Page 26 of Mister St. James

He shrugs, then immediately checks himself, clearly aware of the microaggressions at war inside him. “No, it’s just different. Warmer than the places I grew up.”

I consider this, stepping over a puddle and around a flock of grade-schoolers playing tag. “It’s a community,” I say. “Like that saying ‘It takes a village...”

At the corner, I duck into the bodega for a bottle of malt soda and a sleeve of Oreos, the kind they don’t sell outside the neighborhood. The cashier is an auntie-type, silver hair, tattooed knuckles, who greets me with a familiar, “Mija, you don’t call, you don’t text, what, you’re too big-time now?”

I lean over the counter and kiss her cheek. “I’m not famous yet, Tía. Maybe next year.”

She gives Aiden a long, slow up-down, not subtle at all. “You brought a date. Good. About time.”

Aiden smiles, polite, but I see the edge in it. He’s out of his comfort zone, but trying not to show it. It’s fucking adorable.

We walk on, sharing the soda and cookies, and I point out the murals, the one of Celia Cruz, her mouth wide with laughter, then the one of the Virgen de Guadalupe, patched and vandalized but still radiant. Aiden is silent, taking it all in. Every so often, someone shouts my name from a stoop or a car window. I wave back, not breaking stride.

“Jesus. Do you know everyone here?” he asks.

I nod. “Pretty much. You hungry?”

He hesitates, like he’s afraid of what that might entail. “Always.”

I take him to Las Palmas, a hole-in-the-wall with plastic tablecloths and a wall of baseball photos. Inside, the owner, a woman shaped like a pear but with a pit bull’s energy, greets me like a prodigal daughter.

"CATALINA!" She booms it, three times the volume required. The room takes notice, and for a moment every eye is on us. I see Aiden shift, then brace, and then, almost, a flicker of amusement.

She pulls me into a tight hug, kissing my cheek like she didn’t just see me two weeks ago and says, “This him?”

I look at him. “Yeah, Maggie, this is him.”

She grins, then pinches his cheeks "Que lindo cerebrito," she says, then to me, "You finally found a tall one."

I’m dying inside, but Aiden takes it with grace, adjusting his glasses. “You must be the chef,” he says.

She howls with laughter. “The chef, the owner, the bouncer, the accountant, and the priest, if you need confession.”

I order for both of us in Spanish, no menu needed. I’ve been here enough times to know that there is no better place to get birria tacos.

“So, what was that? What’s a cerebrito?” he asks and I don’t even try to stifle my grin.

“It translates to little brain.” I reach over the table and push his glasses back. “She basically called you a nerd. A very hot nerd.”

“I guess I should add Spanish to my list of languages so I can understand her more next time.” He laughs and I can feel the butterflies in my stomach take flight.

The food arrives in a rush of sound and smell, birria tacos, dripping and glorious, consommé dark as ink, a side of pickled jalapeños bright as traffic cones. I squeeze lime over everything, then grab a taco, dip, and bite. The juice explodes down my wrist, and I chase it with my tongue, not caring that Aiden is watching with open fascination.

He copies me, sort of. He picks up the taco carefully, inspects it, then dips it, watching the juice drip for a full two seconds before biting in. For a moment, I expect him to cough or cringe, but instead, his whole posture changes. The shoulders drop, the lines at his mouth soften, and he takes a second, messier bite.

“Holy shit,” he says. “That’s—”

“Not what you expected?”

He shakes his head, swallowing, then wipes his fingers on the napkin, a move that is almost apologetic. “It’s amazing. Spicy, but in a way that…” He trails off, searching for a word that isn’t “hurts.” “Sticks with you.”

I grin, lean in, and say, “That’s what they said about me in high school.”

He laughs, for real this time, and something in my chest cracks open, just a little. We eat, devour really, and the conversation is easy, unguarded. I tell him about the neighborhood, how I grew up five blocks from here, how my mother still yells at me if I call after nine p.m., how the only time I ever got sent home from school was for punching a boy who called me “Chata.”

“What does that even mean?” he asks, licking consommé from his knuckle.

“Means ‘squishy nose.’ Also means ‘pain in the ass,’ if you say it with enough context. Guess which one was accurate.”