Page 11 of Coiled Tight
Now that I looked, there was some kind of fluid staining his shirt, too. I couldn’t even attempt to guess at what it was. Was he also part-mechanic, and one of the trucks had broken down?
“Um. Tamales.” I remembered to answer, but my mind was already running on ten different scenarios. “What happened toyou?”
“Helped deliver a foal until Sofía could reach us.”
Ohhhhh.
I bounced up. “Blondie finally gave birth?”
I wasn’t in charge of the horses, just as Sofía wasn’t in charge of any of the other animals, but we still talked among ourselves. Besides, she had mentioned that the vet who had been working there before me and she used to assist each other regardless of whether one of them needed an extra set of hands, so I planned to honor that legacy. I bet that Sofía had been taking in my animals while they searched for me, anyway, so it was only fair, and I did like horses.
“That’s right.” Saúl smiled, but he really looked like he wastwo seconds away from falling asleep right here, right now. “I bet you can go see her tomorrow.”
Well, yeah, of course I was going to go see her. There was nothing urgent, and most importantly, nothing cuter than a newborn foal still learning to stand upright.
“Will do.”
I bet Sofía would drag me there even if I didn’t want to. She had that vibe around her—like she was the type of woman who got things done, and she was too used to getting her way and people doing her bidding.
“Why are you making tamales?”
Right. He’d startled me while I was trying to figure out if I had to lower the fire for the filling, or if it should stay longer. I was going with longer, but I still turned around and gave it all a stir for good measure.
“Um, I like to cook, and Sofía said that you like them. Unless—” My heart started beating faster as the wandering thought took more and more space. Shit. How did I not realize? “Are there Chilean tamales? The recipe I’m following is from a Mexican blog. Fuck, I didn’t think of it, I’m sorry, Sofía just said that and I wanted to contribute, but?—”
“It’s fine.” Saúl raised the hand that wasn’t holding his Stenson. “I’m not that attuned to Chilean cuisine, if I’m completely honest, but I’ve always had Mexican tamales. Our last cook was a woman from Tijuana. She was here since I was a baby, and I think she’s the one who taught my mom how to make them.”
Oh, thank fuck.
I breathed out, which was probably very visible and wasn’t doing me any favors in giving the impression that I was a competent human, but…
Too bad.
“Okay.”
ShouldIlook into Chilean cuisine? He said he wasn’t attuned, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t want to be, right?
Sadly, I’d never met anyone from Chile before, and even though Chilean restaurants had to be a thing, I’d never been to one.
I’d do some research tomorrow.
“You don’t have to cook my favorite foods.”
“I know.” I huffed, my back turned to him while I burned holes in the contents of the pan. Part of my decision to let it cook longer was the fact that I was terrified of the next step—spreading the masa on the leaves, then the filling, and tying it up. What if it spilled out, and I ruined it all? And then there was the steaming part, and how no blog gave you an exact time or way to measure when they were ready. Now I’d have witnesses, too. In my head, Saúl was going to arrive when I already had everything plated up and looking pretty. “But I’ve been emptying your fridge all month. It’s only fair.”
“It’s part of your contract, isn’t it?” He didn’t let me answer before he stood up. “I’m going to go shower while you finish up.”
Did that mean the filling was ready now? Maybe he recognized something about the color or the smell. I didn’t know, but I nodded anyway and pretended there wasn’t a knot in my throat.
This whole living situation was a mess.
At least the tamales didn’t end up looking a mess. I didn’t know if the taste was that authentic—recipe blogs couldn’t always be trusted—or if I’d taken them out of the heat too soon, but they looked decent. I think I tied the ribbon a bit too tight in a few of them, and they looked more blobby than they should, but hey, if anyone asked, I was representing body diversity.
Saúl didn’t ask. He just thanked me for the food, and I pretended not to stare while he untied the ribbon and startedeating as if he hadn’t had anything all day. I knew he had, but I liked the way he was acting as if he’d never had anything better in his entire life. He even thanked me all proper, and I managed to just clear my throat and acknowledge it without turning into a mess. Or apologize profusely because I’d underestimated how long it would all take, and the fact that they needed to sit for about an hour after being steamed.
Had I been fiddling a lot while I waited and he took his sweet time upstairs?
Obviously.
