I clutch at my stomach. “Stop it,” I cry out, unable to stop laughing. “I’m so full, it hurts.” Still, I can’t help but take another bite of the decadent berry Chantilly cake we’re sharing. “The whole thing reminded me of the lechoneras in Puerto Rico. Entire pigs roasting on a spit.”
“You go back often?” he asks, setting down his fork, then cleaning the sides of his mouth with a napkin.
“It’s complicated.” I fidget in my chair, leaning on my elbows, picking at the whipped cream with my fork. “When I’m there, I don’t have to constantly explain myself. I have this sense of ease that I can’t seem to access anywhere else.” I sit up straight, abandoning my fork. “But other times people treat me like an outsider because I’ve lived in the States for so long.” Beside us, a couple of kids set up a chess board, readying themselves to play. I take a sip of my honey tea. “At the same time, Atlanta also feels like home, even if people treat me like an outsider here, too.” I fold both hands around the cup of hot tea, comforted by the warmth. “I’m one of those people who lives in thein-between, I guess.”
“I get that,” Eli says reassuringly. “Summers in Westlake with Mamaw were the only times it felt like we had a home, but they also meant missing my mom.” His gaze cuts to the parking lot, busy even though it’s past ten at night.
I’m so grateful he seems to have finally dropped his defenses. And maybe it’s because I’ve dropped mine, too. Is this what it takes to fully trust someone?
“My mom was a wreck. But she kept our family together somehow.” He stabs a piece of strawberry but doesn’t eat it. “And then she got real sick. Died when I was twelve. And that’s whenthe guardrails came off.” I reach for him under the table, resting my hand on his knee.
He cups my fingers in his, before his gaze cuts behind me, his forehead crumpling into a frown. A warm hand slides over my shoulder and gives it a squeeze. Startled, I whip my head around to find Augusto, sharply dressed in his detective uniform—dark suit, light shirt, sensible tie, gun holster and badge.
“What are you doing here?” I stand to give him a hug. “I thought you were off today—” I mock glare at him. “Otherwise, I would’ve stayed far away from your favorite coffeehouse.”
“Got the night shift all month.” He gestures toward his partner, who is placing an order at the counter. “It’s so much easier to solve a murder when you’re properly caffeinated.” Then, leaning into my ear, he asks, “Is this the hairy one?”
I punch his arm, and he pretends to whimper.
I’m debating how exactly to introduce Eli, when he saves me the trouble. Eli stands, one palm outstretched, inviting Augusto to shake his hand. There’s a row of tiny beads of sweat over his brow that I swear wasn’t there a few minutes ago.
“This is my brother-in-law, Augusto,” I say. “He’s a detective.”
“Eli,” he says, pumping Augusto’s hand, offering a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. Something is off in Eli’s demeanor, but I have no idea what. Tension has creeped over his shoulders, and I can sense he’s making an effort to appear cheerful.
“You two on a date?” Augusto asks, aiming his shrewd cop eyes in Eli’s direction. I put up a hand to stop Eli from answering.
“Don’t say a word,” I demand. “Because my dear Augusto can’t keep anything from my sister, Carola. And my sister, Carola, can’t keep anything from our mother.” I jab at Augusto with one fingernail. “So you’re not getting anything from us.”
Augusto laughs, dropping a meaty hand on Eli’s shoulder. Eli flinches in response.
“This woman can more than handle herself,” Augusto remarks.
“So grateful to have a man to speak for me.” I roll my eyes, crossing my arms over my chest.
“But if anyone ever dares fuck with her”—Augusto grins, increasing the pressure on Eli’s shoulder—“they’re fucking with me, too.”
“You done?” I ask Augusto, jutting my hip at this absurd display of misplaced valor. “Can we please go back to our date now?”
“So, itisa date,” Augusto exclaims, rubbing his hands impishly. I answer with a silentAre you kidding me?“It’s always nice to be handed a voluntary confession.” He winks, pulling me into a side hug and kissing the side of my forehead.
“You can go now,” I say, sliding one arm around his waist and hugging him back.
He glances down at a cellophane bag of cookies on the table and cheekily says, “I’m confiscating these.” He turns to leave, and just when I think we’re finally rid of him, he points one finger at Eli, and says, “She’s a keeper.”
I groan, but then Eli’s eyes land on mine, and his warm, husky voice murmurs, “That’s what I’m hoping for.” And that’s when I melt into a puddle, right here at the White Windmill.
For what feels like an eternity, I’m at a loss for words. All I can do is hold Eli’s gaze and bite my lower lip, trying to calm my racing heart. I’m also trying to make sense of Eli’s odd reaction to Augusto.
“Did Augusto say something to upset you?” I ask gently.
“God, no,” he’s quick to respond. “I’m sorry if I was awkward.” He shakes his head with a sigh, then takes a long drink of water, his Adam’s apple bobbing hard with every gulp. “I have a… complicated relationship with cops.”
“What happened, Eli?” I ask, resting my palm over his forearm.
He sets down the glass of water, releasing a low, painful exhale. “After my mom died, my dad just…” He shrugs, as if struggling to find the right words. “Drove us off a cliff, in a sense. He started running scams. Pretending my sister and I had cancer or needed an operation.” I wince, already hating his father. What kind of man uses his kids like that? I move my palm to hold his hand, reminding him that I’m on his side. “Pearl has always beena good kid.” He brings his free hand to his face, rubs at his chin with his fingers. “I didn’t want her getting in trouble. So I volunteered to take the brunt of it.”
“Fuck,” I whisper, resisting the urge to pull him closer to me, fold him into a hug.
