She nods. “Yep.”
“What happened before?” Owen asks, his body tensing.
“She threw up,” I tell him.
Owen’s face relaxes. “Ahh, chemo.”
“She wanted to call 911,” my mom tells him, and he bursts out laughing again, before seeing my glare and turning it into a cough.
“Chemo is harsh stuff.”
“Alright, you two. Have fun and don’t worry about me.” My mom shoos us away and closes the door.
"You encourage her by laughing, you know that?" I tell Owen as we walk down the driveway to his car.
Owen shrugs. "She's funny. I laugh."
"I'm still getting used to her sense of humor." We reach his car and he follows me around to my side, opening the door for me.
"Thank you," I tell him, sliding in. He’s done that since high school and it still makes my belly warm.
On the drive, Owen peppers me with questions about my job. Old job? Former career? I don't know what to call it.
"It was fun, I guess. Kind of like a puzzle. Figuring out the target demographic for a given product. Working with different clients." I think back to my building, the high-rise I walked to every morning and walked away from every night. It wasn't especially beautiful, not like other buildings Manhattan is known for, but it was a part of the skyline, and it made me feel special.
Owen makes a right, taking us off the black tar road and through a curved entry, his tires now bumping over cobblestones. Giant sycamore trees tower over us. Two-story buildings all around, ivy vines that curl and stretch, covering the thick stucco walls.
"Owen," I breathe, unable to take my eyes off my favorite place.
Tlaquepaque.
Tucked away behind a low stucco wall, it's not so much a hidden gem but one that requires a longer gaze to be discovered. It's not just a place, but a Spanish Colonial village. Tlaquepaque sits high above the bank of Oak Creek.
I know what I will find once we leave Owen's car: columns and arches, intricate ironwork and patterned tiles artfully decorating little spaces here and there. And everything, absolutely everything, built around the sycamores that stretch high throughout the village.
Owen has brought me to my favorite place, the very place we had our first date, back when neither of us could drive and my mom dropped us off here. In the courtyard, under the glow of white lights that wrapped around trees and the balconies of second story shops, Owen pressed his lips to mine for the first time.
I get out of the car, leaning back slightly and gently resting against the frame. If there is any place that could make me feel the wordhome, this is it.
Owen reaches for me, but only for a moment, the pad of his thumb brushing the inside of my wrist. "I was hoping you hadn't come back here yet."
My head turns and I look at him: at his strong chin, his angular nose, the freckle on his earlobe.
"I didn't bring you here to walk you down memory lane." The words trip from his mouth, his eyes bright with the hurry he feels to justify why we are here. "I just know how much you love the Mexican restaurant."
I'm stunned, trying to catch up to the feeling slipping through me, but Owen takes my silence for something else.
"We don't have to go there," he reassures me. "Other restaurants have opened since you've been here."
"El Rincon," I assert, my eyes still trained on his. It is our place. “I want our table, if possible."
At the words,our table, Owen’s lip peel into a sly grin and he nods swiftly. Gathering one of my hands in his, he leads me away from the car, across the cobbled street, and through an arched hallway. We spill out into the main courtyard. In the center, a stone fountain gurgles. People mill about, stepping over the places where Sycamore roots have pushed against the pavers laid atop them. I look around, drinking in the architectural ingenuity, the sheer beauty of a place capable of transportation. In here, the desert we live in is but a distant memory.
"Walk first?" Owen asks me, pulling my attention from a second-story shop. "Or eat first?"
"Eat," I respond without hesitation. The hike with my mom wasn't strenuous, but the sun still has a way of sneaking in and stealing energy; it made me hungry.
The front door of the restaurant is visible from where we stand. We walk there together, and though he doesn't need to, Owen keeps a firm grasp on my hand.
