Page 103 of The Bad Girl List

I almost offer to get one of my other cars and come back for her. But Tequila’s ears are relaxed, her eyebrows dancing as she studies me. I hear my dog’s imaginary voice in my head.

Dad, now is your chance to fix things.

Tequila is right. I decide to pull a card out of the Tim Moretti deck. “Are you hungry? My dad left some food in the picnic grove.” Undoubtedly this was my dad’s plan for us. “How about we eat, then go get another car and I’ll take you home.”

“I'm not hungry.” She looks out the window back in the direction of the grove.

In my Tequila voice, I say, “Please have lunch with us, Dominique. I would be so-so-so happy if you’d hang out with me and my dad for a little while. After what he did the other night, I thought I’d never see you again and that made me really sad.”

As though she knows I’m putting words in her mouth, Tequila’s tail thumps against the side of the door.

Dom finally cracks an almost-smile. “Okay. But only because Tequila asked me. And I am kind of hungry.”

Something in my chest relaxes.

We walk back to the grove together. Tequila hops around us, barking and wagging her tail.

Dom grabs the food bag as I clear pine needles off another picnic table.

“According to your dad, the carnitas burrito from the taco truck is your favorite,” she says into the silence.

Hoping to lighten the mood, I say, “If I’d known he’d taken you to the taco truck, I would have slashed my own tire to keep you here.”

I watch for her reaction, yearning for that perfect easiness we’d had so many times together, hoping for a smile or a laugh.

I don’t get either. All I get is silence.

After a beat, she says, “So it’s pretty good, huh?”

I grab onto her words like they’re a lifeline. “You haven’t lived until you’ve had their food.”

“Well, luckily no tire slashing was required.” Her brow crinkles in amusement, the first sign of lightness I’ve seen in her since she arrived.

I try again, refusing to back off, trying to maneuver us back to the place we never should have left. “Your opinion on dead batteries and old trucks is going to change.” I take the burrito she hands me, then rummage in the bag to dig out the containers of salsa. “You have to try this green salsa. I’ve had salsa at just about every Mexican restaurant in Sonoma County. No other place even comes close.”

“It’s really that good?” she asks, clearly skeptical. “We have some killer taquerias in the city.”

“Try it for yourself and see.”

She grabs one of the chips and dips it into the salsa. I watch her face. She blinks as the flavor hits her tongue.

“This is good,” she says. “But there’s a taco truck in the city that’s better.”

“No way.” I shake my head. “I don't believe you.”

“I wouldn’t lie about food. You’ll just have to try it for yourself when”–she falters, clears her throat, and says, “the next time you’re in San Francisco. I can give you directions to where it usually parks outside the Golden Gate Panhandle.”

“I’ll look it up the next time I’m there.”

She nods and opens her burrito. Another awkward silence stretches, the only sound the crinkling of the foil around our food as we eat. My mind races. Now that I have Dom all to myself with no distractions, I want to keep her talking. I want to fix things so she’ll look at me the way she did in the pool and in the vineyard.

Tequila comes to my rescue. She whines, tail wagging and eyebrows darting as she looks between us from her spot beside the picnic table.

“I think your dog wants some burrito,” Dom says.

“You’d better give her some of yours.” I take a big bite out of mine. “I’m not sharing.”

Dom’s eyebrows climb. “Hell, no. This is the best carnitas burrito I’ve ever had. I’m not sharing a single bite of it with anyone, not even Tequila.” She takes a bite almost as big as mine.

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