by Chie Alemán
I wander to the kitchen to find something to eat. The takeout menus beckon me, but I ignore them for now and open the fridge. The container Santiago gave me immediately catches my eye. I didn’t eat it yesterday, so I grab it, shut the fridge, and set my treasure on the counter. Prying the lid open takes some work, but when I finally do, my nostrils are immediately greeted with the scent of cumin and allspice and garlic and rice. I smile, and my mouth waters. The chicken is on the bone, and the spices are clearly different, the rice yellow and sticky, but it reminds me of my mother’s jambalaya. I’m not sure what this dish is called, but if it tastes anything as good as it looks and smells, I’ve just found one more thing to love about Santiago.
Love. There’s that word again. Do I love him? Can I love him? I’m thirty, and I’m not sure I know what love is. With Stephen, I never gave it much thought. He came along when I needed someone like him, and over the years, I’ve come to believe his scientific rationalization, that love is just chemistry. We make sense logically; there’s nothing more to analyze.
I slip the container into the microwave and press a few buttons—beep, beep, beep—and the microwave whirs to life, the light illuminating the meal as it spins around.
Sometimes I feel the biggest struggle for a writer is understanding their own work. It can be challenging to realistically create and resolve conflict within a character when you can’t see it clearly yourself. As I watch my meal heat, the light like little stars in the grated mesh of the glass, it hits me.
The character in my novel, whom I’ve been struggling with, is looking for answers. What is love? Can we find it? And will we know it when we do?
Chapter Sixteen
The next day, even though I know I shouldn’t, I call Santiago on my way home from work, because I really want to hear that soft, deep, melodic voice again. He answers after only a couple of rings.
“Hey. This is a surprise. Thought your calls were spaced out in monthly gaps.” He laughs.
“Funny. If the proofreading thing doesn’t work out, you really should consider stand-up comedy.” It slips out before I can censor myself.
“Ouch.” But he’s laughing.
“What was that dish you gave me?”
“Was it bad? I thought I put a little too much allspice—”
“Bad? Are you kidding? It was delicious. Was that like Cuban jambalaya or something?”
He laughs. “Something. More like Cuban paella. Arroz con pollo. Chicken and rice. It’s a staple. I’m glad you liked it.”
We’re both silent a moment. Not because we don’t have anything to say, but because we both have things better left unsaid.
Finally, he speaks. “You going to be able to come down here and visit me again anytime soon? I’d come up there, but I figure you probably prefer staying outside Stephen’s radius.”
I sigh. “Seems I’m not just outside his radius, but his entire solar system nowadays. You could probably come to our house and he wouldn’t notice.”
“I’m sorry.”
“He’s busy. He’s tired when he gets home.”
“That doesn’t give him the right to ignore you.”
Traffic slows, and I hit the brakes, sighing as the car eases to a near stop. “Can I ask you something?”
“I already told you, you could ask anything.”
I bite my lip, check myself in the rearview mirror. “I used to dream of being a famous author someday. What did you want to be when you grew up?”
He laughs. “You’re joking, right?”
I shake my head, quickly realizing how silly it is, gesturing when we’re on the phone at two different ends of this expansive city. “You don’t need to tell me if you don’t want to.”
He sighs. I hear some background noise. “I don’t remember. That was a long time ago. Most people don’t actually become what they wish they were as kids.”
“Yeah, I guess chasing a dream is stupid.”
“Di—”
I hang up on his echoes of protest. A few minutes later, traffic picks up and my phone rings. The ID says it’s Santiago, but I ignore it, turning my music up so loud the neighboring cars can probably hear it, Yellowcard’s “Hide” drowning out my mind.
* * * *
A week passes before I speak to Santiago again. I know I was stupid and silly and petty to hang up on him the other day. Still, I needed some time to process everything. Decide if seeing him behind Stephen’s back is really a good idea. What I want.
It’s not like Santiago hasn’t made an effort, texting me so much even Stephen noticed, forcing me to explain I have a demanding client who’s being overbearing, questioning every edit. Fortunately that assuaged him, but I make sure to double-check my pass-code lock on my phone, just in case.
I realize Santiago didn’t mean to hurt me, and he deserves an apology from my own lips. We all have our emotional baggage, and Santiago and I obviously don’t know each other well enough to understand what will press whose buttons.
I’m at home, in my office, struggling to work on the next chapter of my book, staring at the blinking cursor when the urge to call him washes over me, pulling me like a riptide.
He answers almost before the first ring finishes. It’s pretty endearing. “Di, I’m so sorry—”
“Don’t apologize. I shouldn’t have called you during my commute. I’m always grumpy. And I shouldn’t have hung up on you. And I should have done this days ago.”
“I was starting to think you’d changed your mind. That you didn’t want to see me again until the test.”
Fuck. “No. This… It’s just been a lot to process.”
“So…when can I see you?” he asks hopefully.
I cough. “I was thinking of being sick Friday. What about you?” I say flirtatiously. “I know it’s been going around.”
I can almost see him grin. “Yeah.” He does his own mock cough. “Yeah, I definitely feel something coming on.”
