“It’s a taco,” I confirm. “A real, actual taco.”
She pulls her lips together before finally nibbling at it. As she chews, her eyes lift, and then she eats the rest of it in three large bites, impressing me in her ability to polish it off so quickly. She licks her fingers instead of using the napkin I extend.
“I take it you liked it?”
She laughs, and it’s a new laugh. I love this laugh. She's only laughed sarcastically with me before, but now her laugh has grown soft and warm, catching my breath and holding it hostage.
“Another please,” she asks politely before devouring seven tacos in about fifteen minutes like that rabid beast of a woman she’d told me about weeks ago.
One of the straps of her red dress has fallen down her shoulder, but she doesn’t pause to put it back in place. She’s so focused on the tacos and genuinely seems content, as if eating cheap tacos, barefoot, on the streets of Nashville in formal attire, is a normal pastime for her. And I could get used to it.
“So, I believe it’s your turn,” she says as she picks up her bottle of Coke and takes a swig.
“My turn?” I question, knowing exactly what she’s talking about.
“You pinky swore! There is no going back on a pinky swear!” she reprimands as she almost flies out of her seat over the table toward me. “What is your dating horror story?”
And I know this is the moment. A real one. Not that her dating story wasn’t real or horrible, but it wasn’t the kind that made you scared to love again—scared to surrender your heart, knowing how heavy it is and that they might drop it…Everything shattering.
“You mean the one where I was left at the altar?” I ask.
Her eyes go wide, making a better frame for her green eyes that are glistening with nightlife.
“Excuse me?! You’ve been sitting on aRunaway Bridestory from the groom’s perspective?”
And while this story has felt heavy for the last four years, the way she describes it makes me not feel so much disdain for the story I’m going to tell, but instead, excitement for how I can tell it to someone else who appreciates words. Who uses their words to relate to people, to help them feel seen, to, apparently, save marriages.
“Not exactly sitting on it. I just don’t tell it. And I couldn’t really decide if I wanted to tell you this one or the time that I went on a date pretending to speak Spanish with only a handful of words I know because someone had told her that I was fluent, and well, she was pretty, so I tried to play along. It didn’t go well.”
Her lips spread into a smile that practically reaches her ears. “I would imagine not. So, why did you decide to reveal this huge historical moment in your life with me?”
“Because you need to hear it,” I say straightforwardly. “Maybe you’ll understand Barrett and me a little more.”
“And you want me to?” Her eyebrows raise up, three crease lines forming on her forehead.
I lean across the table, making sure she knows my full attention is on her at this moment. “I want you to. You need to know, because while I tease you about your messes, it’s not because I don’t have them myself. I just hide them better.”
She smiles at this. “Messes don’t bother me.”
“I know,” I say. “And maybe that’s another reason I feel like my mess can be safe with you.”
Rachel nods. “Okay, I do have a question though.”
“What’s that?”
“Does this make you Richard Gere? Because I’m fairly fond of him, and you’d be off to a really great start.”
I raise an eyebrow at her, sitting back in my chair. “Do I make a good-looking Richard Gere?”
“Richard Gere makes a good-looking Richard Gere, but I suppose, for the here and now, you’ll do,” she teases, half of her mouth pulling up, a sparkle in her green eyes.
And I love her eyes. It’s like they only reflect the good things in you.
“I’ll take it,” I reply. “Well, I’m not even sure where to start since this isn’t a story that I’ve ever written out myself. Only Lily knows everything, and she was there for all of it.”
“The beginning is usually good,” she says.
“Ah, yes, how can you even have a good story without the beginning?” I joke, savoring Rachel’s easy smile for a moment longer before starting. “Delilah was her name. We met bussing tables.”
