The restaurant comes into view not long after; it’s nothing special. A local Mexican place with warm lighting pouring out of the windows and a steady flow of people going in and out. Laughter spills out every time the door opens.
It’s loud and busy for a weekday, but they’re probably having happy hour on margaritas.
I park, step out, and smooth a hand down the front of my shirt out of habit before heading inside.
The smell hits the spot immediately; fajitas and tortilla chips. It clings to the air as I walk toward the middle of the restaurant in search of my mother.
Conversations overlap, plates clatter and a low, rhythmic salsa track fills the space.
I scan the room once and find her instantly.
My mom’s already looking my way like she’s been waiting for me to walk in, and the second she spots me, she lights up.
Actually lights up.
She stands before I even reach the table.
“There he is,” she says, stepping forward and pulling me into a hug.
“Hi, Mom.”
She pulls back, her hands still on my arms like she’s making sure I actually made it here in one piece from the construction site.
“You look tired,” she says immediately.
“I’m fine.”
I turn to Tom, extending my hand and he shakes it without hesitation.
I sit down, adjusting slightly as my eyes move across the table and extra seats.
I lean back just a bit, resting my arm against the back of the chair.
“Why’d you guys get a table this big?” I ask, glancing between them. “It’s just the three of us, right?”
My mom’s smile doesn’t disappear as she glances past me and calls out, “Cora! Irene! How lovely to see you again.”
I turn my head around, following her gaze.
I lift my hand in a casual wave, masking it with something friendly while I try not to question what the fuck is going on.
They don’t stop talking by the time they reach the table. It just rolls right into something else; vacation spots, complaints about how their oldest kids still haven’t given them grandchildren.
I pick up the menu, trying to decide on what to eat, while I half-listen to everything they’re saying.
There’s movement beside me.
The chair to my right scrapes lightly against the floor as someone takes a seat.
I don’t look right away.
Ilet my eyes stay on the menu for a second longer, before finally glancing up toward the person.
I lean in slightly and whisper, “Funny meeting you here.”
18
Dominic
