“Uhm…”
I point at it as he passes me, walking up his driveway toward the house.
“Your engine is hot. It will dry faster there,” he says.
I glance back at it over my shoulder, the wet cotton dripping down the front of my hood over my headlights. When I turn back, I run into Nico’s chest, not realizing I was as close to his porch as I was and that he had turned to wait for me. His hand wraps around my upper arm and my face touches his bare shoulder, my eyes closing while my skin heats up in instant blush.
“Oh, sorry…I wasn’t looking,” I stumble.
His hand still on my arm, he squeezes, an almost hug.
“It’s okay,” he says. “Come on in.”
Nico holds the screen door open, and I step inside, walking past him. He gestures toward the kitchen, where Alyssa is already sitting in a wooden chair at the head of a giant butcher-block table. The little girl is wearing an oversized T-shirt—clearly her uncle’s—and a pair of unicorn leggings. He rustles her hair as he walks by, stopping to scoop the length of it up and twist it into a temporary ponytail on her back.
“Nana told me not to let you get too wet outside. You’re going to get me in so much trouble,” he laughs, bending forward and touching her nose with his. She scrunches her face and moves her nose back and forth against his.
“You’re the one that made me get this wet!” she says, her voice loud and confident. I smile because she’s so much like her uncle.
“Well played, Miss Medina,” Nico says, squeezing her cheeks in his hands and kissing the top of her head. His eyes move to me while he does, and he winks just before he turns to move toward the counter.
“We have corn tortillas, some of Nana’s carnitas left and…nope. We’re out of cheese. You okay with cheeseless soft tacos?” Nico asks, his eyes shifting between me and his niece. I look to her for a response, and she grins with an open mouth and an overexaggerated nod.
Nico leans into the counter and begins opening up a small plastic bag of tortillas.
“I figured you would be okay with that. You don’t like cheese. But I was more asking for our guest,” he says, shifting his focus to me.
“Oh, no…it’s…it’s okay, really. I’m not that hungry,” I say, not wanting to intrude on something that was probably supposed to be just for the two of them.
“Stop it. I hear your stomach growling. And my mom’s carnitas is the shit,” he says, spinning on his feet and opening a cupboard behind him, pulling out three plates and quickly fashioning a soft taco on each.
He slides a plate in front of me, then turns back to the counter to grab his and Alyssa’s, urging me to sit in the chair at the table. I smile and slink into the seat, tugging my plate closer while I whisper, “Thanks.”
He and Alyssa both pull their food into the palms of their hands, taking large bites and smiling at each other with full mouths. I pick a small piece of the meat from mine and taste it, and the flavor is so powerfully delicious that my mouth waters at the first touch. I follow their lead, folding the tortilla tightly and biting into the end.
“It’s really good,” I say.
Nico nods. The three of us eat in silence, but he watches me through every bite, his mouth hovering in this sort of almost smile that keeps me off guard and makes me aware of every grind of my teeth, swallow of food, and shift of my fingers in holding my food. I try not to meet his gaze, but it’s almost magnetic in the way it calls to me, and every time my eyes meet his, I grow warmer.
“What?” I ask finally, putting the last piece of tortilla down on my plate just long enough to pick up the small paper napkin he sat down with it to wipe aimlessly on my chin in fear that I’m wearing food.
Nico lunges forward, grabbing my discarded bite and popping it in his mouth, and all I can do is look at him, stunned.
“That’s what,” he says, chewing through a closed-mouth grin as he stands, picking up all of our plates and walking away from me backward.
“Hey! I wasn’t done with that,” I protest, standing and following him toward the sink while his niece pushes in her chair and runs to the front room, flipping on a television.
“Only a little bit of TV, then you need to do something else, okay?” Nico says loudly, leaning forward so she can see him around the corner. She nods, then settles into the softness of the sofa.
“You limit her TV?”
Nico’s brow pinches, and I realize my question might have sounded judgmental.
“Sorry, I just meant…it’s nice. Or, it’s not something I’m used to…I don’t know. I’m just going to shut up now,” I stammer, my hands busying themselves with the grooves of the tiled countertop, my fingers tracing the squares one at a time.