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I finally emerge from my frenzy when the muscles in my neck scream in pain, and I can no longer ignore them. I glance at the time and blink in confusion because it’s five-thirty in the evening. Oh wow. I ate a flaky croissant for breakfast, and I haven’t eaten since. No wonder my stomach is grumbling.
Tacos. I want them. I need them. I’veearnedthem. There’s a great little place, Taco Gus, that’s a thirty-minute drive away. Elliot and I would stop there on the way to the club. That thought would normally send a spike of grief through me, but today, I’m buoyed by a sense of accomplishment. Not even my nerves about tonight can bring me down.
Wait. Tonight. Shane and Theo will be here in an hour and a half, damn it. We’re having dinner in my room. Which means more room service from a menu that does not have tacos on it.
Have I said I really want tacos? The al pastor at Taco Gus isamazing. I think about the slices of marinated pork, the pickled onions, the pineapple jalapeno salsa, and my stomach growls louder. And now I have to give up my meal of choice because of my dinner plans? Dinner plans I didn’t want to make?
Ugh.
Hang on. We exchanged phone numbers last night. I should handle this like an adult. I pick up my phone and text Theo.I haven’t eaten all day, and I have a taco craving. Can we change things up?
He calls me back right away. “You haven’t eaten all day?” he asks. “You must be starving. You want to move dinner up?”
Theo has a deep, warm voice. The British accent is catnip, of course, but it’s more than that. On the phone, Theo sounds steady and kind and concerned. A blanket. A cocoon—
No. Oh, no, no, no. No more cocoons for Addie. That shit is in the past.
“It won’t kill me to miss a meal,” I say. “But yes. There’s a taco place I like—”
“An actual restaurant?” His tone turns teasing. “How exciting.”
I realize I’m smiling and force a frown on my face. “Don’t get carried away. It’s a hole in the wall.”
“When do you want to leave?”
Theo and Shanewore bespoke suits last night. I thought they would stick out like sore thumbs in a place like Taco Gus, but to my surprise, they fit right in. It helps that they’re dressed much more casually today. Theo is wearing a cream cable-knit sweater and faded jeans. He looks like Chris Evans inKnives Out.
Shane doesn’t seem to feel the cold. The long sleeves of his navy-blue T-shirt are pushed up to the elbows. He studies the laminated menu for a minute and then sets it down. “What’s good here?”
“I usually get the al pastor. That’s marinated pork. If you eat beef, the carne asada is amazing. They have a rotating vegetarian special, and every time I’ve gotten it, it’s been delicious.”
Shane looks amused by my enthusiasm. “Got it,” he says. “Everything is good.”
We decide what we want and head to the counter to order. I haven’t been here in years, but nothing’s changed. The walls are turquoise blue, and a Mexican flag is pinned to the wall behind the counter. A giant painting of Frida Kahlo dominates the dining space, her expression serious. I’ve always imagined that she’s frowning disapprovingly at my food choices. Across from Frida, there’s a small advent calendar, which brings back childhood memories. I haven’t seen one in forever, but I used to love them as a kid.
Taco Gus is run by a husband-and-wife team. Liliana is nowhere to be seen, but Hugo recognizes me and smiles widely. “Addie,” he booms, and then his smile fades. “I’m so sorry about Elliot.”
“Thank you, Hugo.” Liliana and Hugo had sent flowers when Elliot died. They didn’t have to—Elliot and I ate here a lot, but we were by no means their most loyal customers. It was so kind of them. “I’ve missed your tacos.”
“You’ll have the usual? Al pastor?”
I haven’t been here for years, and he remembers my order. “Yes, please.”
Theo orders the al pastor too. Shane orders a plate of the carne asada and also two zucchini tacos. “I’m hungry,” he says in explanation. “And everything smells delicious.”
Everythingisdelicious. I practically inhale my first two tacos, too hungry to eat in a ladylike manner. “Why did you forget to eat?” Theo asks.
“I was writing,” I admit. “It's not like me to miss a meal. But I've been blocked forever, and I didn't want to stop in case the magic went away.”
“Why haven't you been able to write?”
He's interested,genuinelyinterested in what I'm going to say. He’s not asking to be polite; he's read my book. Yesterday, he quoted from it. He's sincere, and in the face of that, I rethink the non-answer I was going to give him.
“I'm not good at compartmentalizing.”
An expression of surprise flashes over his face for an instant. “What do you mean?”
“Some authors can write in times of turmoil, but that's not me. I can only write when everything in my life is going well.” And now it feels like I've revealed too much.
