Page 61 of Power Play

“It’s my abuela’s recipe. Pollo con chile verde. I did cheat and use store-bought sauce, since it’s not tomatillo season.”

“I’m surprised your abuela taught you to cook. Don’t most grandmothers refuse to let anyone help?”

I never had a grandmother, but that’s what I’ve seen in movies and TV shows; the doting older woman who carries the family on her back. Or the evil witch. There really is no in-between. But with the way Al talks about her, I don’t think she’s a villain in his origin story.

“Oh, no, she didn’t teach me. She would kick me out of the kitchen every time I got close. Boys don’t cook in our culture, which is ridiculous,” Al says, shaking his head with a frown. “Then I moved out for college, and I could barely make a quesadilla or grilled cheese. I had to learn, quick. When I came home for the summer, I sat at this table and watched as my abuela cooked, and I made her go slow so I could write everything down. When faced with the option of teaching me or letting me starve, she came around quick.”

“Tyler makes all your food, though.”

“During the season, I don’t have the time or energy to cook. Last year, when Tony and Cari still lived here, the three of us would rotate meal prep, but once I connected with Tyler, I switched to his service. It’s easier. I miss it sometimes, so now I cook because I want to, not because I have to.”

“That makes sense.” I spoon some of the chicken, rice, and poblano peppers onto a tortilla with a slice of avocado, and nearly groan at the flavor. “This is delicious.”

Al chokes, his cheeks going pink. “Thanks.”

“One thing I’ve definitely missed since being out here is the Mexican food. I haven’t been brave enough to try it yet.”

Compared to back home, where there was a taco shop or truck on nearly every street corner, it’s a pretty big culture shock. There are food trucks here, and there might even be a few Mexican food ones, but I’m so afraid they won’t compare. Boston isn’t exactly known for having a large Mexican population, and other types of Latin and Central American food don’t scratch the same nostalgic itch. As much as I love a good ropa vieja or picadillo, nothing beats the northwestern Mexican food I grew up eating.

“There are some decent places out this way. We should go sometime,” he says.

Digging into my bowl, I try to pass off my reddening face as a reaction from the spicy chiles. “That would be nice.”

“And of course, anytime you want authentic Mexican food, I can always cook for you.” His dark eyes meet mine, his gaze lingering. “Anytime.”

“I can’t ask you to do that. Not with⁠—”

“Riley,” he says, reaching across the table and taking my hand. His thumb traces over the ring on my left hand. “This thing we’re doing? We’re married. My job is to make you happy. If you want authentic Mexican food, the things I grew up on, I’ll make it for you. If you want ten million dollars, I’ll do a wire transfer. Whatever you want, it’s yours. We’re together in this. What’s mine is yours.”

“But—”

He squeezes my hand. “Whatever you want.”

“I want Emmy.” Once the words are out, I can’t take them back. “When this is over, I don’t want to lose her. I don’t know what I’d do without her.”

“Why are you talking about this ending?” His forehead creases. “Do you want out?”

“No. I’m in this until you’re ready. Until the custody is transferred and everything.”

“But then you want to end it?” His voice sounds… almost hollow. He looks away, his eyes downcast.

“I mean, don’t you? You’ll have your pick of women. Puck bunnies are probably already throwing themselves at you, but you’ll be free to pursue them. You won’t need me.”

Al pushes back his chair, rounding the table to kneel in front of me.

“Riley, I need you to listen to me very carefully,” he says, taking my hands in his. His thumb strokes over the ring on my finger, and my stomach flutters. “I have no intention of ending this until—unless—we both want it. We need to stay married until the paternity is resolved and they won’t take Emmy away from me. But I will never, ever take her away from you. You are her mom now, and the last thing I want to do is take her away from the person who loves her unconditionally.”

“But Carter⁠—”

“Is dead.”

I flinch at his harsh delivery.

“I know. I’m sorry. But Carter is gone, and you’re the only mother Emmy knows now.” He sets his finger beneath my chin, tilting my head until I meet his eyes. “I swear to you, I will never take our girl away from you. You have my word.”

“But—the divorce. She’s your kid.”

“And now she’s yours,” he says, like it’s that easy. “She’s ours. Both of us. Whenever the divorce happens, if it happens⁠—”