Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 72589 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 363(@200wpm)___ 290(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72589 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 363(@200wpm)___ 290(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
“And we can leash him downwind of us, too,” she says. “So, he won’t ruin our dinner. How about something from the taco place to start? I can always go for a taco.”
“El Jefe? Yeah, they’re good. The owner uses his grandmother’s recipes from Oaxaca. Nothing fancy, but the execution is spot on. Especially the carne asada.”
She looks up at me, clearly amused. “Theodor LiBassi, are you a foodie?”
I grunt, and she laughs.
“It’s okay,” she says, patting my arm. “I won’t tell anyone. I know you have a bad boy rep to protect. I’m a foodie, too. But I’m a pescatarian, so I might not be able to share if you want the carne asada. Hope that’s okay.”
“That’s fine,” I say. “The fish tacos are good, too, and the tofu curry at the Thai place is great. And if we’re still hungry after, I wouldn’t complain about trying the grilled shrimp skewers from the Jamaican place.”
Her eyes widen. “Oh, yes, please. Let’s definitely save room for those. My grandma on my mom’s side is Jamaican. Growing up, whenever we made it down to Texas for a visit, she made the best food.”
“Is all your family in Texas?” I ask as we get in line at El Jefe.
She shakes her head, “No, my dad’s family is near D.C., where I was born. Mom’s side is still mostly in Jamaica, except for my Grammy Kiyana. She came to the U.S. with my mom and aunt when she was young. My grandpa was apparently an abusive piece of garbage, so she left him and came to another country all by herself. She put two kids through college on a nurse’s salary and still made time to go dancing every weekend and sew Mom’s wedding dress. She’s the sweetest, and the toughest, and I love her to pieces.”
I nod. “Sounds like an impressive woman. My dad was garbage, too. It took my mom a long time to leave him, but once she did, she was like a different person. A lot more peaceful and fun to be around than the mom I knew growing up.”
“Are you two close now?”
My shoulders inch uncomfortably toward my ears. “No. She didn’t leave Dad until I was out of the house. And after my sister died… I don’t know. Seemed like she kind of wanted to forget she’d ever had kids. Move on. Get a fresh start.” I lift a hand before Steph can offer what I’m sure would be very kind words of comfort. “And that’s fine with me. Really. I didn’t know that peaceful, happy Mom very well. When I was growing up, we were more like cell mates who shared the same jailer than family. A part of me is glad I don’t have to see her anymore, honestly. The memories when she’s around…aren’t great. I think a clean slate was best for both of us.”
Stephanie’s eyes go liquid with empathy, and I curse myself for letting things get heavy. But then, I’ve never been good at sugar coating shit. I either tell the whole, unvarnished, ugly ass truth, or I keep my mouth shut.
But I don’t want to keep my mouth shut with Steph. For some reason, I feel compelled to be real with her. And hell, I just like talking to her.
I like it nearly as much as staring at her ass in her yoga pants.
I expect her to say she’s sorry or that it’s never too late for a fresh start or something, but she just takes my hand and gives it a squeeze.
I return the squeeze, grateful when she gracefully changes the subject, “So yeah, my dad’s family was the one we saw the most. But they’re all in politics or the military and have sticks shoved way, way up their butts.” Her lips hook up on one side. “And having a stick up the butt negatively impacts your ability to cook, Theodore. That’s a fact. I mean, I love them, but the food in D.C. was not Grammy Kiyana quality. At all.”
I exhale a soft laugh. “I don’t know. I’ve been told I have a stick up my ass once or twice, and I’m not bad in the kitchen.”
Her brows shoot up. “Really? What’s your signature dish?”
“Prime rib and lamb chops,” I say. “But my seafood risotto isn’t bad, either. If you’re looking for a meat free option.”
She hums thoughtfully. “Sounds delicious.”
Before I can do something unwise like offer to make her dinner sometime, we’re at the front of the line.
We place our order for a fish taco plate, before grabbing shrimp skewers and curry at the other trucks and taking our bounty to the picnic table at the edge of the lot, where Mr. Sniffles can fart in peace. The conversation continues to flow easily, the way it always does with her. When she’s not making me feel things I shouldn’t feel, being with Stephanie is relaxing, easy in the best way.