A Cosmic Kind of Love(41)

“Hola.” A dark-haired waiter approached us. “Bienvenido a Valeria’s. How may I help?”

Chris replied, “Hi. We have a table booked under Ortiz.”

The man’s eyes widened. “Sí, sí. Es un placer conocerle, Capitán Ortiz. Mi nombre es Víctor. Seré su mesero esta noche. Por aquí, por favor.” He gestured with his arm and then started walking in that direction.

I couldn’t speak Spanish beyond the basics, but it was clear from Victor’s expression that he knew who Chris was. I hadn’t expected people to recognize him, but apparently they did. As we followed, I noted Chris’s hand felt like it weighed heavier against my back.

I glanced up at him and saw a small frown between his brows, and his mouth was a little pinched, like he was tense.

What on earth?

Victor pulled out my chair, and I reluctantly moved away from Chris’s touch to sit. I murmured my thank-you and observed Chris as he sat across from me at the small, intimate table in the back corner of the room.

“Es una velada perfecta para tapas. ?Ha cenado antes con nosotros o le gustaría ver el menú?” Victor directed his question at Chris, and we both waited for a reply.

Instead Chris’s nostrils flared and he shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

Realization dawned and I jumped in. “Victor, while Spanish is music to my ears, it’s also music I can’t understand.” I smiled with pretend sheepishness. “I don’t want to make Chris translate everything for me tonight, so if we could converse in English, I’d so appreciate it.”

Victor looked mortified that he might have offended Chris by speaking in a language his “date” didn’t understand. “Forgive me, I should not have presumed.” He continued to take our drink order and provide us with a menu. There was a tension at the table I did not like.

“I’m going to defer to your opinion and order what you recommend,” I said, trying to alleviate the thick atmosphere.

“Why don’t we order a sharing platter?”

“Sounds good.”

“I can tell you what I’ve enjoyed in the past.”

We pondered the menu for a few minutes, made our selections, and, as if he’d been watching us, Victor returned to take our orders.

As soon as he was gone, Chris’s gaze darted around the restaurant as he took a sip of his wine.

And my lack of a filter kicked in. “You don’t speak Spanish?”

His eyes came back to me. “Because I’m half Mexican, it’s a requirement? And I didn’t need you to cover for me like I should be ashamed I don’t speak Spanish.”

I almost flinched at the sharpness in his tone.

Feeling awful, I shook my head. “No . . . I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. I thought . . . Never mind. It was a genuine question. I know you speak Russian from your videos, so I just assumed you were this wicked smart linguist.”

Chris studied me for a second, the blood rushing in my ears the longer he did it. Then, finally, his shoulders relaxed and his expression softened. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that. I know you were just trying to be kind.”

“I’m sorry.” I felt extremely awkward. In all his video letters Chris had come across as perpetually calm and even-tempered. But he was human, so it was unfair of me to hold him to an impossible standard of behavior.

“You have nothing to be sorry for, Hallie. I . . . uh . . . It’s been a difficult day. The truth is I was never taught Spanish. And my father discouraged us from choosing a language as a subject at school. He thought it was a waste of our time because he could surround himself with paid translators and just assumed that would be our future too. I learned some basic Spanish from my brother, who learned it from friends in the military, and I learned some more from men I later served with. But it’s very basic. I understood what Victor said to us, but my Spanish isn’t good enough to reply fluently or hold an entire conversation with him.”

Something like discomfort flickered in his gaze.

Did he think it was a failing that he couldn’t speak Spanish? I hated that idea. “Why wouldn’t your father teach you?”

“I don’t know. When I bring up the subject, he shuts it down. All I know is that he was raised in foster care, and so I have no connection to my Mexican heritage.”

“Do you want a connection?”

“As I get older, I definitely do. It was always something my brother and I talked about doing together. Learning Spanish. Going to Mexico. Maybe even trying to find our family. We knew our father would disapprove, but we were always stronger as a unit. We could withstand his disapproval together.”

The sadness—which was obviously grief—in his eyes made me want to reach out and squeeze his hand. Before I could stop myself, I did it. My palm tingled as I held his warm, dark gaze. “You should do it.” I squeezed his hand and released him before he could react. “If it would mean something to you, do it. It must seem so strange to have literally been on top of the world, to watch it turn and feel a part of this constantly expanding universe, and yet feel disconnected to something so intrinsically a part of you, something small in the grand scheme of things but big to you.”

Chris’s lips parted; his eyes grew round. He studied me like he’d never seen me before, and I suddenly cursed my overfamiliarity with a client. Just as I was about to apologize, he replied, his voice hoarse, “Exactly.”