12
Wes
Somehow—andI wasn't entirely certain about this turn of events—Tom and I spent the rest of the afternoon trolling dressing rooms without completely mauling each other. There was a little mauling but that was to be expected. Nothing egregious. Nothing that couldn't be handled without adjusting ourselves as we left those dressing rooms and wiping the grins off our faces while we did it.
After leaving the mall, Tom drove us to what I could only describe as an abandoned gas station with a van parked in front of a leaning line of chain-link fence which barely lived up to its purpose of cordoning off the old pumps. There was no sign on the van or any other indication food was available for purchase but that didn't stop Tom from declaring, "This is my favorite taco truck."
I jabbed a finger in the direction of the faded maroon van. "That's ataco truck?" I scowled at the generator seated on cracked pavement and its duct-taped rigging. "You're sure that isn't a give-no-fucks, out-in-broad-daylight meth lab?"
Exasperated by my very reasonable questions, Tom swiped at his phone for a minute. Then, "I don't know, Wes. Maybe that's on the secret menu." He dropped his phone into the cup holder. "After all the crying and whining you did about being hungry—"
"Pardon you, I neither cried nor whined."
"—I figured you'd eat first and make ridiculous judgments later," he continued.
I leaned back, crossing my arms. "Forgive me for having questions about all this, considering you and your spiffy red-soled shoes measure your steamed salmon portions down to the milligram. It's a shock, babe, to hear you enjoy tacos from a van at a gas station."
He picked up his phone again, tapping at it while he asked, "Are you finished?"
"No, not until you explain how van tacos fit into your grain-free, macro-dictated, Denali-climbing lifestyle."
Still busy with his device, he said, "Skip the tortilla and it fits just fine. And everyone gets a cheat day." He killed the engine and pocketed his keys, glancing at me as he reached for the door handle. "Come on, would you? We have better things to do than sit here, arguing about whatever this is. I promise you, I'll never put anything in your mouth that doesn't belong there."
Since that was a valid point, I followed him to the back of the van where we found a woman as old as the trees simultaneously stirring spoons in two separate crockpots while a teenage boy with big-ass headphones over his ears mashed avocados. Tom ordered for both of us, swinging a glance in my direction while he did it like he was daring me to challenge him.
I didn't. I enjoyed this side of him, the wide stance, the firm shoulders, the "No, I've got this, put your money away, Wes" side. The one concerned with care as much as control. I didn't keep with any hard and fast rules about who or how or when but it was fair to say I was comfortable being the one who exercised it. But more than that, opportunity for me to allow someone else to make decisions, even about things as trite as tacos and jeans, didn't come around too often. Men didn't look at me and expect I'd roll over and show them my belly.
I hadn't figured out what Tom expected from me yet.
Once we were back in the car, he started the engine but made no move to drive anywhere, saying, "Given that it's Friday evening and Boston experiences approximately six hours of rush-hour traffic as a matter of city pride, all of which is compounded by the fact we're on the North Shore and I live in the South End, we're looking at least ninety minutes to my place."
"Fuck that," I replied. "It was, what? Twenty minutes here from Shannon and Will's house?"
He glanced at the road. "Maybe a little more, yeah."
Control didn't belong to either of us—we could push and pull and shove and bite. We could share it. "Then that's where we're going."
With a thoughtful pout that made me want to bite his lip, Tom asked, "Should we grab some tacos for Will? Shannon wouldn't touch this but it would be—"
"Again, fuck that." I shook my head like I hoped to fling that idea into incoming traffic. "He can get his own tacos. We're not his delivery service. And we have something about serial killers to watch, which isn't the kind of statement I imagined myself making tonight but here we are, parked beside a taco truck that's served as a meth lab at least once in its history and is probably currently laundering money. I've stopped trying to make sense of it." I peeked inside the bag. I had to admit everything smelled amazing. "It's a good thing you haven't been abducted or robbed."
He flung a hand toward the van. "By the little old lady with the cataracts and the gnarled arthritis hands? Do I really seem that defenseless to you?"
"It's not you I worry about," I replied, still poking in the bag. "It's the money launderers. Gramma Guacamole might not be the criminal mastermind but those cataracts make it easy for her to turn a blind eye to the cash washing operation."
Tom shifted into drive, muttering to himself, "Oh my god."
"Holler to the heavens all you want, honey. I'm just saying this shit is real and pervasive." I snagged a bit of carnitas from inside the foil wrapping and popped it in my mouth. "You're right. This is good."
* * *
"Before we go up there,I think we should talk through some logistics and expectations."
"I'm fully versed in the logistics," I replied.
"How did I know you'd say that?" he said under his breath. "I meant PrEP and condoms and those logistics."
"Ah, well," I started, running a hand over my throat, "I'm good with condoms."
