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“My mother is Black and Dominican – born here in the states –, and my father is Irish, as in from Ireland.”
Fascination has me folding my frame slightly forward.
“I was born there, the Dublin area – like I previously mentioned –,” he continues to casually explain, “and we stayed until I was five almost six. We moved to Michigan when we found out my grandfather – my mom’s father – was dying. She wanted to be closer during his final days. She ended up being the child that spent most of her time lookin’ after him. He only lived about a year, and my grandma died just a few months after him, leaving no real reason for my parents to have to stay, but neither wanted to return to Ireland. They thought it’d best for me to be raised here instead. They moved us away from the Detroit area to Applecourt, which is where I primarily grew up. The old sayin’ in our family is we traded spuds for apples.”
Giggling can’t be helped.
“Being raised with three very different backgrounds kind of cultivated me into this clash of cultures that is just naturally in everything I do.”
“Are your tattoos a reflection of that?”
“Sí.” His pointed finger caresses skin I want to. “I’ve got a Celtic cross. The lucky clover with our family values and principles in both languages. There are a couple of hurling sticks with the Dominican flag draped around them.” The digit switches to the other side. “There’s the old-style microphone with the Elvis Presley signature through it surrounded by musical notes that contain the names of famous Black musicians like Nina Simone and Duke Ellington as well as some of my Irish favorites like The High Kings and Latin influences like Juan Luis Guerra.”
“Wow,” is airily released into the conversation.
He grows a brighter grin and gestures to the odd spread of food waiting to be cooked. “Even something as simple as breakfast is an interesting blend of all that I am.”
Curiosity gets the better of me, and I let it. “How did your parents meet?”
“Mom was in Ireland for holiday. Dad was her guide. The O’Clery clan owns a huge tourist company that caters to guiding, housing, and guaranteeing a good time while in the country. End of day one they met at a pub and connected over their mutual love for the greatest singer of all time.”
I silently wait for the extremely subjective next part of the statement.
“Elvis.”
Laughter leaks from me on a shake of the head. “You have got to be shitting me. Your parents bonded over liking Elvis?”
“Obsessing over Elvis, bella – which also means beautiful in Spanish.” He waggles his eyebrows for emphasis. “Obsessing. And that obsession has not only kept their marriage alive but been passed onto me hence the tattoo as well as this morning’s music choice.” Tate beams brightly and points to the speaker system that’s now pumping out “Hound Dog”. “However, I wanna be more than just a friend of yours.”
Heat blasts through my expression, yet the instinct to hide it never appears.
I let him see the effect of his words.
The response to his declarations.
His intents.
His fucking voice.
It doesn’t take long for the same hunger to flood his complexion but for some reason he doesn’t act upon it. “Tell me about your family.” He reaches for the produce to begin cutting. “Who taught you how to cook?”
My attention oscillates between watching his face and his hands while he works. “That would be my grandmother.”
“Not your mom?”
“No.” Leaning forward onto the counter to get a better look at everything occurs as I continue. “My parents died in a car wreck when I was three or four. I don’t really remember them to be completely honest.”
His green gaze lifts to mine. “I like honesty.”
I swat away the urge to swoon over every little thing he says. “My mom’s parents took on the responsibility of raising me. It meant working long past their planned retirement years, but they always told me I was worth it. Made me feel like I was worth it. More their late in life second daughter than their granddaughter. They died about ten years ago, but I swear, sometimes it feels like it just happened.”
“The unfortunate haunting of death with those we are close to.” He quietly concurs. “One of my favorite mates in Ireland died from head trauma post a hurling brawl a year ago, and I still pick up the phone to text him about championship possibilities.”
“That’s the second time you’ve said hurling.” Confusion tilts my head. “Do you mean…curling?”
Tate’s chuckle is presented in tandem with him moving onto chopping something else. “No, I mean hurling. It’s a sport, although, not popular or well known in the states, but it’s getting there.” He cuts me a minor glance. “I’ll teach you all the rules before you watch me play.”
“You want me to watch you play?”