“I’ll see you Friday. Your place. Around ten?”
I hang up, feeling like a schoolgirl who just convinced her crush to go on a date with her, relieved Santiago isn’t hurt. It’s silly, I know, but the butterfly buzz in my stomach carries me through not just the rest of the day but the entire week.
* * * *
I check the numbers along the row of identical doors, looking for Santiago’s apartment. He buzzed me in when I arrived and instructed me he’d leave the door unlocked so I could let myself in. I find the correct number, grateful I grabbed a tray to hold our coffees, and try the handle. The door pushes open easily, and I’m immediately greeted by the smell of fried eggs and onion. My stomach grumbles.
“Hope you’re not too sick for a late breakfast,” he calls out from the kitchen with a laugh.
I ease the door closed behind me, not sure if I should lock it or not, so I don’t, and stroll into the kitchen.
Santiago’s in his chair at the stove, pouring some kind of batter into a hot pan. It sizzles, and the smell of oil and onion intensifies.
“I stopped by the Grind and picked up some coffee. Mike says hi.”
He sets the bowl aside, shifts the pan, then pushes over to me. He’s wearing a thin tee and track pants. Comfortable workout clothes, or maybe this is what he wears on the weekends. I notice he’s not barefoot, his feet in tennis shoes tucked onto the footplate of his chair, and I secretly pray he’s wearing his braces under those pants.
Setting the coffee on the counter, I lean down to kiss him. He shocks me when he pulls me into his lap, wrapping his arms around me and kissing me forcefully, pressing his lips to mine. He pulls away, smiling.
“I figure, if you’re going to date a Cuban, you might as well eat like one.”
“I have something for you,” I say, reaching into my bag and retrieving a CD. “It’s a mix. Some of my favorite punk songs. I also threw in Green Day’s single, ‘Oh Love.’”
Santiago takes it from me with a bemused smile.
“You don’t have to listen to it, or
even keep it. I just thought…”
He kisses me, slow and passionately, his tongue tasting delicious and sweet. “I love it, Di. Because you love it. Thanks.”
He ushers me off his lap. After slipping the disc into the pouch behind his legs, he returns to the stove.
“I could play some of the songs for you, if you’d like. On my phone. While you cook?” I say uncertainly.
“If that makes you happy, linda,” he responds simply, glancing back and flashing a smile.
I turn the volume down on my phone and set “Oh Love” to play in the background as I approach the stove. Whatever he’s cooking is starting to look and smell good enough to make my mouth water.
“It’s called a tortilla,” he says, grabbing the spatula and, like a magician, flipping the entire nine-inch circle completely over itself, like a flapjack. The new top is golden brown, with onion and green pepper poking through. “It’s not like a Mexican tortilla,” he continues, explaining, setting the spatula aside and checking on a pan of stovetop potatoes that look and smell as delicious as everything else. “It’s a Spanish omelette.”
“Like a frittata?”
He nods. “In Spain they put potatoes inside, but my mother always made it like this. I think it’s better. It gets nice and crispy. It’s great for breakfast, but it’s also delicious cold, especially in a sandwich.”
I’m skeptical, but I’ll try anything. After the meal I took home the other day, I’m willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. I’m really not much help in the kitchen, but I don’t want to feel like a mooch either. “Can I help with anything?”
“Everything’s almost ready,” he says, “but you can grab two plates out of that cabinet over there.”
I roughly follow the spoon in his hand toward the other side of the kitchen, starting to open cabinets, searching for plates. I find them in one of the top cabinets, then, searching the lower ones, find more. “Um, is there a difference between these plates and those?”
“No. I just like to keep some high and some low, so they’re easy for me to reach whether I’m sitting or standing.”
He says it matter-of-factly, and looked at that way, it makes sense: he doesn’t have to stand when he’s in his chair, and he doesn’t have to bend when he’s using his crutches. I grab two plates and bring him one, watching him slide the crispy, golden-brown omelet onto one.
“If you want to start eating, you can,” he says, handing me the plate. “Go ahead and serve yourself some potatoes. The table’s already set. I’ll be right there.”
I glance over, and he’s right. The dining table is set with flatware and glasses, and a pitcher of OJ sits in the middle, along with butter and a loaf of what looks like Italian bread. This is a lot of starch, I think, but I’m too hungry to care much. And besides, isn’t one of the perks of being pregnant getting to eat?
I scoop some potatoes onto my plate. They’re cut into small cubes—or at least they were—they’ve been cooking so long they’re soft and mushed together, and I can see specks of garlic, onion, and green pepper in them, along with spices.
“Where’d you learn to cook like this?” I ask, watching him grab a skillet from the back burner and slide another omelet onto the second plate.
“You haven’t even tasted it yet,” he says, but he’s laughing.
I pull off a piece of the edge of the egg and crunch it in my mouth. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever eaten before, but it’s delicious: oniony and garlicky with a hint of olive oil. “See, I tasted it.”
Santiago laughs, scooping some potatoes onto the center of his plate, then setting it on his lap. He gestures for me to go ahead, and so I do, grabbing the coffees with my other hand and heading toward the table, salivating at the aromas rising from my plate.
