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Taavi needs an ofrenda thingy. Help?
We’ll stop by tomorrow, came the response, and I smiled to myself—then winced and put my face back in its usual frown to avoid pulling my stitches.
Thanks,I sent back.
I flicked through the Halloween movies, looking for something Taavi would like—he liked kids’ movies, so I was going to go for something likeHocus Pocusor maybeThe Addams Family. Especially since I was going to be enough out of it thanks to the miracle of modern opioids that it didn’t matter one bit to me what the fuck I put on.
All I cared about was having Taavi close. I didn’t give two shits about a movie or even about the pain that sliced through my ribs every time I moved. I’d do it again in a fucking heartbeat if it meant keeping Taavi safe.
At some point, I fell asleep, waking up when Pet jumped off my lap. I drew in a deep breath, smelling warm Mexican spices coming from the kitchen.
I heard Pet let out a loud meow.
“I don’t have any tuna,gatito,” Taavi told her. “Your papa is the one who gives you tuna.”
She meowed again.
“No se que quieres,gatito.”
Another meow.
“Calmate, gatito. No tengo nada para ti.”
I had no idea what he was saying, but I did very much enjoy listening to his voice as he talked to my cat. It was also entirely possible that part of my whole weird mushy, mooney-eyed thing was being caused by the painkillers, which did—in their defense—take the edge off, but which I felt like I needed to get off sooner rather than later because it was making me really sentimental and weird.
Pet gave up after a few more minutes of what I imagined was meowing and rubbing all over Taavi’s ankles, coming back out to the couch and settling herself by my feet.
I put on a Halloween-themed baking show and watched people make ridiculous choices with far too much food coloring in their frosting—I get that making pretty cakes is a thing people are into, but if I can fucking taste the food coloring in there, I don’t want to eat it. That shit just straight-up tastes like carcinogens.
Taavi emerged just in time to watch the cake-judging with a bowl of something that steamed and smelled delicious.
“Pozole,” he said, handing me the bowl, spoon handle sticking out of it, a dollop of what I assumed was sour cream and some green onions on the top.
“It smells great. What is it?”
“Stew, basically. Corn, beans, hominy, chiles, tomatoes, sweet potatoes.”
I took a mouthful, then hummed my approval. It was what I always wanted veggie chili to taste like, except it never did.
Taavi smiled, then disappeared, coming back with a big bowl of tortilla chips and a tray with several more bowls, in which I identified queso, guacamole, and salsa, which he put on the tray table I had set up in front of the couch. Then one more trip, and he returned with his own bowl and a beer—just one, because I was not supposed to mix my drugs with alcohol.
“Sit with me?” I asked him, trying not to sound either too needy or too pathetic. I pulled my legs in, and Pet glared at me. Taavi smiled again, then set his bowl and beer on the side table, picked up the cat, then settled on the couch, one foot tucked up under his other thigh with Pet in his lap. Before he reclaimed his bowl, he ran his hand over my calf.
“Acceptable?”
I nodded. “Movie?”
“Sure.” He blew on a spoonful of thepozole.
“Which one?”
“Whichever.”
“Have you seen either?”
“I sawThe Addams Familyas a kid.”
“But notHocus Pocus?”
