The knock on my door came at exactly seven o’clock, because Adan was nothing if not punctual. I wiped my hands on a dish towel and went to let him in, my heart rate picking up as I turned the locks.
He was standing in the hallway wearing dark jeans and a button-down shirt that made his shoulders look impossibly broad, looking almost as nervous as I felt.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi.”
I gestured and he walked past me. As he passed me, I caught the scent of his cologne mixed with something that was distinctly him. The familiarity of it made my chest tight with want. Taking a deep breath, I closed the door behind me.
Adan stood there, hands in his pockets. “I wasn’t sure if I should bring something. Like, wine, maybe?”
“I thought you couldn’t buy alcohol if you’re under twenty-one.”
He shrugged. “I can’t, but Martinez can, so I could’ve asked him.”
“But you didn’t.”
“I figured it would lead to questions. I’m not exactly a wine kind of guy, which Martinez knows.”
“Then you made the right call. I do like wine, but it’s not something I drink every night.”
“Something smells incredible,” he said, looking toward the kitchen.
“Swedish meatballs. It’s myfarmor’srecipe, my father’s mother. I hope you’re hungry.”
He grinned, and some of the tension between us dissipated. “I’m always starving.”
We moved to the kitchen, and I poured us each a glass of seltzer while he watched me finish the meal. I was serving the meatballs with brown gravy, mashed potatoes, steamed green beans, and of course, lingonberry jam. There was something domestic about the scene that felt both natural and momentous, like we were crossing some invisible line by sharing dinner in my apartment.
“Can I help with anything?” he asked.
“Nope, I’m almost done.”
I plated the food, then carried it to the dining table, which I had set for two. And yes, I had bought and lit a candle in some overly romantic gesture that I now regretted, but it was too late now.
“This is a classic Swedish meal,” I told him. “These are our famousköttbullar, or meatballs.”
“What’s the red stuff?”
“Lingonberry jam. I know it sounds weird to eat meat with jam, but try it. It’s actually really good.”
Adan eagerly dug in, trying some mashed potatoes first, but then going for a meatball with jam. His whole face lit up. “Oh, you’re right. This is really good. I wouldn’t have expected that.”
A deep satisfaction filled me. Myfarmorhad always said that serving people good food brought joy, and I now understood what she meant. “I’m glad.”
“I’ve never had anything like this,” Adan said. “Then again, I’m more used to Mexican food.”
“Mexican?”
He nodded, chewing quickly. “My mom’s from Mexico, so I grew up with lots of her food. My dad loves it too.”
“So you’re fluent in Spanish?”
He wiggled his hand. “I can’t write it well since I never learned, but I speak and understand it well enough.”
Our conversation over dinner was easier than I’d expected, getting to know each other by asking and answering questions in the same comfortable rhythm we’d found during our other private moments. But underneath the casual topics, there was an undercurrent of awareness, of anticipation, of both of us knowing that tonight was different.
“This is really good,” Adan said, gesturing at his nearly empty plate. “Where did you learn to cook like this?”
