Page 10 of Hearts to Mend

Rico nods, grabs two glasses from a cupboard and a corkscrew from a drawer. It’s all where it’s always been, unchanged. While Rico and I grew up and grew apart, everything else here remained the same. He gestures for me to hand him the wine, but I swat his hand away and grab the corkscrew. “You tend to your meat. I’ve got this.”

Rico grins at my accidental double entendre, and his dark eyes shine hypnotically in the overhead incandescents.

I turn away, my attention on the cork in the bottle. When I have a glass poured for each of us, I set his out of his reach—why make it easy for him?—and start walking around the room nursing mine, looking at the old family photos and ornate crosses adorning every inch of the place.

It is so much the same, the same faces staring out at me from these hallowed walls. Some of the faces are family long gone but never forgotten. Like Rico’s father and a few of his uncles. Others are faces that have grown, changed, but here on the wall, they stay the same, frozen in a beautiful time. There, included near the center of it all, is a shot of me, playing soccer with Rico and his brothers, Javi and Manny Junior, around the old oaks in this very yard. A sip of wine helps me swallow the lump in my throat.

Behind me, Rico turns the music off, and the silence is as oppressive as the heat he’s cooking up in this old kitchen. He clears his throat like he’s about to say something, so I jump in first.

“How are your brothers?” I stare at their smiling faces in a photo taken with their dad out at Muleshoe Bend.

I glance at Rico when he doesn’t answer immediately. His posture is stiff as he wraps up dinner. “Good. They’re good. Javi is in Miami, writing scripts for a telenovela on Univision, and Manny is in California, at Edwards Air Force Base. He was just promoted to Technical Sergeant.”

I already knew all that. It’s a small town, so how could I not? Then again, I didn’t know about Rico’s daddy news, did I?

Rico clicks off the burners on the stove and carries the food to the table. I watch, not offering to help as he sets the table, lights a couple of candles, and pulls a chair out in front of one of the steaming plates of food.

The candles are a dirty trick, and he knows it. Also, holding out my chair, really? I scowl at him.

Because I’m a brat, I go to the other chair, pulling it out and sitting. He raises a brow, then takes a seat in the chair he was holding. We don’t speak for a moment as I take in the spread of food.

Fajitas, my favorite, he remembers. I reach for the tortilla cradle between us and pull out one of the warm tortillas. It’s homemade. Inez’s homemade tortillas are incredible, legendary, literally the only tortillas I’ve ever tasted that were better than the butter variety from HEB’s bakery. I’m in heaven and don’t even care that the soft flour disk is burning my palm as I load it full of strips of meat, sautéed onions and peppers, cheese, and pico de gallo. When it’s heaped full, I take a big, messy bite.

Oh. My. God. Homemade Rodriguez fajitas, where have you been all my adult life? Right. You’ve been here, the place I’ve been avoiding ever since Rico mailed that awful fucking letter to me from Afghanistan and broke my heart—

“Dee—”

“No,” I hold up the hand not clutching my fajita and glare at him, “No talking until after dinner.”

Rico looks like I’ve offended him. Too bad, bucko. To turn the screw a little tighter, I pull the air horn out of my purse and set it beside my glass of wine.

“What’s that for?” he asks, frowning.

“In case you try anything, Drew will hear this and—”

“Oh come on, Dee Dee. You know me. I wouldn’t—”

“I don’t know you at all!” I try to temper my voice as I add, “And stop calling me Dee Dee. I’m not that girl anymore.”

He opens his mouth to argue, and I wag my finger at him. “What’d I say? No talking until after dinner. This conversation is ruining the food. After I’ve swallowed the last bite, and only after, will I permit you to speak. You will have fifteen minutes to explain yourself, so consider what you plan to say.”

If scowls could talk, his would be shouting up a storm right now, but he does as instructed, and we eat in silence. It’s unbearable, a little like torture, with nothing but the sound of utensils scraping plates, mouths chewing food. I wish he’d left the music on.

But I’ve committed to this as my plan for the evening, and I will not back down now. So I focus on the food, enjoying every pop of flavor and burn of spice. I hum with orgasmic delight as the soft dollop of homemade guacamole cools the heat on my tongue and lends its own tang to the mix of flavors.

Only when I’ve chewed and swallowed my last bite do I settle back in my chair, pour myself a second glass of wine, hug it close to my chest like it’s armor, and say, “You may speak now.”

Rico’s lips twitch, like he wants to laugh at my take-charge approach. I try—and fail—not to notice how the low lights of the candles dance with mirth in his dark eyes. I turn my gaze to my wine, watching the merlot swirl at the bottom of the glass as I wait.

When he’s silent for a moment, I raise my gaze and remind him, “You have fifteen minutes. Clock’s ticking.”

Finally, he dabs a napkin at his lips, leans back a little, and says, “I fucked up.”

I blink, waiting for more. Expecting more. Is that seriously all I get after all this time? “Explain,” I demand.

With a deep, heavy sigh, he finally does. “I was a stupid kid with big ideas about the world, all the things I wanted to see and do. My brothers were having all these amazing adventures in Hollywood and the Air Force, and I wanted an adventure too. I didn’t want to be the one Rodriguez boy who never left Krause.”

He doesn’t say it, and I’m pretty sure he doesn’t mean it, but all I hear is: I didn’t want to settle for you and your little small-town life. It cuts deep.

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