“You’re not Spanish, right?” he asks.
I turn to take my seat, setting my plate on the table, pulling the coffees out of the tray as I watch him ease toward me. The gentle roll of his shoulders, the way the push rims glide by beneath his fingers.
My eyebrows furrow. “No. French, mostly. But that was a long time ago. My family came over in the 1700s or something like that.” I sit, watching him pull into the vacant spot, setting his plate on the table. “Why?”
He chuckles. “If you were, you wouldn’t need to ask.” He cuts his egg into quarters. “I grew up in a pretty traditional Latin household. As the youngest, and the only son, it meant my mother regimented my sisters to take care of me and my father. We were always served first at meals; if we wanted anything, they were supposed to get it for us before we even asked.”
“Sounds posh,” I say with a laugh.
He doesn’t join me, but he does smile. “The kitchen was the place for the women, and my mom didn’t want me cooking. She still says that I’ll never get married because I know how to cook. As if the only reason men marry is the food.”
I take a bite of potato and egg, the combination exploding in flavor in my mouth. I hardly finish chewing before I mumble, “I’d marry you for this.”
We laugh; his eyes sparkle.
“So if you didn’t learn from your mother…”
“My sisters didn’t think waiting on men hand and foot was so great, so they taught me behind my mother’s back. Especially Genie.”
“Are you close?”
He shrugs, picks at his food. “Not as much with my other three sisters, but Genie, yeah.” He seems as if he wants to say more, but instead, he puts some food in his mouth.
“Must have been nice growing up in a big family,” I say, partially to myself.
“Like everything, it has its good and bad side,” he says. Then he adds, his voice so low I can barely hear it, “Just means you have more people to disappoint.”
Chapter Seventeen
I try to insist Santiago allow me to clean up, but he won’t have it. I have to settle for putting away some of the leftovers, which reminds me of the container in my bag.
“Thought you might want this back,” I say, handing it to him.
He turns it over in his hands. “Maybe I could see about refilling it for you?”
“Really?” I say, taking it back and tossing it on the counter, crawling onto his lap. “I have something else that needs filling. Maybe you can help me with that?”
He grins, chuckling softly. “And you say I’m the dork?”
I shrug, an exaggerated, comical motion, and wrap my arms around him. He mimics me, pulling me in close. I can definitely feel his braces underneath his pants, and the combination of that, simply being in his lap, and our proximity gets me wet. We kiss, my legs wrapped around his backrest, his hands smoothing over my body, our tongues battling each other. We’re both breathing in unison, heavy and quick, want strong, palpable between us.
My mouth roams to his cheek, brushing my lips along his stubble. “It’s so hot that you didn’t shave,” I say, trailing kisses along his jaw, behind his ear, neck. I love the way he smells, that same scent I picked up in New Orleans—deep, masculine, natural, like dry wood but overlaid with breakfast—olive oil, onions, garlic. He shivers, and when I lean back, he reaches up and pulls me in for another hungry kiss.
Desire is crossing into need, our chests heaving. I can feel him, hot and urgent between us, his hands pressing me closer. For a split moment the idea of having sex with him, right here, in his chair, is one of the hottest things I can imagine. But when I meet his eyes, flaring with fire as if they held their own light, I know I could never suggest it. In fact, I hate myself for even thinking it.
Fortunately he can’t sense my thoughts, because he nibbles my lip and speaks, breathy, against my mouth, “I want you so fucking bad.” The words, the way he says them, make my skin burn. His thumbs find my nipples, teasing, and I lean my head against his, riding the ecstasy. I love how he can so easily, so quickly turn me on and up.
Santiago slides his hands under my shirt, warm palms on my bare skin, and I slip a hand between us, rubbing him. A pleasant flutter bubbles up in my
stomach as I feel him grow in my fist, his breathing increase. His eyes fall shut, his body relaxing into my touch. He reaches up to cradle my neck.
“Di,” he says on a breath. God, I love it when he says my name like that.
I squeeze him gently; he lets out a sharp, sexy moan, a smile peeling across his face. His chest rises and falls more urgently, and my entire body seems awake, as if it’s never truly been alive before.
His hands shift to his push rims and try to wheel us forward, but my legs are in the way. Our eyes fix on each other. I know I have to get up or shift, but I love this position and don’t want to give it up. I let out an unconscious whimper, and he laughs.
“Come on, linda,” he says, supporting me so I can extract myself from his lap without falling.
Once free, I take off toward his bedroom, giggling and laughing like a schoolgirl playing tag, looking back to see if he’s following.
Santiago’s wheeling toward me—fast—a huge grin on his face. I squeal, leaping onto his bed for safety. He swerves to a stop at the side, beaming, still breathing heavily. He’s so hot right now, sitting there, looking up at me, I wish I could freeze this one moment and capture it forever.
I reach back and unhook my bra, pull it off through a sleeve, and toss it at him. I feel like I’ll explode if any more time elapses without my hands on him or his on me. Although he catches it, he doesn’t move, passing the fabric between his fingers.
“Di…I…” He stares down at his feet.