He blinks.
“Are you running away from your wedding?”
“Yes… No….” I press my lips together. “I’m having a slight crisis, and tacos fix everything. My dad always said so.”
The vendor’s eyes flick over my wedding dress, then up to my half-done hair. Something crosses his weathered face—pity, maybe, or recognition of a train wreck in progress—but it’s gone quickly, shuttered behind professional indifference. He turns to his grill, flipping a tortilla with practiced ease.
“Threecarne asadatacos, extra lime,” he repeats, voice flat as if he serves runaway brides every Tuesday. He sprinkles a generous handful of chopped cilantro over the sizzling meat.
“Smart advice. Tacos fix most of life’s problems.”
“I…” I pat the sides of my dress uselessly. “I don’t have any money.”
My eyes start to sting with unshed tears. This is the cherry on top of this disaster sundae—starving, panicking, and now I can’t even pay for comfort food.
The taco vendor studies me for a moment, then simply nods and turns back to his grill without a word. The sizzle of meat hitting the hot surface makes my stomach growl again. He works quickly, his hands moving with efficiency, layering meat onto fresh corn tortillas, topping them with cilantro, onion, and his homemade salsa.
He slides a paper plate across the counter with three perfect tacos, lime wedges squeezed over the top.
“But I can’t—”
“Eat,” he says simply. “You look like you need it more than I need the money.”
I take the plate with shaking hands and find a small metal table nearby to sit at. The smell sends waves of nostalgia through me that are so strong I nearly sob. It smells like childhood, like safety, like a time when my biggest worry was a spelling test.
“It’s going to be fine,” I whisper to myself, “You signed a contract. One year. You can handle one year.”
I take a bite.
The flavors hit all at once—the smokycarne asada, the fresh lime, the spice of the salsa. I almost sob.
“Holy shit, this is good,” I mumble around a mouthful, swallowing too fast.
The vendor just nods, like he already knew that.
I try to keep eating, try to keep breathing, but panic starts clawing up my throat again. What am I even doing? Where am I going? How the hell am I getting out of this?
It’s fine. It’s fine.
I squeeze my eyes shut, pressing my palm against my forehead. I just need to figure out a plan, that’s all. I can fix this.
Then—
A low, rumbling sound.
I look up.
Three black SUVs roll to a stop right in front of the taco stall.
The vendor stiffens. A couple of customers shuffle back.
Someone mutters, “Shit, is that the feds?”
The doors swing open.
And out steps him.
My soon-to-be husband.
