Page 65 of The Seven Year Slip

James shrugged. “Worth a shot.”

Miguel glanced over to me. “And who’s this?”

“This is Lemon,” James introduced, waving me over.Lemon.Not Clementine. I guess he only used my actual name in professional settings.

I outstretched my hand, deciding not to correct him. I guess I wasn’t going to be around enough for his friends to need a full name. “Hi. It’s a pleasure.”

Miguel accepted my hand and shook it—his grip was hard and firm, and I immediately liked this guy. “Lemon, eh? Nice to meet you. How’d you end up with this guy?”

With?

I gave a start, quickly panicking. “Oh, we’re nottogether—we’re just—you see, I was waiting for an Uber and it never came and I was just at a cooking class and really I’m his—”

“We’ve known each other for a while,” James interjected, glancing over at me to see if it was a good save. It was. I wanted to melt into the pavement, I was so relieved. “Old acquaintances.”

“Yes, that,” I agreed, though Miguel seemed immediately suspicious, but before he could ask thehows of how we met, the other person in the food truck leaned out of the window and shouted at him: “Hey, asshole! You leave me in here all alone withthissort of line?”

To which Miguel turned back and motioned to James. “Isa! Iwan’s here!”

“Well, tell Iwan to get in line!” the woman replied, duckingback in through the window. She was a tall and muscular white woman, her honey-colored hair pulled back from her face in a ponytail, her ears armored with half a dozen earrings, her bare arms filled with so many different tattoos, they melded together in a tapestry. Then, on second thought, she ducked her head back out and added, “Iwan, if you’re here to mooch off us again, at least hand out the drinks!”

“He’s here with a date!” Miguel replied.

James gave him a betrayed look. “It’s not—”

Isa shouted, “Then he better order something—we close at tensharp!”

Miguel’s smile grew pained. “I better go help before she plots to kill me in my sleep. Again,” he added grimly, and hurried back into the food truck, and took up the next order, and we got in line at the end. A few people glanced back to look at James, though only one or two people recognized him, pulling out their phones to check the images online next to him in real life.

James seemed absolutely oblivious to it. “That’s Miguel Ruiz and his fiancée, and better half, Isabelle Martin. We all graduated CIA together.”

“Oh?” I had a hunch as I came closer to the truck and read the menu. With a name like Yo Mama’s Fajitas, I had an inkling of what they served, but I was pleasantly surprised anyway as I skimmed down the menu. “You did it, then,” I said with a grin.

Distracted from taking his wallet out of his back pocket, he asked, “Did what?”

“You bullied your friend with the fajita recipe into opening a food truck.”

He had to think on that for a moment, but then he must have remembered, because it dawned on him and he seemed veryexcited as he said, “Ididmake you his fajitas the first night we met, didn’t I? These are infinitely better.”

“Oh, I’ve no doubt.”

“Wow, tell me how youreallyfeel about my cooking, Lemon.”

“I think I just did.”

His mouth fell open in a scandalized expression, and I’m sure he would’ve had something very smart and snarky to say, but we came to the front of the line at that exact moment, and I was thankfully distracted by ordering a chicken fajita, and he a beef one, and two Coronas. He lingered by the food truck as Miguel and Isa prepared our order, looking so much more in his element here than in a pristine kitchen, where he was done up in a chef’s jacket, barking orders to line cooks. Here, his shirt was untucked and his hair had become a bit ruffled and droopy from the evening’s humidity, as he gave Miguel just a little bit of hell for some knife technique.

“Seriously, look at that knife,” James said,tsking. “That’s got to be the dullest thing in that kitchen—and that includes you.”

“I’vefeelings, bro.”

Isa said while plating another fajita, not missing a beat, “No, you don’t. I squashed those years ago.”

“Fromboth sides? You can both fuck off.” But he grinned at them.

James laughed, and, oh, it wascharming, how easy it was. Like he fit in here, hanging out by the window of his friend’s food truck. He turned to me and asked, “Did you know that in the US, a food truck is technically classified as a restaurant? And that because it is, it’s eligible for a Michelin star?”

“No, I didn’t know,” I replied.

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