Page 43 of Bastard
“Not always.” His reply is immediate.
A tiny piece of apple wedges itself inside my throat. I swallow it down as I wait for him to elaborate.
He drinks deeply, and for the briefest of moments, I sense he’s going to say more.
Except our waiter returns with a full plate and the moment is lost.
I wait until Hayden is served before eating, and my taste buds die a thousand deaths from how exquisitely prepared the dish is. The nuns who dreamed up the chocolate-infused sauce blended with the perfect amount of chilis were geniuses. The chicken melts on my tongue. The rice flavorful without distracting from the main dish.
I feel his eyes on me.
“So glad you were in the mood for Mexican.”
He grunts.
“Thank you for this.”
Fork in hand, he continues to eat and with a sigh, I do the same.
“Are you still dancing?” he softly asks after a while, breaking the comfortable silence between us.
I blink. On our wedding night, I danced for him. I was hell bent on seducing him that night. “No. I’m surprised your spies haven’t told you.”
“Why not?” He pins me with a stare.
“I miss dancing, it’s true. I guess I lost interest in it for a time.”Lost interest. Lost a part of me. Lost you.I take a sip of sangria, the sweetness overriding my bitterness. “Do you ever miss Loreto?” I ask, curious how he’ll respond.
“Loreto?” He pauses, ever so briefly. “No.”
“Diego kept our house there.”
“Which you returned to once.”
I roll my eyes at his unapologetic manner over spying on me. “A place is simply a place unless the people you love live there. Loreto wouldn’t be the same with everyone gone. I found a home in Nmimpi.”
“And a village to love.” He stares at me thoughtfully, and I wish I knew what he was thinking.
“Yes. And meaningful work—must be in the genes.”
That earns a smile. Diego blowing up things ... is meaningful work?
“The matriarch, Mustafa?”
“Yes, that’s her name.”
“She’s alive and thriving.”
It takes great effort to hold my fork steady because my hand is shaking so hard. “You ... made sure that she was okay?”
He nods.
“Why?”
“You love her. And I like hearing the way you talk about someone you love.”
“What?” My fork slips from my hand and lands in the rice. “You’re still looking out for me?”
“I married you.”
