Chapter 47
FORTY-SEVEN
CALAMA—EW
I stare down at the plate of squid rings with black bits sticking out that the waiter dropped in front of me before wading through the madcap crowd of tables. “I thought you at least liked me, D.”
“Trust me, it’s sooo good. My abuela used to make it. Arroz melosa.”
“I’m suddenly grateful that she always used to feed Pecan and me chicken nuggets.”
“She knew your palate was plebeian.”
“Why is it black?”
“It’s dark brown.”
“The squid isn’t. Why can’t I have the breaded stuff?”
“Just give it a go!”
I pout.
“Don’t think you can get away with that.”
“I took you to that churros place for breakfast and you pay me back with squid rice?”
She giggles and that makes the dish in front of me seem less like her idea of torture.
Just. “You’re so unadventurous. I knew it before, but I need to fix this.
My future h—” She breaks off. Abruptly. But suddenly my appetite’s roaring to life.
Future ‘h’? There aren’t that many words that could be.
“No way can my boyfriend not like seafood.”
“You know I hate fish.”
“You hate North American fish dishes. This is better.”
“That makes no sense.”
“You don’t like Blue Crab, babe. And your idea of a chowder is corn, not clam. There’s definitely something wrong with you. But this is different. They caught this this morning and had it shipped in from… well, wherever the ocean is.”
“Real accurate.”
“Hey, I’m a cartographer in my spare time. Eat!”
Her sass has me squinting at the dish again. “What do I get for trying it?”
“What do you want me to say? A blowjob?”
“Yup! I’m in.” I pick up the squid ring—it’s purple and squidy and reminds me of Helmie’s earlobe now that she’s taken out her gauge piercing because ‘she’s too old to be a punk.’ Her words, not mine.
“I don’t believe you,” she says around a laugh, but she watches me with curiosity as I sample the plate of food.
My nose scrunches then relaxes then scrunches again. “I like the rice.”
“Of course you do.” She rolls her eyes and delves into her white fish al pil pil. Which, in all honesty, looks like I jizzed on her fish, but she oohs and ahhs and coos so I have to assume it’s good.
When she promises to stick a finger up my ass too, I accept a bite and my eyes widen. “Can we switch?”
“What’s my payment?”
“I’ll tongue fuck you until you come three times?”
“Deal.”
We switch plates.
“What does al pil pil mean?”
“It’s the sound of the olive oil hitting the heated pan before they put the cod in. The skin releases gelatin that emulsifies with the oil to make the sauce.”
I squint at it. “Gelatin?”
“Oh, my god. You’re worse than my brothers!”
“Hey, I’m not the one who doesn’t like poutine. You’re the sacrilegious person at the table.”
“Cheese shouldn’t squeak. That’s why I don’t like halloumi either.”
As we bicker about our food preferences, her fingers tangle with mine under the table.
We’re slammed into this nook of a bustling Basque restaurant. The energy’s alive. People are happy. There’s chaos brewing as tomorrow’s the day the Three Wise Men met up with Jesus—Epiphany—so families are here and kids are crying and giggling and everything in between.
And as I look around the restaurant, eating food that’s way out of my comfort zone, not only is this right where I want to be, but I can see my future.
It’s precarious, of course. Everything could change in a heartbeat.
But I see us sitting with our kids when we vacation here.
I can already tell Madrid’s in her blood, and not just because her abuela hailed from the city.
That it is, though, means it’s in mine too.
Which is probably why I do something dumb.
I see one ring of squid remaining in the dish and I pluck it right as she tries to fork it up. Before her mouth can even open to gasp at me in her outrage, I snag her hand and slide it over her ring finger.
Her eyes soften before she squeaks. “EWWWWW.” It tumbles into laughter though. “Zaaaa-ch, that’s so gross.”
I blow her a fishy-fingered kiss. “That’s what you get for bringing me to a romantic fish restaurant.”
Meal over, with Denny still giggling, I pay the bill and our fingers return to their earlier knot—after we’ve both thoroughly sanitized them. Upon leaving the restaurant, Denny finds a clothing store that she wants to peruse while I see a jeweler’s next door.
It’s busy thanks to the season, but right in the window, there’s something that catches my eye.
What can I say? The squid triggered a rash of impulsive thoughts…
By the time I’ve sneaked in and bought it, Denny’s beaming because she managed to get the shirt she wanted in her size.
The box burns a hole in my pocket, much as D’s burned a hole in my heart.
In a good way.
The sense of rightness doesn’t leave me as we scour the streets, braving the cold and the crowds as people do their last-minute shopping. Panicking as gifts aren’t miraculously popping up in front of them.
Honestly, I’m glad the holidays are over for us. Our first Christmas together… I only hope it’ll be the first of dozens.
When we stand in front of this weird little statue of a bear that’s famous for whatever reason, she peeps up at me and cups my cheek. “Thank you for making this special, Zach.”
I shake my head and press a soft peck to her lips. “It’ll always be special when we’re together, D. Haven’t you figured that out yet?”