Page 133 of My Heart Still Beats
“First of all, your enchiladas won’t be mediocre. Genetics alone should see to that.”
“I’ve helped my mom in the kitchen many a time,” I say, “but I’ve never actually made them myself.”
“You want me to come help you? I don’t have to meet Braden for a few hours.”
“No, that’s okay. For some reason, it seems really important that I do this myself.”
“I understand. If you need anything, you know where I am. Day or night. I will always answer the phone for you.”
“I know, Skye. Thanks.”
I return to the task, whipping up the sauce. I mix together some butter and flour to make a roux, and then I add the chili powder until it’s good and thick. I add water slowly, continuing to whisk as it boils and thickens.
Once that’s done, I take the corn tortillas, dip them in the sauce, and fill them with cheese, folding them over and placing them in an oblong pan. When they’re done, I pour the remaining sauce over all the enchiladas and top them with more cheese.
Then into the oven they go.
And I realize I haven’t called Ben.
I decide to text him instead.
Tessa:Hey. I hope your work is going well. I’m making enchiladas if you’d like to come over for dinner. I’m making flan, too.
I set my phone down and wait for the ding of his return text.
And I wait.
And wait some more.
He’s probably in a meeting. But on a Sunday afternoon?
Of course he could be. This is Black Inc. You don’t get to be a billionaire without working all hours of the day, all days of the week. They do business all over the world. It’s already Monday morning in China and Australia.
That’s okay. If he can’t make it for dinner, I will eat enchiladas to my heart’s content.
Because I have an appetite now.
Just like I had an appetite this afternoon for lunch.
So odd, given that my father is gone.
But that was a week ago, and yesterday’s funeral helped me say goodbye to him.
It also helped me realize that life is fragile and short.
And I don’t want to spend one more second of it feeling sorry for myself or giving Garrett Ramirez any kind of control over it.
The robust aroma of the melted cheese starts to fill my small kitchen. I find my mom’s recipe for flan, and I begin to assemble the ingredients.
Flan is a custard dish, which means eggs and milk. I’m beginning to mix it together when my phone finally beeps.
I grab for it so quickly that I actually drop it onto my tile floor.
I pick it up and sigh in relief. The screen is intact.
Ben:Sure, I’d love to. How about around six?
Tessa:Perfect.
