Page 73 of The Plus-One List

“I don’t believe that,” I say quietly.

“That I’m a professional?” Agustín says, teasingly.

“That you were ever dumb,” I say.

He laughs. “Thank you very much. But wasn’t everyone a dumb kid at some time? Haven’t we all made bad decisions or said stupid things?” His gaze softens as he looks at me. “It’s okay to be dumb, I think. It’s how we learn.”

I feel itchy and sling my tote bag over the back of my chair, just for something to do. I keep getting distracted by how good he looks in that sweater. He’s pushed up the sleeves and what is it about men’s forearms? Why do I want to run my fingers over his, to feel every dent and groove of muscle? Our legs are almost touching under the table. If I moved half an inch, I could press my knee against his.

Agustín just keeps talking, because of course he does. “I remember the day I first got published in El País, she got the whole place drunk to celebrate. Dolores never had kids of her own—her life has been devoted to running this place. She works very hard. She built this restaurant brick by brick.” He rubs his hands together. “So, what should we eat?”

My stomach suddenly roars to life. In all the walking and newness, I forgot how hungry I was. My appetite rears up with a vengeance. Agustín grabs a menu from a slot in the napkin holder and opens it. Various words jump out at me: Tortas, En Verde, Paraempezar. But my eyes are of course drawn immediately to the section titled Tacos.

I understand absolutely none of the descriptions and yet still I would shove all of them in my face right now.

“Okay,” Agustín says to me. “I will say, let’s get many things to share.”

“Great.”

“I will recommend the carmelita tacos—they are with shrimp—and the viajero orden. Those are with pig. Pig’s leg and lomo is … loin? Pork loin?”

“Sold,” I say.

“Those will be very big. Do you want to try one more kind?”

I give him a look. “I am here for tacos. All the tacos.”

He chuckles. “Gringas y tacos,” he mutters, shaking his head. “Bueno, let’s take the flor de calabaza. Squash flower. Very Mexican, very delicious.”

I rub my hands together and lick my lips as Agustín puts the menu back in its holder.

“This place is a bit unique, since they do not have the classic types of Mexican tacos,” he says. “We will also have to get tacos al pastor and tacos campechanos.”

“I could literally eat only tacos this whole trip and be happy. I will eat any taco you put in front of me,” I say. He smiles at me warmly, his eyes crinkling.

“We will be eating more things than just tacos,” he warns.

“Also great. Are we going to have sopes?”

He looks oddly touched. I wonder if the memory is as special for him as it is for me.

“Si,” he says quietly. “Sopes y aguachile.”

Suddenly, I wonder what would happen if I did press my knee against his. That’s not the same as holding hands. A knee touch would mean something else. Would he want a knee touch?

Panic flips in my stomach as the Wheel spins and lands on Rejection. Heat floods through my body.

Of course he doesn’t want a knee touch.

He only sees me as a friend. At best. Really, I’m just a big pile of issues, packaged together with a bunch of old dogs.

And what if I did touch his knee, and he pulled away? Oh god. I would die from the shame. I would melt into a toxic puddle of humiliation.

But what if I gave him a knee touch and he responded? What if he pushed back against my knee? What would I do then?

There’s a faint rushing of blood in my ears as my gaze drops to his mouth.

“Mezcalitos,” Dolores says, appearing out of nowhere with a tray with two very small glasses. I yank my eyes away from Agustín’s face, grateful for the distraction. The glasses are almost like holders for votive candles: ridged and a bit larger than shot glasses. She puts them down in front of us, along with a plate of orange slices and some substance that looks like finely crushed salt but brown.