Page 44 of The Plus-One List

“Ummahgod,” I mumbled through my mouthful.

Agustín laughs through his own bite. “Ssgoodyuh?”

“Ughsssogood.”

I wash it down with a drink of the beer, and now I understand why he brought them. The cool refreshing drink pairs perfectly with the rich, spicy flavors.

“Wow,” I say.

“Yeah?” he asks.

“Yeah. If this wedding was just about me eating the food, I would nail it. Ten out of ten.”

Agustín laughs loudly at that and holds up his hand for a high five, which I obviously do not reciprocate because what if I miss, or what if I do it wrong, or what if I accidentally hit him in the face. But then he just high fives himself with his other hand and grins at me. I blush, grinning back, and for half a second, my eyes dip to his mouth, and I wonder what his lips would feel like on mine. Then a spasm of Danger, Danger, Danger rips through me and I yank my gaze away.

“Diez de diez,” he says.

We both decide the sopes might be a little too messy to eat with our hands, so I grab us some forks and knives and napkins. We spend the next few minutes demolishing the food. I alternate between the sopes and the aguachile, delighting in the combination of flavors, hearty versus fresh. When we are both finished, we lean back in our stools, sipping our beers. I don’t think I’ve ever felt this relaxed in my apartment with anyone besides Rachel.

The dogs have gathered around us while we eat, Charleston doing his best impression of a desolate starving orphan who hasn’t eaten in days, the Colonel waiting patiently with hopeful eyes, Hazel pacing around the legs of our stools and glaring at us for not sharing anything yet. There are some chorizo crumbles and bit of tortilla and cheese on my plate. I hand out treats equally among my dogs, and Agustín gives Charleston some extra chorizo because Charleston bends all humans to his will when it comes to food.

There’s a tiny squeak and I see Pip, emerging from the decompression room.

“Hey there,” I say gently. There’s one last bite of chorizo left on my plate, and I pick it up and hold it out as I walk very slowly over to him. He takes a step back but doesn’t run from me. I crouch down, the meat in my outstretched hand. I don’t move. Pip’s nose twitches and his tongue flashes out. “It’s okay,” I say. “It’s yours. Go on.” I try to think of the Spanish phrases Agustín taught me. “Um … qué buen perro. Está bien.”

I cringle at how terrible my accent is, but Pip creeps toward me, still sniffing. He snatches the chorizo from my hand, and I smile. “Qué buen perro,” I say again. Pip swallows, licking his chops, and sniffs my fingers. Then he gives them a quick lick. It’s the first time he’s touched me without biting. Keeping extra still and my eyes on Pip, I say to Agustín, “Hey, could you get me some more chorizo?”

I hear the squeak of his stool and then his footsteps going into the kitchen. I don’t want to break eye contact with Pip. “Qué buen perro,” I say softly. He gives a little whine. A plate sets down next to me, with a handful of crumbles on it, and I pick up another piece and hold it out to him.

“Oh no you don’t, cabrón,” Agustín says, and I imagine he’s keeping Charleston from attacking the plate. But I only have eyes for Pip. He eagerly takes another chunk of chorizo from my proffered hand. And this time, when I reach for more, he doesn’t skitter at all.

When the plate is clean, Pip licks his lips again, looking satisfied. He sniffs my hand, gives my fingers a final lick with his long tongue, then lets out a huge yawn. He pads over to the dog bed and starts digging, like chihuahuas tend to do. Then he circles around a few times and curls up, closing his eyes.

I look up at Agustín in wonder. “Did you see that?” I whisper.

Agustín is holding Charleston on his lap, beaming. “I saw it.”

Hazel looks indignant at the audacity of someone taking the bed she rightfully stole from the Colonel, but I grab her as she trots over to give Pip a piece of her mind. “Oh no you don’t,” I say, standing and tucking her in my arms. I feed her a bit of chorizo and she relents.