Page 58 of Resisting Isaac

She hops down, that skirt lifting just enough to make my pulse trip, and struts toward the open-air patio.

I follow her inside, practically jogging to catch up so I can hold her door open.

I’m still rattled.

Still kind of sweating.

Maybe this is a date.

She orders two tacos al pastor, a tamarind Jarritos, and a side of tomatillo salsa without even glancing at the menu.

“I’m impressed,” I say, handing the cashier a twenty. “You don’t even need time to think.”

Elena shrugs, stepping toward the salsa bar like she owns it. “Confidence comes from knowing what you want.”

I follow her like a damn puppy. “Oh yeah? You always this decisive?”

“Only with food. And sex.”

I almost choke on my laugh.

“For the record, I’ve never eaten goat,” she offers.

I shrug. “I’m not that picky. I’ll eat about anything.”

She smirks but there’s a hard glint in her eyes. “That’s the word on the street.”

I wince then place a hand over my heart. “Ouch, spitfire. Was that you slut-shaming me?”

She arches her brow. “Only shaming you if you’re ashamed of it. No judgement here, cowboy.”

When our order is up, we take our plates to a picnic table tucked under a string of patio lights.

Between bites, she’s quiet. Chewing. Smiling to herself. Then she glances up at me, eyes dancing. “You’re staring.”

“Sorry.” I wipe my mouth with a napkin, then say, before I can stop myself, “Haven’t been here in a long time.”

“Los Compadres?”

I nod. “Used to come here with my dad. Just the two of us. Only thing we did without my siblings or my mom.”

Her expression softens, elbows resting on the table, chin in her hand. “Was he a comedian type like you?”

“Nah. He just had a big presence. Big laugh. Big opinions. Big everything. But when it was just me and him, he’d tone it down. Talk to me on my level. About football, horses, girls, whatever.”

I look out across the lot. The air smells like smoke and grilled meat, the way it always has.

“He’d teach me things he didn’t tell the others. Like how if a jalapeño’s too hot, squeeze lime on it. The acid cuts the heat.”

She leans in, smiling. “You don’t like the heat?”

“Not if it burns my tastebuds off,” I say, nudging the lime wedge from my plate to hers. “You know how much I love to use my tongue. Plus, it gives it a little zing. I like it.”

She shakes her head at my filthy innuendo but does add some lime to her tacos. “It’s good,” she admits.

I nod. “Right?”

She smiles, but it’s softer now. “Sounds like your dad was a good one.”