“Do you think you could eat something?” I make a point of not asking if she’s hungry. Admitting as much might seem like weakness to her.
Millie clears her throat, but she looks at the paper bag. Oh yeah, she’s hungry.
“I don’t know.”
“It’s just chicken tortilla soup,” I say, rolling a shoulder like I don’t care, “from La Pagua.”
Her eyes widen and she sits up just a little higher. “Really?”
I bite down on my smile. Millie is not going to come out and ask for it. Somehow I know this is as close as she’ll come to admitting she’s hungry and the soup is calling her name. I reach for the first bag and unroll the top. Grabbing the container, I feel heat seeping through the cardboard. Good. It’s still nice and hot. I hand it to her with a spoon before reaching deeper into the bag for the little wax paper pouch of tortilla strips.
I hold it out. “Want some tortillas?”
Millie swallows visibly and makes a face. “Maybe not just yet.” But she doesn’t hesitate to pry off the circular cardboard lid. Steam rises off the surface of the soup, and it’s tangy, savory aroma fills the room.
“Mmm. That looks good,” she mutters, poising her spoon over the soup. But she stops before dipping it into the broth and looks up at me. Her blue eyes, still glassy and tired, are round with awe. “Thank you. I don’t know what else to say.”
I let my smile loose.“Thank youis plenty.” I’m not doing this for her gratitude. I’m doing it for my peace of mind. Making sure she’s okay doesn’t really feel like a choice.
Millie ladles a spoonful of chicken tortilla soup—minus the tortillas—and brings it to her mouth. She sighs, closes her eyes, and her whole body seems to melt a little as she savors the bite. I like the sight of that. So much I let myself just stare—until she swallows and wrinkles her nose in pain again.
“It hurts a lot?” I ask, frowning,
Shaking her head, Millie opens her eyes. “Probably just needs a little warming up. The soup will help,” she says, and then she scoops up another bite. She doesn’t wince this time, but I can tell it’s because she’s trying not to. Instead she braces for the swallow, and she may be fooling herself, but she’s not fooling me. It hurts.
“Your throat has been hurting since last night?”
She answers with a shrug and takes another bite. Then she nods toward the bag. “Did you get something for yourself?”
I did, and I know she’s just trying to change the subject, but she’s eating, so I let her. “I got a soup for me and a steak milanesa, but if you want that too, you’re welcome to it.”
“No, this is great. You should eat.”
I wasn’t counting on being welcome to stay, but I’m not about to turn down the invite. I reach for the other bag and remove the soup container and spoon, leaving my foil-wrapped entree for later. I carefully peel off the lid, tear open the baggie of tortilla strips, and sprinkle them into the soup.
Millie watches with unmasked longing.
“You sure you don’t want to put a few in yours? The soup will soften them up,” I say.
She meets my gaze before looking back in her bowl. “I’m good.”
Right. She’s anything but good. I’d bet the business on it. My guess is Millie has strep throat. I haven’t had it since high school, but that shit hurts like a mother. It also means she needs to see a doctor. But no reason to hassle her about that now. None of the walk-in clinics in town are open, but she’s going tomorrow if I have to carry her.
I take a bite. “Mmm.”
“I know, right?” she says hoarsely.
I grin. “Good. Just not as good as Mami’s.”
Amusement brightens her eyes. “Oh really?”
I nod. “La Pagua is great. Don’t get me wrong,” I say, stirring the cup. “Best authentic Mexican in town. Just not as good as her cooking.”
“What’s her best dish?” She tilts her head to the side, smiling. I think the soup might be helping a little. Some of the color has come back to her cheeks.
“Mole poblanois my favorite,” I say, my voice coming out deeper at just the thought of Mami’smolesauce.
Millie blinks. “What’s that? Like guacamole?”
