“You’re right,” I say to Maricela.
“Of course, I am. Now ya, déjame en paz. I just met a cowboy, and I think I’ll be the one riding him tonight,” she says before hanging up.
I see Manny waiting for the food. I relax into the seat. Needing some air, I open the car door, grabbing the cocadas and taking them with me to a nearby table. My mother’s voice comes to mind, and I straighten my spine. I was, after all, Isabella Yolihuali Gomez Sandoval, la hija de Don Charras, and la nieta de Doña Esperanza Arredondo Gomez.
10
MANNY
Tacos are always the way to a woman’s heart
My nerves are still buzzing from this entire night. How was I supposed to know Isa would walk to my house? Much less that Junior would have fart sniped it.Pinche Chiquillo.I’d have to find a way to get back at him.
“Order for Manuel!” they call through the window.
I carry the bag in my hand to the table where Isa has moved. She looks so perfect under the Texas night sky, her brown eyes looking up at me, and her smile widening.
“What did you get?” Isa asks, helping me open the food containers.
“I wasn’t sure what you liked, so I got a few different kinds: tripa, lengua, asada, adobado, and al pastor,” I say, pointing to each one.
“And they have the best watermelon Micheladas here,” I say, handing her the styrofoam cup.
“Thank you!” she says before taking a drink. “Damn that’s bomb.”
She takes another sip, and I set up our plates, squeezing lime onto each taco and opening the salsa containers. Her eyes intently roam from my hands back to my face, a tint of red creeping up her cheeks.
“Thank you,” she whispers, taking the plate.
“De nada.”
“So, tell me, how do you eat like this and have a body like that?” Isa says, waving a hand in front of me.
“Were you checking out my body?” I smirk before biting into one of the tripa tacos.
“I mean, anyone with eyes can notice Manuel,” she says, a flirtatious smile making its way on her face.
“It’s a balance. Usually, I eat pretty healthy during the week when Junior gets to the house, pues olvídalo.”
“Ya, that kid be eating me out of the house.” She laughs.
“Shit, you’re telling me. When I bring him here, that fool will get four asada tacos, a birria quesadilla, and downs two cups of horchata before he’s done,” I say, shaking my head, and she laughs.
It takes a moment, but I can finally feel that familiar sense of ease she brings. Her shoulders fall, and the tension has left as she eats and drinks, taking in the atmosphere of the people coming and going. She’s not as nervous as she had been when I sat down. Tacos are always the way to a woman’s heart.
“So why nursing?” I ask.
I want to know everything about her. Everything I may have missed through the years. She purses her lips to the side.
“Well, we spent a lot of time in the hospital with my dad. I feel like the nurse always played a significant role in whether the visit was better or worse. I guess I wanted to be someone who made it better.”
“Are you? Making it better?”
“I think I am. Sometimes I worry about the first time I have to tell a family that treatment has stopped working, but I also feel like in the moment, I’ll at least be able to show compassion.”
“You want to know what I tell people when someone they love passes? I tell them that grief is like a wave. When it first hits you, it’s a large wave that feels like it might take you out,but over time, the waves settle. The loss and sadness are still there, but the storm has leveled out.”
“That’s actually the best way to describe it. Even all these years later, I feel like the waves can still get violent for me.”
