Chapter 13 #2
She pulls me into a tight hug, kissing my cheek like she didn’t just see me two weeks ago and says, “This him?”
I look at him. “Yeah, Maggie, this is him.”
She grins, then pinches his cheeks "Que lindo cerebrito," she says, then to me, "You finally found a tall one."
I’m dying inside, but Aiden takes it with grace, adjusting his glasses. “You must be the chef,” he says.
She howls with laughter. “The chef, the owner, the bouncer, the accountant, and the priest, if you need confession.”
I order for both of us in Spanish, no menu needed. I’ve been here enough times to know that there is no better place to get birria tacos.
“So, what was that? What’s a cerebrito?” he asks and I don’t even try to stifle my grin.
“It translates to little brain.” I reach over the table and push his glasses back. “She basically called you a nerd. A very hot nerd.”
“I guess I should add Spanish to my list of languages so I can understand her more next time.” He laughs and I can feel the butterflies in my stomach take flight.
The food arrives in a rush of sound and smell, birria tacos, dripping and glorious, consommé dark as ink, a side of pickled jalapenos bright as traffic cones.
I squeeze lime over everything, then grab a taco, dip, and bite.
The juice explodes down my wrist, and I chase it with my tongue, not caring that Aiden is watching with open fascination.
He copies me, sort of. He picks up the taco carefully, inspects it, then dips it, watching the juice drip for a full two seconds before biting in.
For a moment, I expect him to cough or cringe, but instead, his whole posture changes.
The shoulders drop, the lines at his mouth soften, and he takes a second, messier bite.
“Holy shit,” he says. “That’s—”
“Not what you expected?”
He shakes his head, swallowing, then wipes his fingers on the napkin, a move that is almost apologetic. “It’s amazing. Spicy, but in a way that…” He trails off, searching for a word that isn’t “hurts.” “Sticks with you.”
I grin, lean in, and say, “That’s what they said about me in high school.”
He laughs, for real this time, and something in my chest cracks open, just a little.
We eat, devour really, and the conversation is easy, unguarded.
I tell him about the neighborhood, how I grew up five blocks from here, how my mother still yells at me if I call after nine p.m., how the only time I ever got sent home from school was for punching a boy who called me “Chata.”
“What does that even mean?” he asks, licking consommé from his knuckle.
“Means ‘squishy nose.’ Also means ‘pain in the ass,’ if you say it with enough context. Guess which one was accurate.”
He tilts his head, studies me. “Definitely both.”
Halfway through the meal, Maggie brings us tiny shots of espresso and a plate of pastelitos, on the house.
She asks in Spanish if he’s a good man, and I answer in the same language that yes, he’s stubborn, and yes, he’s trouble, but he likes me, so what can you do?
She nods, satisfied, and tells Aiden (in English this time) that he better not mess up or she’ll feed him to the kitchen rats.
He smiles, and it’s real this time. “Understood, ma’am.”
After we eat, we cut through the park where teenagers are blasting reggaeton from a cracked Bluetooth speaker and a group of abuelas is playing cards under the yellow light of a dying streetlamp.
I loop my arm through his and let the crowd swirl around us.
For the first time, I feel him relax, his shoulders drop, his eyes linger on the chaos like he’s learning to see the beauty in the mess.
There’s a jazz club on the block, too small for a sign, just a trumpet logo stenciled onto a blue steel door.
Inside, it’s standing room only, bodies pressed shoulder to shoulder, the air dense with sweat and beer and the perfume of cheap cologne.
The band is wild: upright bass, drums, a trumpet that screams and then whispers like it knows all your secrets.
I wedge us into a corner and let the music wash over, the floor vibrating under our feet.
Aiden’s never danced in public, not as long as I’ve known him.
He tries to play it cool, but his foot taps, and every few bars his hips give a micro-shimmy he’s not aware of.
I tease him, swaying against his side, and he finally gives in, lets his hands circle my waist, lets the music pull him into orbit.
We dance, or something like it. He’s not graceful, but he’s strong, and he makes up for lack of rhythm with sheer will.
When the trumpet player winks at us, Aiden laughs, a deep, open sound, and for a second I forget we’re supposed to be hiding.
I rest my head on his shoulder and let the world get fuzzy, the boundaries of the night dissolving into pulse and motion.
We stay until closing. The club empties onto the street, and we spill out with the crowd, sticky with sweat and drunk on the echo of music. He holds my hand, no hesitation, just the warm, certain grip of someone who isn’t faking it anymore.
“I get it now,” he says, his voice low in my ear. “You could never be tamed.”
I lean into him, let my arm snake around his waist. “Good thing you stopped trying.”
He kisses me under the streetlamp, gentle at first, then deep enough to taste the sugar and salt from dinner. People pass by, but I don’t care, and neither does he.
We walk home slow, the night wrapped around us, the city softer than it ever seemed before.
If there’s a game left to play, it’s one we’re both winning.