“What’s the main dish?” I asked, taking in the scent of the kitchen. It smelled a little like my great aunt’s kitchen when she made enchiladas or tostadas.
He took a deep breath. “I’m kind of nervous to tell you.”
“It’s not seafood, is it?”
He chuckled. “No, it’s actually Mexican food—or rather a Mexican dish.”
“You made me—a half Mexican Latina—Mexican food when you are zero percent Mexican?” I asked challengingly.
“I did,” he said, laughing. “It’s not even a little authentic, but I’m hoping you like it as much as I do. He sat down and handed me a bowl for the salad.
“So, what exactly is simmering under there?” I asked, taking a bite of salad. The salad was a simple garden salad, but the vegetables tasted fresh.
“It’s my take on enchiladas but cooked in a pan on the stove rather than in the oven.”
I scrunched my eyebrows together. “How exactly does that work?”
He finished his bite of salad, put his fork down, and put a stray hair behind his ear. “I use ground turkey, so I cook that first. Then once it’s cooked, I add cut-up tortilla strips, black beans, onions, and mild enchilada sauce. I let that simmer for a bit so everything can soak up the sauce. Then once that’s all done, I add the cheese and let it simmer once more until the cheese is all melted, then bon appétit.”
I sat wide-eyed, because it honestly sounded good. We sat in silence for a bit longer while we finished our salads. The silence wasn’t awkward, it was comfortable, unlike anything I’ve ever felt with anyone else. I always had to fill the silence because sitting in the quiet with anyone else made me anxious. Then, when I became anxious, I became chatty. Exes loved to remind me how annoyed I made them from my incessant chatter.
“It should be ready. Are you ready to try it?” he asked, bringing me back to the moment.
I gave him a sly smile. “I amdyingto try it.” I dragged out dying and fluttered my eyelashes.
“Has anyone ever told you that you’re a little bit of a brat?”
I laughed. “Maybe once or twice.”
He brought us our plates, and the concoction looked how he described.
“Here’s the moment of truth,” he said. “You take a bite first, so if you hate it, then we can order pizza and forget I even made this.”
“Has anyone ever told you that you’re a little bit dramatic?” I raised my eyebrows at him.
“Actually, never,” he teased. “Probably because I’m not.”
I rolled my eyes and took a bite. The pan enchiladas were mouthwateringly delicious. I quickly took another bite, and I let out a small moan.
“That good?” he asked.
I finished my bite. “This is so good. I don’t like the ones my great aunt makes very much because they’re so spicy. These are perfect!” I exclaimed.
He gave me a soft, genuine smile and let out a breath. “Thank goodness,” he said. “I have been low-key stressed about this all day. I may have wanted to make a good impression or something.”
“Well, color me impressed,” I said with a wink.
“So, since this is our official second date, should we dive into the deep stuff?” He took another bite and looked back up at me.
“Where should we start?” I asked.
“The beginning,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. “I do want to preface that I'm not quite ready to discuss my family, but I’d be okay talking about some of my childhood.”
I nodded. “Perfect, because same.”
“I told you my mom wasn’t fit to be a mother, so my grandma raised me. It was just me and her for most of my childhood. She was literally my best friend. My mom had another baby, whom my grandma took in when I was ten. Once my sister was going to school and I was driving, I took over a lot of the caretaking responsibilities while my grandma worked.” He paused, lost in memory. “I never felt like I missed out on anything, not having parents or not having some of the freedoms my friends had. I think our little family was the happiest in the neighborhood. We never yelled or disrespected each other.”
“I love that,” I said. “What was your favorite treat she’d make for you?”
