“You counted them?!”
“Couldn’t help myself. So?”
She thinks about it, eyes squinted as she tries to recall. “I think five were already there when I bought it. One was when I backed it for the first time in the alley at my parents’ house—the car was longer than I thought. The big one on the right happened while parked, so I never found the culprit. The one at the back is from a guy at a red light who drove off before I could get his info. Then the last was a sneaky concrete post I didn’t see.”
That isn’t too bad, so I extend the key to her. She stares at the Mercedes logo on it, then at the car, and shakes her head.
“A car I don’t know in rush hour traffic sounds like a bad idea. You drive, and I guide.”
“Suit yourself,” I agree with a shrug, stepping onto the driver’s side.
It doesn’t take long for me to realize she’s terrible at navigation. She doesn’t say anything whenever she messes up, though, probably hoping I won’t notice. But I do notice and eventually suggest, “You know, you can put the address in the GPS if you want.”
“No, we’re almost there. Take the next left.”
“This one?”
“No, thenextone.”
“You’re not very good at this,” I say with amusement.
“We all have our flaws. This one! Take this one!” she urges.
Miraculously, we arrive at our destination in one piece. I find a spot near the small square, and we step out of the car together. We walk up to the food truck, where people are already lining up, and I’m surprised by the length of the queue.
“This seems popular,” I note as we get closer.
“I told you it was a good spot. Now move your perfect butt before the line gets too long.”
The smells of spices and slow-cooked meats reach my nose, and I have to give it to her: it’s mouth-watering. We get in line right before a group of five people, and she celebrates the small victory with a little wriggle. The menu is handwritten on a blackboard hanging on the side of the truck, and I quickly accept that I’ll need her help with this.
“I don’t know what any of those are, except for the nachos and the tacos,” I confess.
“You’re in luck because I know whatallthose things are,” she proudly retorts. “Can I choose for you?”
“Yes. I’d rather have chicken. And nothing with coriander in it.”
“Okay, that’s doable. What about the chili level?”
“None.”
She halts her inspection of the menu to look up at me with furrowed eyebrows. “No chili at all?”
I shake my head, and her frown deepens. “We may have found another one of my hard limits,” she explains. I’m only just starting to worry when her seriousness cracks into amusement. “Lex, my abuela will make fun of me forever if I tell her mynoviocan’t handle a little spice.”
“Novio?”
“Boyfriend.” She realizes what she implied and continues with, “And I meant it hypothetically. This is still a trial period.”
I nod. The little Spanish that I know activates, and I try to remember what I learned. “Would that hypothetically make you my…novia?” I try.
“Yes, but don’t you dare learn Spanish, Lex. Between your accent and your face, my ovaries would burst.”
I let out a powerful laugh that comes from deep in my stomach. “Out of respect for your ovaries, I won’t, then.”
We take a couple of steps forward, getting closer to the person taking orders. “Good. But seriously, no chili at all?” she insists.
I shake my head. “I never understood the appeal. After three bites, my mouth is on fire, and I can’t taste anything else.”
