That settles it. We’re getting tacos.
The three of us approach the truck and list our order order, with Diana getting extra cilantro on hers. I shiver at the words, “extra cilantro,” but don’t say a word until she tries to pay with a wallet that I didn’t even know she was carrying.
I interject and try to stop Diana from paying but the girl is a strong fighter. “I am completely fine with paying, Carson!”
“Nope,” I insist, resisting her shove. “I’m not letting you pay.”
“Carson!”
I honestly feel bad for the guy running the truck but at least he’s enjoying the show. Eventually, I sneak around by putting both hands on Diana’s waist and turning her around so I can scan my card.
We wait a few more minutes before the guy brings out three plates of tacos.
“I’ve never seen a couple fight over a payment before,” the taco guy remarks.
“We’re not a couple,” Diana and I say simultaneously. The two of us exchange a glance, and I swear her cheeks turn as red as her lipstick. She hands me the plate that has considerably less cilantro and walks back to Carly, who sits on the sidewalk—or rather lays—and hums to a song I’m not familiar with.
I sit down next to her and munch on the first taco, nearly moaning in delight at how good it is. Man, I missed eating tacos.
The three of us eat in silence. Carly is the first to finish and she seems to have sobered up a lot in comparison to how she was when we ordered the tacos. After a minute, she stands up and wipes her hands on her grass-stained jeans. “I’m gonna get us some napkins.”
Placing my last taco down, I get up too. “Should you still be—”
“Don’t worry little Cars,” she calls back, already making her way back to the taco stand. “I can take care of myself.”
I sit back down.
“Little Cars?” Diana asks, with her grin still in place. If I knew it would take tacos for her to not act so standoffish around me, I would have showed up at her back door every day with a plate of them. Extra cilantro and all.
But I groan at the nickname. “She’s one of those people who doesn’t let go of the fact that she’s older than you.”
“Is it a big age difference?”
I shake my head. “Try five minutes.”
She winces. “That’s rough, doc.”
“A little.” I finish my last taco and put the white paper plate in the empty spot that Carly occupied. “I’m used to it.”
“Doesn’t it bother you?” She takes another bite of her taco. “The nickname?”
I shrug. “Not really, anymore.”
“Really?” Her brows furrow. “It would bother me if I were you.”
“It did,” I tell her. Carly isn’t ill-minded—except for the ADHD—but her nicknames sometimes show how much she cares.
“What did?” Carly asks as she sits herself back down. I quickly grab my empty plate before she reaches the cold concrete, somewhat soberer than thirty seconds ago.
“Eh, nothing important,” I dismiss.
She eyes me before whipping her head towards Diana, who polishes off her last taco and folds the paper plate in half. “You ready?”
“Sober already after three tacos?” I laugh.
We stand up and continue the journey. “Nah, I’m still drunk as hell,” Carly laughs. “Do you really think a few tacos would sober me up completely? Oh, Little Cars, you are so naive.”
“Well, neither of us drink,” Diana interjects. “So how would we know?”
