We enter the backyard through the open fence. The patio’s really nice, with a little stone spread. There’s a grill, which is the obvious source of the smoke, and a long picnic table with food already laid out.

A small group of middle-aged people—maybe ten or twelve—stand around with glasses of champagne and bottles of beer as they chat about mowing lawns and joining golf clubs. Honestly, I have no idea what they’re chatting about, but looking at them, it just feels like those are the most likely topics of conversation.

Only one woman in the crowd looks like she’s under fifty—maybe in her late thirties or so. She’s really pretty—plump red lips, voluminous dyed blond hair that cascades in waves down her shoulders, light brown skin, and a curvy figure pressed into a body-conscious red dress. Devin pulls me over to her and gives her a hug, which she returns while carrying on a conversation with this white couple, probably in their mid-fifties.

Devin hangs on to her as she wraps up the conversation and finally turns over to us. “Mom, I want you to meet Noah,” e says, and I pause, eyes wide. Mom?

She looks at me and smiles, and I can kind of see the resemblance. They have the same wide, uninhibited, dimpled smile. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Noah,” she says, and she has a little bit of a Miami accent. “You can call me Luly.”

“Nice to meet you too,” I say because I always feel awkward addressing parents by their first names.

“Is all the food done?” Devin asks. “I’m starving.”

Devin’s mom looks at em with a raised eyebrow and says, “When aren’t you? Your father put some stuff out already.”

Devin smiles and flips me a pair of finger guns. “Let’s get food.”

We cross the yard over to the long picnic table, and lo and behold, there is in fact a lot of food already out. Devin grabs two little plastic plates and passes me one so we can make our way down the line. It looks like some of the food was brought by the guests, and it’s pretty obvious which portions those are—broccoli casserole, tuna casserole, tuna salad, potato salad. Ugh, actual salad.

I grab a huge helping of arroz con pollo to help clear my head of all the unnatural salads in the world. And, of course, I grab some croquetas since Devin raved about them earlier.

There’s a small garden in the corner of the yard, and a smaller version of the long picnic table out there. Devin and I sit, and I start shoveling food down my gullet because I have no shame.

Devin smiles and says, “How is it?”

“Amazing,” I say, because it really is. “Best Cuban food more than a mile out of Miami.”