15
GWEN
The Mexican place was only half a block down the road, so we were in there and had our order placed within ten minutes. We considered eating in, but their wait time was an hour and a half, so we waited the fifteen minutes it took for my enchiladas and Sebastian’s tacos. The walk back to Sebastian’s truck was only another five. Steam wafted from the food as we laid our dinners on our laps, chips and drinks on the center console, and dips on the dashboard.
A few bites into my enchilada, I eyed Sebastian in the driver’s seat, struggling with all his might to keep the contents of his taco from spilling out the other end. I snorted at him.
He shot me a look. “What?”
“You knew we were eating in a car,” I said. “Tacos seemed like the easiest thing on the menu?”
“I know I like tacos.” Glowering, he laid it out on his lap and tucked the end of the tortilla closer to the meat and toppings. “I didn’t know if I’d like anything else.”
I arched a brow. “Tacos are the only Mexican food you’ve ever eaten?”
“No.” Another glare. “But I’m picky, and it’s hard to screw up tacos.”
“So you’re the expert on quality Mexican food?”
“I went to college in California,” he said. “Which is rich with Mexican culture, if you didn’t know.”
“Wow, I had no idea.” I teased. “Tell me more about this foreign land.”
“My roommate was second-generation. He made some bomb ass authentic Mexican food.” Covering his mouth between chews, he shrugged. “Shoot me if I’m a little hesitant to expect that quality at a Mexican restaurant run by white people.”
“Touché. This is bland.” I dipped a chip in the guacamole on the dashboard. “College in California, huh?”
“Four years of university, anyway. Came back here for vet school.”
“What was that like? Never been to Cali.”
“Pretty much exactly what you’d expect,” he said through bites of taco. “Culturally diverse. Way more interesting than Black Pines. There’s always something to do. And so much sun.” He swallowed. “I miss that damn sun.”
“We could use some of that right about now.” I glanced at the snow falling out the window onto the busy street. “I don’t know though. I don’t think I could ever live somewhere that doesn’t get snow.”
“It was nice for a couple years, but I wouldn’t want to deal with that heat twenty-four seven.” He angled to face me. “What about you? Did you go to college?”
“No college. I did go to tech in high school,” I said. “That’s where I learned cake decorating.”
“Is that where you gotyourknowledge of Mexican cuisine?”
“No, that came from Diego. One of my mom’s boyfriends.” Using the side of my fork as a knife, I chopped off another bite of enchilada.
“Ah.” Holding one hand beneath his queso-covered tortilla, he carefully brought it to his lips. When he finished chewing, he said, “Just always felt drawn to cakes?”
“Pastries more than cakes. But I’m good at decorating. And they’re just easier to make money on. Which I don’t understand, because I don’t think I’ve ever heard someone say, ‘God, I could really go for a cake right now.’”
“I’ve never understood that either. Ice cream cake, I get. But sponge cake with sweetened butter all over it? I swear, people only like it because it looks pretty in pictures.”
“And it feeds a lot of people cheaply,” I said. “So how long does it take to become a vet?”
“Eight years. Four of university and four of veterinary medicine.”
“So that would make you…?”
“Thirty-one.” A half smile. “I don’t think I know how old you are either.”
“Twenty-six.” I took another bite of enchilada and braced myself to ask what’d been on my mind for months. “If you’re only thirty-one, when did you get custody of Lizzie?”
