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“Would you look at that,” he says casually. “You might even get a spanking with that lunch.”
“Sorry,” I roll my lips. “I can’t help it when I’m stressed.”
“Come on, little miss know-it-all. Throw it.”
I rear my arm back and throw the bracelet as far as I can. “Damn,” I huff, centering myself. “That bracelet is forty thousand dollars.”
“What?” Xi chokes as he spins me back around to face him again. “We’re finding it when we come back. I can sell it.”
“Well, it’s broken now. And when we come back, I need to keep it in my pocket. I can’t have my dad thinking I’m in classes all day and night.”
He gives me an unconvinced humph, and we get into his truck.
We eat at a diner on the North Shore. The food is greasy, the owner rude, and the entire place must have seen better days. I love it. It’s everything my dad wouldn’t want for me, yet I don’t care about that. I love it because it’s a place Xi knows and loves. Because there’s an item on the menu named after his dad. A chicken sandwich he insisted they made for him every time he came here, apparently.
“Fried chicken, red cabbage, red and green bell peppers cooked in olive oil, and harissa,” I read. “This sounds like heartburn waiting to happen,” I chuckle.
“Try it,” he says. “You won’t regret it.”
“I’m not very good with spice. Is harissa spicy?”
“Nah,” he shrugs.
“I don’t think I should trust you regarding spice levels,” I add as I close the laminated menu and put it down. It’s falling apart, and a page of it falls to the floor. I pick it up and look at him again. “You put hot sauce on everything you eat.”
“You’ll like it. Believe me.”
The waiter stops by our table and chats with Xi before asking for our order. My boyfriend looks at me, expectant, and I smile at the waiter. “Two Moshe sandwiches, please.”
When he puts the plates in front of us, I know I’m about to die. This thing looks like the kind of spice I could never handle. I take a deep breath and look at Xi.
“If I die, you’ll deal with my family. Good luck.”
He takes a huge bite, ignoring me. Cabbage and harissa spill on his plate, and I take a second to admire his strong jaw working on the food in his mouth.
Does this man ever not look hot?
“Tell me about your dad,” I demand before taking a small bite of the sandwich named after him.
“What do you want to know?” His voice lacks emotion, but I know this doesn’t mean he’s not feeling anything.
“You said he was Moroccan. Where exactly?”
“A city called Oujda, at the border with Algeria. He worked both in Algeria and Morocco; that’s how he met my mom. She lived in Tlemcen, right on the border on the Algerian side.”
I nod, taking another bite. His gaze keeps flicking from my eyes to my mouth as he licks his lips. He’s already halfway through his sandwich, and I’m barely getting to the good part.
“What was his job there?”
“He was a chair maker. My mom’s family had ordered a set from him, and he delivered it to their home. My mom was there to welcome him into the house. He fell in love right away. Came back the next day to ask her dad to take her out. He said no, of course. They weren’t the same religion, which was a big deal back then. Mom didn’t care. She kept sneaking out of her house for him. A month later, they were married.”
I smile brightly at him. What a beautiful story. It makes me melt on the spot like butter in a pan. “That’s so cute. I love love,” I sigh. “When did they move to the U.S.?”
“In their late twenties. My mom was pregnant with me already. They moved to the house I live in now. We stayed there after he died. Then she met Emma’s dad, and we had to move. I only lasted a few months before I told her I wanted my old house back. I missed my dad.”
He must see the confusion on my face because he adds, “I know he was dead, but that house is…him. We were very close. Everything there reminds me of him. Especially since that’s where we spent his last moments together. Where he asked me to take his place and take care of my mom and brother. I can’t leave. It would be like leaving him behind.”
“I understand.” I nod. “You were fourteen when he passed, is that right?”
