With the Fire on High(64)

“You are nervous.”

I touch a dimple. “Are you a virgin, Malachi?” I’ve never had the balls to ask, but this seems like something I should know.

He clears his throat and stops playing with my hand. “There was a girl in my last school. We weren’t that serious, but we’d fooled around. We’d talked about doing more. But then my brother was shot and I was a mess and my mother told me she was sending me here and then I met you.”

I turn my face and he gives me a soft tap kiss and leans back. When I don’t move he gives me another tap kiss and it lasts a little longer. The next time he kisses me, I’m on him. Legs straddling his lap, arms wound around his back. Kissing him back.

Tyrone had been fast, and all about him. And it’d been fun the couple of times we did it. Maybe not even fun, as much as it was exciting. It was something new. It was like entering a world everyone talked about but no one knew how to explain, and all of a sudden, you’re allowed into the secret. Even if it’s not much of a secret. And if I had to count, I’d say we had sex three times at the most. The first time, probably when I got pregnant, and twice after that. I never saw what the big deal was about, outside of how nice it was to be touched. But this is different.

“Are you sure you’re a virgin?” I ask him. He kisses like he’s been kissing for a long time. And his hands move slowly like they have a precise goal in mind.

“Are you sure you’ve done this before?” he responds.

I laugh and smack his shoulder. But I am nervous. Not because I know tricks or anything—Tyrone and I didn’t even do it enough times for me to learn much—but my naked body shows it once carried a child. I dropped the weight quick enough, but it’s the other things that show when you aren’t wearing clothes that mark you as someone who’s given birth. With Tyrone it hadn’t even mattered what I knew or didn’t know because he knew I didn’t know anything. But I feel like Malachi expects things.

“Malachi. I’m not really that experienced. It was only a couple of times. Don’t get your hopes—”

He puts a finger up to my lips and keeps kissing my neck. “Please don’t bring up other times right now. We can talk later. If you want. But this isn’t about other people. We’re not here with other people. We’re here. Right now. Me and you. Right?”

He keeps kissing my neck. And then my hands are everywhere. I need to touch his skin, his shoulders, his back. I kiss his ear and he moans into my neck.

“That feels too good.” And this was new, too. This power of making a boy jump or moan.

I take my shirt off. And he takes off his. “Are you sure?” he asks.

I press a hand to his heart. I’m not sure of anything. “Kiss me again?” So we do, we kiss and we rub, and his hands are on my body and I haven’t shown this body to anybody in a long, long time. He rubs a hand along the stretch marks on my breasts and stomach. All the things that mark me as a mom in the most obvious of ways. He kisses me there and everywhere. He reaches for my jeans.

I cover Malachi’s hand where it’s undoing my zipper and hold it still.

“I think we should wait. It would be romantic. In Spain. Your first time. All of that. It’d be like a story. But . . .”

Malachi puts his hands up and throws his head back on the couch. I start scooting off his lap but he holds me in place. “All good, Santi.” He hugs me to himself. “Give me a second to get myself under control.”

I brush my fingers on his chest. “Maybe—” I pause. And make myself be brave enough to ask for what I want and not to be rushed into what I’m not ready for. I clear my throat. “Maybe we can try other things?”

He raises an eyebrow, and with more excitement than I’ve ever seen from him, he gives me a vigorous “Yes, ma’am. Yes, Ms. Santiago. I am your teacher’s pet. Blank book. Best student.”

I laugh at his straight-up silliness. And this feels right. Whatever we are to become, I’m glad that we can laugh through the uncomfortable moments.





Last Day


Even though it’s our last full day in Spain and a Saturday, Chef Ayden still has us report to our apprenticeships. I’m working on a marinade for the pork shoulder that Chef Amadí will be serving for dinner tomorrow night. The recipe calls for it to sit in the marinade for a full twenty-four hours, and a part of me wishes I was going to be here one more day so I could try it. But maybe that’s the point of a trip like this: you start the process of learning and then you carry it with you back home.

I massage the spice mixture into the pork, pressing firmly.

“Make sure you get a dry rub on the meat, too. And did you add lemon to that mix?”

“I used sour oranges instead,” I say.

“That’s good, the sour oranges. Make sure to score the shoulder. Small, shallow cuts to capture all that flavor. I think you’ve learned here, no?”

I nod and pick up the knife. And I have learned a lot. “Yes, and not just from being in this kitchen.” I have learned to cook with confidence, but also to remember the guests have expectations of what I’ll serve them. I’ve learned to trust my hands. But I’ve learned about more than just food. I’ve learned about people. From seeing how people from somewhere else walk, and laugh, and love, and eat.