As he leads me inside, I’m hyperaware of every point of contact between us. The calluses on his palm. The way his thumb brushes over my knuckles. The heat of his skin against mine.
This isn’t a date, I tell myself. Getting close to him is part of why I’m here.
But if it were a date, it would be my first real one. Everything before has been Netflix and chill or grabbing food with a group. This feels different.
The man behind the counter looks up, face brightening. “Kirill!”
He comes around the counter and pulls Kirill into one of those back-slapping man hugs, launching into a stream of Spanish I can’t follow. Kirill surprises me by answering back in the same language.
An older woman emerges from the kitchen, voice rising in greeting as she shuffles up to Kirill and pats his cheek affectionately.
He says something to her, gesturing to me, and the woman turns her attention my way with a warm smile.“¡Ay, qué linda! Pero tan flaquita. Te voy a engordar, mija.”
I shake my head apologetically. “I’m sorry, I don’t speak Spanish.”
Kirill’s mouth twitches. “Rosa says you’re very pretty but she needs to fatten you up. Apparently you’re too skinny.”
“I don’t think anyone’s ever made that claim about me.”
“Don’t argue with Rosa. You won’t win. And for the record, you’re fucking perfect.”
I flush, before turning to the older woman. “Gracias,” I say. More or less the extent of my Spanish.
Rosa says something else, eyebrows raised, and Kirill shoots back what sounds like a tease. She swats his arm and laughs before ushering us toward a small table in the corner.
Once we’re seated, I lean in. “What did you say to her?”
“I told her you’ve never had a good taco before.”
“Hey, how do you know? I’ve eaten plenty of good tacos.”
“Not like this, you haven’t. No way Moscow has anything close to the Mexican food here. Trust me.”
I purse my lips, unimpressed. “Moscow isn’t some backwater village. We have every kind of restaurant. International food. It’s a major city.”
“I’m sure it is.” The look he’s giving me makes my skin warm. I pull off my jacket and drape it over my chair. “But Rosa’s tacos are better than anything you’ve had. Guaranteed.”
“Have you ever been to Moscow? Or are you talking out of your ass?”
He laughs, shaking his head. “Fair point. My parents moved to the US a long time ago. I was born here a few months after they arrived. Never returned.”
“Wait, never?” My eyebrows shoot up. “Not even to visit?”
“There’s no one left to visit.” He shrugs. “My father has business there. Goes often. But he never saw a reason to bring us along. Said we’re American now. This is home.”
“Still.” I shake my head. “You’re not curious about where your family came from?”
“Maybe with the right tour guide.” He rubs the nape of his neck, and for the first time tonight he looks uncomfortable. Like he’s said something he can’t take back. “Do you miss it?”
I miss my father. I miss Hope, Pavel, and Kin. And I miss being myself instead of living this constant performance where every word is calculated. But I can’t say any of that.
“Sure. But things have worked out for me here. School is going well, and I like the job, so far. And though my boss is … bossy, I’m liking the people there.”
He grins, but before he can respond Rosa appears with enough food for six people. She sets it down with obvious pride, saying something to Kirill that makes him grin.
“She wants you to try one of each.” He pushes the platter toward me. “And before you say it’s too much, pace yourself. She’ll be watching.”
I give Rosa a grateful smile, and she squeezes my shoulder before going behind the counter to watch us closely.
