Page 20 of The Tourist

It’s the day following my nightmare. I am thankful Diego stayed with me, holding me while I slept. His presence was a comfort, and a reminder that I’m not alone. I hope that one day I can pass his comfort on to others.

I glance up from my writing to watch Diego busy in the kitchen. He’s been out on business this morning, and now he’s preparing lunch for us as his chef is on a day off. He’s making fish tacos. It’s a family recipe that he’s promised I’ll love.

Diego moves easily around the kitchen, chopping vegetables and marinating the fish. There’s something soothing about watching him cook. His movements are sure and confident, but then again, all his movements are like that. I’ve never seen him any other way, unless it’s when he has a moment of doubt about his sister. Even then, he’s always quick to mask his fears. I guess he doesn’t want anyone to see he has any weakness because he’s the head of his organization.

The enticing aroma of spices fills the air, a delicious blend of flavors that makes my stomach growl. It’s been a long time since I’ve truly enjoyed food. Most of what I’ve eaten since my rescue has been plain and functional, designed to help me gain weight and strength after my ordeal. But today, the smell of the fish tacos is awakening my appetite.

"How’s the writing going?" Diego asks.

He’s got a smudge of sour cream on his cheek, and I can’t help but smile.

"I’m really enjoying it," I reply, closing my notebook and setting it aside. "The food smells amazing. I’m looking forward to eating it."

"Good," he says with a grin. "This recipe has a secret ingredient. It’s a special blend of spices from Mexico. My abuela used to make it for us all the time."

"Your abuela was a wonderful woman," I reply.

The mention of Diego’s grandmother causes me a pang of longing for my own family. I’ve spoken to Mom and Dad on the phone a few times, but I’ve been reluctant to see them in person. I haven’t felt strong enough after everything that’s happened. They’ve given me the space I need, but it must be hard for them.

"She was," Diego replies. "She taught me a lot about cooking. And about life. She never got involved in the running of the family business, because she didn’t approve of it."

He falls into silence as he turns back to the stove.

I stand up and walk over to him. "You’ve got a little something..." I tell him, pointing to the same place on my cheek where the cream has smeared on his.

Diego looks puzzled for a moment before realizing what I mean. He chuckles. "Oh, thanks."

I reach up and gently wipe the sour cream from his cheek with my thumb. Our eyes meet, and for a moment, a connection sparks between us. I realize with a start that I’m not just surviving. I’m beginning to live again, and I’m starting to feel emotions that are positive and good. I’m smiling and laughing.

Diego puts the wooden spoon into the taco mix, and scooping out a small amount, he holds it up for me to taste. I blow on it gently, to cool it down, and then take a mouthful. It’s delicious.

"You know, this is the first food I’ve really looked forward to in a long while," I admit as I sit down at the kitchen table while Diego dishes up. "The spiciness... it’s a welcome change."

Diego’s face lights up with a smile. "I’m glad you like it. Food should be enjoyed, not just eaten, but we needed to provide you with a diet that promoted your recovery. I’ve made the mix milder than I normally would, but don’t eat too much of it. I don’t want it to upset your stomach."

“Somehow, I think I’ll survive,” I respond with a smile.

We both laugh, and the sound surprises me. It’s magical to my ears, and a reminder that I’m still capable of joy. It’s been so long since I’ve laughed, truly laughed, and it feels like I’ve found another part of me that I thought was lost.

As we eat, the conversation flows easily. Diego tells me stories about his family in Mexico, about growing up in Las Vegas, and about his favorite foods, most of them involving the hottest chilies known to man and rather a lot of sweating. I listen, feeling a warmth spread through me that has nothing to do with the spiciness of the tacos.

Diego suddenly looks up at me and says, "Chloe, everything that happened to you... it will always be with you. But in time, you will learn to live with it, to survive it, and to grow from it."

He reminds me of this daily. It’s a mantra he recites to comfort me, and I’m actually starting to believe it now.

I nod. "I know. Some days, it’s hard to accept, but I’m feeling much more positive than I did a few weeks ago. I’m trying to move past it."

"You’re doing more than trying," he says, reaching across the table to squeeze my hand, and a warmth floods through me at his touch. "You’re succeeding. One day at a time."

We finish our meal, and I help Diego clean up. It feels good to be doing something normal, something mundane. There’s comfort in routine, completing simple, daily tasks. I never thought I’d enjoy drying and putting dishes away. I’m still going to give taking the trash out a hard pass, though. A lady has her limits, and trash smells bad.

After the kitchen is tidy, Diego grins at me. "So, I was thinking... how about we have a Marvel marathon? You’re still getting your strength back, and a lazy afternoon watching movies might be just what the doctor ordered."

I laugh, and I find the sound less strange this time. "You’re a Marvel nerd, are you?" I raise an eyebrow at him.

"Guilty as charged," he admits, holding up his hands in mock surrender. "But seriously, it’s a great way to relax. And who doesn’t love a good superhero movie?"

"I never would have guessed," I say, smiling. "You always seem so serious, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen you watch television or a movie."

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