Page 32 of The Tourist

He chuckles, shaking his head. “We’ll see about that.”

Diego expertly browns off the beef, sprinkling it with a blend of spices he brought back from his family's home in Mexico. “This is a special mix,” he explains “Chili powder, cumin, garlic powder, and a hint of smoked paprika.”

“What kind of beef are we using?” I ask, watching him work.

“Steak mince.” he replies, looking up with a smile. “I would normally slow-cook it, but I wasn’t planning on making supper tonight. If you weren’t here, I would’ve eaten whatever the chef prepared.”

“Well, I’m looking forward to it,” I tell him, smiling. “What’s in the dressing for the salad?”

“Lime juice, olive oil, garlic, and a little bit of honey,” Diego explains. “The sweetness balances out the heat from the spices.”

As the beef cooks, we move on to preparing the toppings. Diego slices avocados and tomatoes while I chop cilantro and red onions. We also make a tangy slaw with shredded cabbage, carrots, and a dressing made from sour cream, lime juice, and a touch of agave syrup.

“You’re really good at this,” I comment, genuinely impressed by his skills.

“I enjoy cooking,” Diego admits. “It’s like therapy for me. It helps me relax. My abuela always encouraged me to help in the kitchen. She said men should always know how to cook for their women. I think it was because my abuelito never cooked for her.”

I smile, knowing how much Serena and Diego loved their grandparents, their abuela and abuelito.

While we work, Diego starts talking about his family’s roots in Mexico. “My ancestors originated from both the highlands and lowlands of Jalisco. It’s a beautiful region, very diverse. The highlands are cooler, with rolling hills and agave fields as far as the eye can see. The lowlands are more tropical.”

“It sounds like such a beautiful area,” I tell him. “I’ve always wanted to visit Mexico.”

“You should,” Diego replies. “It’s a vibrant country with so much to offer.”

I laugh, picturing it in my mind. “I bet it’s stunning.”

“It is. Agave plants surround my family home there, and you can see the mountains in the distance. It’s very peaceful.”

As we cook, I share a bit about my own background. “It was fascinating growing up with a reconstructive surgeon for a father, particularly with his interest in correcting physical deformities and treating burn injuries. I always admired how dedicated Dad was to helping people. It’s one of the reasons I decided to become a journalist. I wanted to make a difference, like he did.”

“Your father is an amazing man. I always admired him when I was growing up. He had a much more respectable occupation than my father.”

“I found it hard when he retired and moved back to England. I really wasn’t sure whether to stay here or go with my parents. The apprenticeship with the magazine sealed it for me, though. I’ve loved seeing my parents enjoy their retirement, spending their time gardening and traveling.”

“Where you live now must be very different from Las Vegas,” Diego comments, handing me a bowl of freshly made pico de gallo.

“It is,” I agree, taking the bowl and inhaling the fresh scent of tomatoes, onions, and cilantro. “It’s green and rainy, which is very different from the desert here. Both places have their own charm, though.”

We finish cooking, and Diego pours me a small glass of wine. “I thought you might like this,” he says, handing it to me with a warm smile.

I take the glass, my fingers brushing against his, and a shiver runs through me. “Thank you.”

We sit down to eat, and I take a tentative sip of the wine. It’s a red, and the flavor is rich and comforting. It’s my first taste of alcohol since I was taken, and even though it’s just a few mouthfuls, it feels like another step toward reclaiming my life.

“This is really good,” I say, savoring the taste. “It’s been so long since I’ve had wine.”

“I’m glad you like it, it’s from a winery I own in Napa Valley. You deserve to enjoy yourself.”

We assemble our chili, layering the perfectly cooked beef with the vibrant slaw, creamy avocado slices, and a generous spoonful of pico de gallo. The first bite is an explosion of flavors—spicy, tangy, fresh, and utterly delicious.

“This is amazing, thank you.”

“You’re welcome. I wanted to do something special for you.”

As we eat, we talk about everything and nothing—our favorite movies, childhood memories, dreams for the future. It feels natural and easy.

After dinner, we clean up together, our movements synchronized and comfortable. The intimacy of the moment makes my heart race, and I realize that I want to take another step forward. I want to feel more of this connection, and in so doing, reclaim more of my sense of self.

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