Page 22 of Mutual Discord

I shrugged, lifting my chin. “Now who’s the weirdo?”

“We all are, apparently,” Alex said, lifting his palms.

Denise snagged my gaze before I turned to look at Alex, who simply dipped his head. We burst out laughing in unison.

The server arrived with our drinks, and Denise eagerly reached for her rum and coke, sighing when she took her first sip. My own mojito tasted divine and blended beautifully with the laughter that still sat on my tongue.

“Did you see anything good on the menu, Alex?” Denise asked, setting down her drink and tapping on the menu in front of her with a perfectly manicured nail.

Alex wiped his mouth with a napkin and set it down to pick up the menu again. “Honestly, I was hoping you and Sofia would help me choose. Since you two come here frequently, I figured you’d have some recommendations.”

“We can do that,” I said, gamely. “What are you in the mood for?”

He pursed his lips as he studied the selection. “I don’t really know. It’s been so long since I’ve had Puerto Rican food that I don’t know a lot of the items on the menu.”

“You don’t? But didn’t you ever eat Puerto Rican food in the city?” Denise asked, tilting her head to the side.

Alex shook his head. “No, not really. But I also didn’t search it out.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I looked at the menu briefly after Sofia sent the restaurant name, but I haven’t had a chance to google any of the items.”

“Oh.” Denise flashed a quick frown at me, but I was just as confused as she was. “But you’re Puerto Rican, right?”

“I am,” he replied, a note of defensiveness in his tone, “but home-cooked meals were not an everyday thing in my house growing up.”

Denise and I exchanged another look. She’d obviously picked up on his prickliness, but if Denise was anything, she was stubborn.

“I feel you.” She swirled her drink around in her glass, the ice cubes clinking together. “My mom didn’t get home from work until my sister and I were almost ready for bed. Sometimes dinner was something I could throw in the microwave or add to boiling water.”

“My parents were both in the military, and we moved around a lot. My sisters and I were all born in different states.” Alex toyed with the edge of the menu, the pad of his finger passing back and forth over the laminated corner. “Mom and Dad worked opposite schedules so one of them was always home with us, but that meant that sometimes dinner fell between their shifts. My older sister and I usually just cooked the easy things we learned how to make.”

My heart squeezed tight at the halted manner in which Alex spoke the words, almost as if he had shared this story before and expected to be judged for it. He probably had been.

Swallowing, I softly said, “Your parents were working hard to support you all, and seeing as how the good stuff can take a while to prep, I’m sure Puerto Rican dishes were saved for special occasions.”

Alex huffed a dry laugh. “If that.”

“Well, you’re here with us now, and Denise and I will tell you about the items we like on the menu and you can decide if you want to try them or not.” I laid my hand on his arm. “Sound good?”

“That would be great,” he murmured, lowering his gaze to my hand.

Yanking my hand away, and ignoring how my pulse dropped into first gear, I forced myself to look at the menu. “Under the appetizers, we usually get maduros and tostones. Both are made from plátanos, but one is prepared when they’re green and the other when they’re really ripe. Denise prefers tostones, which are more savory and cooked with a lot of garlic, but I like maduros because they’re buttery and sweet.”

“We’re going to order them no matter what because it’s a tradition,” Denise added, “so you can try both and decide which one you like.”

“And you don’t mind sharing?” Alex asked.

“Por supuesto que no.” I pointed to the entrées. “Now here’s where things get good.”

Denise and I took turns explaining the various entrées, sides, and desserts on the menu, and when the server came to take our order, Alex selected two entrées with an assortment of sides, saying they sounded delicious so he would try them all.

“Were you born here in Arizona?” Alex asked, his gaze drifting over my face.

I shook my head. “I was born on the island, although I’ve lived much of my life here in the desert.”

“Really? How did that happen?”

“I was five years old and my brother was eight when our dad got a position at the University of Arizona. He specializes in water management, and his research was perfectly matched with the dry Sonoran Desert.” I took a sip of my mojito, relishing the way the drink slipped coolly down my throat. “And my mom has a background in collections and preservations, so she was able to find a position at the local historical society. She’s worked there for over twenty-five years.”

“Wow,” he whispered. “It must be nice to have been in one place long enough to grow roots.”