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“What’s that?”
“Is it a kind of taco?”
“It’s a drink,” I practically sputtered. “A delicious Mexican apple soda that’s basically pure sugar. Do they not have taco trucks in Ojai?”
“Of course we do.”
“Good ones?”
“Really good.”
“I don’t know about that. If they don’t have Sidral Mundet, I’m not sure I trust them.”
“My favorite one makes their own tortillas and they have horchata on tap.”
“Oh. Well—that actually does sound delicious.”
“It’s amazing.”
“Still. I bet mine is better. Leo’s, on Raven Rock Boulevard, across from the little Target. I can show you.”
Russell smiled wide at me, like he could somehow see the same thing I could—this night, this feeling, just continuing, pulling us forward through time and space until there we were, the two of us holding hands outside my favorite taco spot. “Sounds like a plan. And I’ll ask for an apple soda.”
“Sidral Mundet.”
“That’s the one.”
“Next!” the woman called, and I realized that four of the people in front of us had been in a group—which meant there was only one person ahead of us, a man who stepped forward to order. The back of his T-shirt read The Nevada Independent.
I breathed in the scene for a moment, trying to etch it into my mind. How many nights had I stood like this, waiting in line for dinner in parking lots and sidewalks? Knowing I was only moments away from a paper bag with foil-wrapped tacos or a burrito or a quesadilla sandwiched between two paper plates, red and green salsas on top along with the little plastic bag with lemon slices and radishes.
“Oh no,” I groaned, as a terrible realization hit me all at once.
“What? You okay?”
“Decidedly not. I just realized this is the last authentic taco I’ll have until Christmas, probably.” I let out a breath. “Is it possible to be nostalgic for something when you haven’t technically left it behind?”
“I’m sure there’s a word for it. Probably a really long German one.”
“I can look it up.” I reached for my phone and then immediately realized this was futile. “No, I can’t.”
“Can you get some more tacos before you go? When do you leave for Connecticut?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Yeah, I’m taking the red-eye to New York, and then the train to Connecticut. My dad and I have a whole plan. We’re going out to dinner first—he’s calling it the Last Supper. And then on the way to the airport, we’re going to In-N-Out to pick up shakes for the drive, since I’m going to be without it for the longest time in my whole life.”
Russell shook his head and folded his arms—god, they were nice arms, bare except for his watch. It was an actual watch, not an Apple Watch. A worn leather band, a white face with gold numbers and hands. “I didn’t even think about the fact you’re not going to be able to get In-N-Out for months. That’s rough.”
“But you won’t have it either—I assume there’s none in Michigan.”
“Jeez, that’s right. I guess I’ve been in denial.”
“But at least there’s good stuff in Ann Arbor. My friend Jack went there last year. He was always talking about that one deli…”
“Zingerman’s?”
