lips. The rim of his glasses touched the top of her cheek, and she wanted to take them off, but that seemed presumptuous. She touched his face, and he changed his angle, which made room to draw her deeper in. Not trusting her strength, Dini gripped his bicep, her fingers dipped beneath the sleeve of his T-shirt, lest she fall back into the glowing blue flame. This other flame, the one burning red hot within her, deserved no caution. She would throw herself in—gladly—and alternate between burning and melting as she did in this moment.
Until Quin stepped away. She still touched him, held him, and he kept her in an identical grip.
“Dini, I—”
“Nope.” Her voice, like his, thick with everything she was too afraid to hear right now. “No important talk before food.”
“Right.”
“And, to help”—she lifted her head and spoke over his shoulder—“Alexa, playlist House Music,” bringing to life a big band orchestra in the Bluetooth.
“I don’t think this is what the kids call house music.”
“I’m not a kid, and this is my house.”
With only three tortillas left to cook, Dini transferred Quin’s responsibilities to both the rolling and the cooking while she busied herself crumbling and cooking chorizo into a pan on the second burner and cracking eggs as it sizzled.
“I hope you like this,” she said, whisking. “I wanted you to have one last taste of San Antonio before you go.”
“I totally trust you.” He took a tortilla from the freshly cooked stack, tore it, and offered half to Dini.
They ate and cooked, each humming along as a different instrument until they were finally seated at the little table, a plate of chorizo con huevos and a stack of tortillas between them. Individual plates were incidental as they served themselves from the center dish, making tacos, and silenced for a bit with the satisfaction of heat and flavor. Their conversation remained inconsequential: he talked about his rambling, whip-smart family—a mass of sisters and husbands and nieces and nephews, with Quin the bachelor uncle who could be depended on to give the noisiest, most questionably age-appropriate gift on any occasion. She countered with stories of her unusual childhood, realizing that many of these were memories she’d been carrying around for years but was voicing for the first time. How she’d learned to fold herself up so her father could cut her in half, how it was her job to make sure her mother wore the right shoes and stockings to match the spring-loaded feet when it was her turn in the box.
“I think that’s why I never thought anything really bad could ever happen to my mother—to either of my parents. When I was told they’d been killed, I thought it was another trick.”
“I’m so sorry,” Quin said. “Confession? I googled your parents’ accident. It’s so hard to understand why God allows things like that to happen.”
“I had a hard time with that myself. We never went to church or anything even remotely close to that when I was growing up, but then when Arya took me in—I wouldn’t know God at all if it weren’t for her. And it’s been harder since I’ve been on my own to really keep up. Church always seems more geared to families, you know?”
“I know. I think that’s why I let myself get pressured into getting married before I was ready, to someone I didn’t totally love. It was just…expected. The next thing to do in life so I could keep fitting in. So I have to work hard to keep my faith intentional.”
“Like finding a church when you’re out of town?”
“Exactly. And finding the right scriptures to back up why we can’t believe in ghosts.”
“Right.” Dini took the empty dish to the sink and came back with the carafe of coffee, refilling their cups.
“So, I guess that means it’s time to talk about Hedda now?”
“The big stuff.” She brought a small tray with her butter dish and sugar bowl to the table. “But one last snack to top it off.”
“I am going to have to spend the next three days in the gym to work this off,” Quin said, following her example of dipping the back of the spoon into the softened butter, spreading it in the middle of the still-warm tortilla, and sprinkling the top with a sugar and cinnamon mixture.
“You have an eight-year-old’s birthday party tomorrow. Same amount of calories burned in a bouncy house.”
He lifted the rolled tortilla in a toast. “To glitter ponies.”