"So," I say, turning back to the three alphas. "What do people do after their friends abandon them at a bar?"
"We could go grab something to eat," Mason says, like it's the most obvious answer in the world. "Have you eaten?"
I think about the sad handful of crackers and cheese I inhaled standing at the kitchen counter before Luna picked me up. That was four hours and two bourbon smashes ago.
"Not enough," I admit. "Do you have suggestions?"
Arthur sits up straight. "Carlo's."
Knox and Mason nod once.
"Carlos?" I say. "Is this, like, a friend of yours? Because I've never heard of this restaurant."
"What?" Arthur asks, eyes wide. "You don't know Carlo's? Five minutes past the Lakeview General Store? They have the best tacos in the county and they're pretty much always open."
"I didn't know there was anything out by the general store except pine trees and dead zones," I reply.
Knox does the half-smile. "You've lived here for what, eighteen months?"
"Seventeen and a half. And I've beenbusy. Building a business, and... all that." I wave a hand vaguely. "You know how it is."
By the look they give me, I don't think theyknow how it is. And in fairness, I'm not sure I know how it is either. But it did sound cool.
"So it's decided," Arthur says, slapping the table.
I'm already reaching for my jacket when my body picks this exact moment to remind me I woke up at six a.m. and hiked through the woods. It is pretty late. I am hungry, but there's also leftover lasagna in the fridge. Except, knowing Mason, the lasagna may already be a memory. And tacos do sound nice. But god, my legs.
Then again. Tacos.
"Let's go," I say.
***
Arthur opens the passenger door, then steps aside and gestures.
"After you," he says.
I climb in. Arthur folds himself into the back next to Knox. Mason starts the engine, and Johnny Cash comes on the radio.
"So what's good at Carlo's?" I ask.
"Everything," Mason says.
"Helpful."
"He's not wrong," Arthur says from the back. "But specifically: the carne asada tacos, the elote, the churros... and of course the horchata. It's to die for."
"That's a bold claim for a beverage," I say.
"You'll understand when you taste it," Arthur says. "It's like someone liquefied a hug."
Knox, from his corner of the backseat, says, "And let's not forget the birria quesadilla."
"Oh," Arthur says, sitting forward. "Yeah. The birria quesadilla."
"I don't even know what that is," I reply.
"You'll find out soon enough," Knox says with confidence.
