“Adela,” says Elaine, “this is Harmony’s boyfriend, Griffin.”
“Mucho gusto,” Adela tells me. “Eres muy guapo.”
When all I can do is grin like an idiot, Harmony nudges me and says, “That means she thinks you’re handsome.”
“Oh! Thanks.” I chuckle nervously. “That’s so nice. Thank you very much.”
Adela gestures for us to sit, so we assemble at one of the tables in the center, chairs scraping the concrete floor as we pull them out. She gives us some laminated menus and lets us look them over.
Elaine and I peruse ours for a minute, but Harmony and her dad don’t even glance at theirs.
“You already know what you want?” I ask.
“Always,” says Harmony. “Three pupusas:queso,chicharrón, andrevuelta.”
Damn it’s sexy when she speaks Spanish, even if she’s talking about cheese and—I’m guessing—some kind of meat.
“I’ll just get what you’re getting,” I tell her.
She smiles. “Good choice.”
I have to have her explain to me what exactly a pupusa is. The process, apparently, involves putting a ball of filling inside a ball of dough and then patting it down gently until it’s flat, so you get a corn tortilla with an even layer of meat, cheese, beans, or some combination of that in the middle.
So, two layers of dough with filling inside.
“You mean it’s ravioli,” I say.
Her eyes go wide. “Oh my God, it is …”
“What?” Elaine peers around her menu.
“Nothing,” Harmony says. “Just a little joke we have.”
Soon Adela comes back to take our order, then disappears back into the kitchen.
Hector clears his throat. “So … Griffin … I understand you’re the country singer who’s been writing songs about my daughter.”
I swallow hard. “Well, yes, but—”
“Dad,qué te pasa? We’ve talked about this.”
“That’s right, we have—and then I listened to some of those songs.”
“Did you listen to the ones I wrote abouthim?” Harmony asks. “I’m sure mine are worse. Plus, I insulted him first.”
Hector shakes his head. “Not an excuse. If a woman hits me, I don’t hit her back.”
“I think that examples is a little extreme,” Elaine argues. “We all say things we don’t mean. Anyone can make a bad first impression.”
“Not Harmony,” says Hector.
It’s like Rachel all over again. He’s protective; I get it.
“I appreciate that, Dad,” Harmony replies, “but I was terrible, and I never gave Griffin a fair shot. I’m the one who’s at fault here.”
“It’s okay,” I tell Harmony, “I can take responsibility too.” I look at Hector. “I didn’t make it clear who I was, when your daughter and I first met. Reasonably, she got the wrong idea, and she wrote about it. You’re right; I didn’t have to write back. I should’ve just let it go.”
Harmony shakes her head. “All Griffin did was point out my temper—and my pride. Where do you think I got that from, Dad?”
