My hands shake when I pull the shirt over my head. My brain starts cataloguing every insecurity on autopilot: too scrawny, too awkward, too much of a stray for a guy like him. Tristan Dubois is steady and warm and golden in ways I only let myself admire from a safe distance.
I take a long breath. “He asked you,” I remind myself quietly as I swipe on one coat of mascara and some light pink lip gloss. “On purpose.”
I braid my hair to keep it off my face, then undo it, then try again. I check the mirror one more time. I still look like me—nervous, rumpled, uncertain—but there’s something lighter around the edges. A spark I haven’t seen in a long time.
Excitement.
Fear.
Hope so sharp it almost hurts.
Kepler chirps, climbing the pen like he wants to escape and follow me. “No,” I murmur, kissing the top of his head. “I’m the one who needs supervising today.”
I grab my bag, wipe my palms on my jeans, and force my legs to move. The hallway looks impossibly bright as I step out and shut the door behind me.
Once we’re in Tristan’s car, I direct him into East Vegas, to a narrow alley behind an old thrift shop. A hand-painted sign, string lights, and folding chairs surround the food truck itself. A neon sign in the front window reads303 in the Cut.
“Is that the name?” he asks. “Weird.”
“It’s a classic. Order one of everything.”
Tristan points to the blackboard propped next to the ordering window. “There’s only, like, eight things on the menu. And three of them are desserts.”
I nod. “Which means everything is good. Trust the process.”
“You sound like Dante.” Tristan shakes his head even as he steps forward to do exactly what I said. It’s going to be way more food than we can eat in one sitting, but it’ll be cheaper than a sit-down dinner at some upscale Vegas eatery, and we can always take the leftovers home.
Everything about this feels like a dream. In my old life, this could never have happened. My parents wouldn’t be caught dead ordering from a food truck tucked away in a parking lot somewhere. Luca would never take me on a date like this.
Not that we’re on a date. It’s just dinner. Still, Tristan is the only person I know who would be gung-ho about having a meal like this.
While we wait for our food to be prepared, we pick a spot. It’s a warm night, and the sun is starting to hang low in the sky. I smile up at the lights. “Isn’t this charming?”
“It’s a great spot, Min.”
“You called me that the other day,” I observe.
“Would you rather I not?”
I don’t mind. I don’t hate the nickname Minnie, but in Luca or Frankie’s mouth, it always felt insulting. Like they were calling me ‘Mini.’ Small. Child-size. Less than whole. I think Tristan could call me anything he wanted, though, because he’s never tried to make me feel inadequate.
“I like it,” I tell him. “It’s new.”
His smile eases in a way that makes my chest compress. Like he’s pleased I offered him a piece of my world.
Our food comes out quickly. It’s immediately obvious that we’re out of our depths. The burrito is so big it needs its own support group. The citrus pork is smothered with creamy chipotle aioli and fresh jalapeños. The loaded fries come in a paper boat and are smothered in queso, pickled onions, brisket, and green chili crema. I stab a fork into a mound of fries and drag them through the sauce to make sure I get a bit of everything.
As soon as the swirling flavors hit my tongue, I moan. Across the picnic bench from me, Tristan chokes on his soda.
Convention dictates that I should eat my main course before even touching the desserts, but I push the thought from my mind and do this therightway. I take a few bites of everything so that I know how it all tastes fresh. I try a forkful of a slice of tiramisu that tastes like it was blessed by the gods. There’s no delicate way to eat the cheesecake sandwich, though. This culinary masterpiece consists of two churros on either side of a vanilla bean cheesecake, all of which has been dipped in chocolate. I take a messy bite and close my eyes so that I can revel in the flavors: the crunchy, chewy cinnamon of the churros, the creamy sweetness of the cheesecake, the slight bitterness of the chocolate… It’s perfection. It’s a smore’s final form, the ultimate dessert evolution. I lick my fingers clean, savoring every last bit.
Tristan makes a very odd noise. When I look up, he’s staring at my mouth. And my fingers. And my fingersinmy mouth.
“Sorry. Despite the evidence, I wasnotraised in a barn.” I reach for a napkin. Mom would have slapped me across the face if she caught me eating this messily. Luca probably would, too.Funny how I didn’t hesitate to make a mess of myself in front of Tristan without overthinking it.
“That’s not what I was thinking.” He shakes his head, as if clearing his thoughts, and helps himself to more loaded fries. “How did you find this place?”
“There’s a Reddit thread where people post about their favorite food trucks. I mapped all of them into a GPS cluster system.”
