bro" was about to crash and burn in spectacular fashion.
So what was I gonna do? Simple: I had to meet this Mexican goddess face to face. No more window stalking, no more asking Jeff stupid questions. Time to put my money where my big mouth was.
I composed myself as I approached their house, trying to remember every single trick Francisco had taught me back in España. All those late-night conversations about confidence, about making eye contact, about not being a stuttering mess around beautiful women. Now I had to apply all that theoretical bullshit to real life.
The problem was, Francisco's advice was based on Spanish girls who were probably way more forgiving than American ones. And Isabel? Isabel was in a league of her own - part Mexican fire, part American confidence, all trouble.
My hands were sweating like I was about to take the most important exam of my life. Which, let's be honest, I basically was. This was my entrance exam to the big leagues, my audition for the role of "a guy who doesn't completely suck with women."
Time to find out if Hugo González was gonna be a hero or a zero. So, I went straight to knock at their door. Before you click away from this fucking story thinking I'm wasting your damn time (if time even belongs to anyone these days), let me break down why I had to pull this stupid-ass move.
Picture this: me and Francisco at eight years old back in Leganés, both of us complete losers with zero game and zero girlfriends. But joder, we were thirsty as hell for some romantic action. We wanted to be like that smooth-talking Argentine kid Leo Almada who was always flexing with Aitana, buying her helados and acting all chulo like he owned the whole neighborhood. Aitana was straight fuego - like, dangerously hot for an eight-year-old's standards.
So what happens? Francisco, that absolute cabrón, decides to make his move while I'm still picking my nose and being a pussy. But here's the kicker - this little shit doesn't go talk to Alexia directly like a normal human being. Nah, this loco marches straight up to her house, knocks on the door like he's collecting rent, and asks Alexia's parents - her actual mom and dad - if he can be friends with their daughter.
I'm literally hiding behind a tree, dying of second-hand embarrassment, thinking "This pendejo is about to get murdered by some angry Spanish dad with a belt." I was ready to run home and pretend I never knew this kid.
But that ridiculous, kindergarten-level move actually worked. Like, what the actual fuck? The universe really said "You know what? This innocent approach deserves success." Meanwhile, my sorry ass remained eternally girlfriendless (definitely not a real word, but I'm making it one) while Leo Almada, Francisco, Aitana, and Alexia turned into these annoyingly cute couples doing all that lovey-dovey mierda.
And that's been my life story ever since - the eternal soltero, the forever-alone champion, the guy who watches everyone else get the girl while I'm still figuring out how to say "hello" without sounding like a creep.
So yeah, I had to knock on that goddamn door because apparently my family's secret weapon is going full niño and asking for parental permission like we're still in elementary school. Maybe Francisco's DNA carries some weird courtship magia, and just maybe some of that genetic lottery luck rubbed off on me during all those summers we spent terrorizing Leganés together.
Besides, what's the worst case scenario here? Isabel's parents slam the door so hard it breaks? Been there with other situations. They call me a stalker and threaten to call the cops? Wouldn't be totally wrong. They ask what the hell some random Spanish kid is doing at their house bothering their daughter? Well, pues... I'd bullshit my way through that bridge when I got to it.
Time to channel my inner eight-year-old Francisco, pray to whatever saints protect hopeless romantic disasters, and see if lightning strikes twice in the González family tree.
I wiped my sweaty palms on my jeans for like the hundredth time, took a deep breath that did absolutely nothing to calm my nerves, and reached for their doorbell. But then I froze - what if her dad answered? What if he was one of those intimidating Mexican fathers who clean their guns while interrogating their daughter's potential boyfriends?
"Mierda, Hugo, just press the damn button," I muttered to myself, but my finger was hovering over that doorbell like it was a nuclear launch code.
That's when I heard footsteps inside. Heavy ones. Definitely adult. Definitely male. Joder. My fight-or-flight instincts kicked in hard, and for a split second, I considered bolting like a scared rabbit. But then I remembered that Jeff was probably watching from my bedroom window like some pervert with popcorn, I could feel his nerdy eyebrows glued to the window behind me. I'm not a fool - I had to stay in character, keep up the act that this idiota believed I was some confident Spanish Casanova. "At least speak, Hugo. Hugo speak like human, not like broken robot."
The door opened, and there stood this massive dude - had to be Isabel's dad. He was wearing a "Pablo Escobar" t-shirt (which somehow made him infinitely more terrifying, not less), and he looked at me like I was some suspicious package that might explode or start preaching about Jesus.
"¿Sí?" he said, crossing his arms like two tree trunks.
"Uh... buenas tardes, señor," I stammered, immediately regretting every single life choice that led me to this exact moment of pure terror. "I'm Hugo... I live with the Lee family next door?"
He nodded slowly, still studying me like I might spontaneously combust, pull out a warrant, or try to sell him car insurance.
"I was wondering if... if you guys know me? I wanted to... to introduce myself to my new neighbors because... uh..." Think, Hugo, think! Your brain is supposed to work now, cabrón! "I'm from Spain! Yeah. And that's our culture. We... we introduce ourselves. To neighbors. It's very... muy importante."
Smooth as fucking sandpaper mixed with broken glass, González. Real smooth. Like watching a train wreck in slow motion.
He smiled then - which was somehow worse than the intimidating stare - and spoke, but not to me. He turned his head toward the house and called to someone inside:
"Teresa, Teresa. Huēhuēya uan niquitta in tlahtōlliāni īxpōchti. Nimitztlahtoa — huel mōpīlli muchīchīua neciuh. Auh huēhuēya inīn. Cuix amo tlācuilōhuatl? Cuix amo gringo? Auh niquitta, zan nimitztlāzac — nicchīuh nēchpōhuilia in notētl."
Now, you might not understand Spanish, but I swear on my grandmother's paella recipe - that was definitely not fucking Spanish.
Here I am, this ignorant gilipollas who thought all Mexicans speak Spanish and only Spanish, and I'm getting hit with what sounded like ancient Aztec war chants or some shit. I thought he was summoning the ghost of Montezuma.
That moment right there? That's when I realized I had royally fucked up and knocked on the wrong damn family's door. This wasn't just any Mexican family - this was like, advanced level Mexican family, speaking languages that probably predate my entire country's existence.
Madre mía, what the hell had I gotten myself into?