Fluffy(23)

“Doing what?” I ask primly, knowing damn well what she’s talking about.

“You treat eating tacos like you’re the star of some Mythbusters show.”

“Do not.”

“Do too.”

“Even if I do–and I am not conceding the point–it would be a worthwhile venture.”

“You are as weird about your tacos as Perky is about her coffee.”

“Take it back! I am not that weird.”

“You are.”

“Am not.”

“This is why Perky and I swore we would never come here with you again.”

Fiona grabs my guacamole and smears the rounded scoop all over the outside of her soft taco.

I shriek.

“How can you do that?” I gasp, the murder of the perfect ratio a painful, almost palpable blow. The mashed avocado has a death rattle that rings in my ears.

Smug, tight lips give me a grimace. “See? A normal person would shout, ‘Hey! That’s mine!’ but you’re more offended that I’ve desecrated my inferior taco wrapping with the wrong amount of guac.”

“Because it’s wrong.”

“You should have gone to MIT, Mal. You need a job that involves nothing but pure math for the sake of calculating stupid shit no one else cares about.”

“So glad to know that a preschool teacher holds such high regard for math,” I snark back. And MIT didn’t give me the kind of merit aid package I got from Brown, I don’t add.

“Was that supposed to sting?”

She takes the rest of my guacamole, grabs a spoon, and starts eating it straight out of the little white paper scoop container thing.

“How can you do that? It’s like people who dip their french fries in mayonnaise.” I shudder, standing to get in line to buy more guac.

“I dip my french fries in mayo!”

“More evidence of your madness, Fi. Get help now. It may not be too late.” I stick my finger in her face. “And by the way, you and Perky talk about my taco habits behind my back? Some friends!” I hmph and turn toward the counter.

Pedro sees me coming and slides a side of guac to me. “No charge, Mallory.”

“Thanks! What’s this about? You guys always charge me.” I dig in my pocket for change.

“We saw your picture.” He gives me a sympathetic look, which is jarring, given the gang tattoos all over his face. When someone who got tatted up in prison feels sorry for you, you know you’re a hopeless case.

“Oh, that,” I laugh, trying to pass it off as a joke.

“Hey, no judgment, man. We all gotta make our money however we can.” A knowing smile makes him look slightly less threatening.

“No, no, Pedro, I wasn’t really working in a porno.”

“Sure.” Wink. The teardrop tat at the corner of his eye folds up. “Sure you weren’t.”

I take the guac and run away.

“That was fast,” Fiona says, her mouth twitching with amusement.

“You heard every word. Don’t pretend you didn’t. This place has like six tables.”

“You didn’t get the three hundred dollars the porn guys owed you, but at least you got an eighty-five-cent side of guac out of the whole mess.” Fiona gives Pedro an extra look, licking her lips as she does it. Or she’s trying to get every drop of my guacamole that she stole. “And I think he’s suddenly viewing you in a new light.”

“I’m not a porn star!” I hiss, starting over with my taco calculations. My fork becomes a surgeon’s scalpel, assembling a little sour cream, some salsa, and just enough guac to smear on the edge of the taco shell to produce gustatorial bliss. One bite.

One bite is all it takes.

As I chew, I close my eyes and sigh, the push of air out my nose helping me to taste the yummy goodness of Pedro’s kitchen. I have lived my entire life here in this little town, and before Pedro, his father, Pedro Senior, ran this place. They opened during my senior year of high school, and I’ve been a regular ever since.

Why leave heaven–especially Taco Heaven–when everything you need surrounds you?

“Done orgasming?” Fiona asks before shoving the last piece of her McTaco into her McMouth.

“Quit joking about porn.”

“I meant your crazy taco system. You look like you’re coming.”

“No, I don’t.”

“You totally do. All you have to add is an open mouth.”

“Why would I do that? It’s gross. I’m eating.”

“Women eat in porn movies, too.”

“If you say the word 'porn' one more time, Feisty, I’m going to hack your social media accounts and find Chris Fletcher and friend him as you.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Try me.”

“Fine. I won’t say the word po–you know, P-O-R-N, if you promise to take Will’s job offer.”

“That’s the weakest blackmail attempt I’ve ever heard. I have the power here, Fiona. Not you.”

“But I have something more powerful.”

“What’s that?”

“Concern. I’m worried about you, Mal. We all are.”

“All?”

“Me. Perky. Your mom. Hastings is even concerned.” Hastings is my older sister. She lives in the Bay Area, where she works for a financial services tech start-up as director of business development and accumulates money the way I collect website hits on images of my humiliation.