“Besides,” she said, brightening with that endless well of optimism she seemed to possess, “taste how strong this batch came out.”
She held out a tamale, still warm from the steamer, unwrapped from its corn husk like a gift.
Barbacoa tamales—equal parts fat, protein, carbs, and magical recovery. The perfect post-workout snack, especially if your workout was sitting on a beach crying and then being ambushed by a man with an eight-pack.
I bit into it and the flavor hit first—rich, smoky, the beef so tender it dissolved on my tongue, the masa perfectly soft with just enough structure to hold everything together.
But then the magic hit half a second later, rolling through me like a warm wave. The tension in my shoulders unwound, the ache in my knees from my earlier run faded to nothing, and the low-grade headache I’d been carrying since my mother’s phone call simply…left.
“Jesus, Lupe.”
“Good?”
“You know it’s good. It’salways good. These areobscenelygood.”
I took another bite, and this time I paid attention to the magic itself—how it moved, the shape of it.
Lupe’s power was warm and full-bodied, honestly, like a perfectly spiced mole sauce, as cheesy as that was. It was a comforting hug, permission to let go of the aches and pains we all held onto without noticing.
It was the kind of magic most people in our family didn’t respect because it didn’t make a spectacle.
I looked at my cousin—flour on her cheek, dark circles under her eyes from a man who didn’t deserve the effort it took to keep him fed and whole—and felt the familiar surge of protectiveness that had defined our relationship since we were kids. Lupe was two years younger and had always been softer, quieter, more willing to bend. I was the one who fought. Between us, we almost made one functional adult.
“Lupe.”
“Hm?”
“Your magic is extraordinary. You know that, right?”
She smiled—not the full Torres attitude, but one smaller and more real.
“You always say that.”
“Because it’s always true.”
“Mamá used to say kitchen magic was women’s work. And not in the nice way.”
“Your mother could call a hurricane with her bare hands but couldn’t boil rice without burning it. Her opinion on kitchen magic is irrelevant.”
My mother and her twin had always been extremely similar, which was probably why they didn’t get along.
Lupe laughed, and the tightness in my chest eased further. This was what I stayed for. Not the obligations, not the guilt.This.My cousin laughing at midnight in a kitchen that smelled like chiles and magic, handing me food that healed the parts of me I didn’t know were broken.
I finishedthe tamale and licked masa off my thumb.
“So,” Lupe said, eyes glinting, “this tourist.”
“Oh my god.”
“Hear me out. Men have their uses. I’m just saying—if your magic gets a boost and there’s a very attractive stranger in town who makes you smile like thatandyou get to have a few awesome orgasms along the way?—”
“You are giving this guy an awful lot of credit.”
“I’ve got a good feeling about him.” She winked.
“What? Did the cards tell you?”
She lit up. “That’s a good point!”
