Page 52 of Sweet Caroline
I nod quickly. “Ravenous.”
Famous for beingthe smallest restaurant in Lennox Valley, El Taco Guapo is impossibly small, wedged into the side of the alleyway and down a handful of stairs. It looks like an afterthought, as if it was carved out of the wall once the building was finished. There are exactly four tiny tables, each covered in bold, floral-printed vinyl, with smudged metal napkin dispensers and a bottle of hot sauce on each one. Savory aromas permeate the air and barely muffled hissing emanates from the kitchen, which is separated from the tiny dining area by a single swinging door.
Miles’ eyes are all over the place, bouncing around the cramped room as we squeeze into our seats. He explains how the kitchen makes all the tortillas by hand and how, apparently, you have to know the inside scoop about the secret menu if you want to order the best tacos. He’s got the enthusiasm of an overgrown kid as he sells me on the carnitas with the house-made hot sauce. “They slow-cook the pulled pork and then pan-fry it so it crisps up. Caroline, seriously, they’re so fucking good. You have to get them.”
I do. And he’s right. They’re incredible. And so messy. I quickly discover there’s no way to appear ladylike while eating a greasy pulled-pork taco dripping with hot sauce and green salsa, and I awkwardly scramble for napkins to wipe the mess off my fingers.
“Hoooh my God.” I fan at my open mouth, which increasingly feels like it’s on fire. “So hot.”
Miles laughs around his bite. “You gonna survive?”
“Nope. Dying.” I reach for my water and take a long drink. “Might already be dead, actually. Can’t say for sure.”
“Here lies Caroline Brennan,” he drawls, his voice solemn anddeep, “who tragically met her end at the hands of some mildly spicy food.”
“Mildly?” I echo, my eyes widening. “This ismildto you?”
“Maybe I’m just used to it.” He shrugs, taking another bite.
I dab a clean napkin at the edges of my watering eyes, trying not to smudge my makeup. “You’re not bothered by much, are you?”
Another shrug.
“How’d you get so comfortable in your skin?” When he tilts his head in confusion, I gesture to the alleyway outside. “Out there. The whole goofy fashion model routine.”
Miles wipes his hands on a napkin and sits back in his chair, looking hesitant. “The palatable answer is I’ve always been a goofball. My grandpa used to call me a ham when I was a kid. I remember being confused about what he meant at first, thinking he was gonna eat me or something, because, like, who says that anymore, right? My dad had to explain it meant I was funny. Then I was like, well, shit, this is my entire personality now.” He sits forward, leaning on his elbows, his gaze unfocused like he’s revisiting a memory. “Grandpa was a cool old dude, though. He used to challenge us to make him laugh.”
“Us? Do you have siblings?” I ask.
“Yeah. An older brother, Jude. You?”
“Nope. Only child.”
He nods slowly, his expression assessing.
“What?” Self-consciousness has me sitting a little straighter; people always think it’s weird not to have had siblings growing up.
“Nothing.” He shakes his head.
I’m not sure I believe him, but I don’t push it. “So, what’s the unpalatable answer?”
“Uh, well,” he starts, his tone turning more serious, “when I was still drinking, I did a lot of stupid shit. Dangerous shit. Don’teven remember half of it. Some of the stories my friends would tell me the next day about what I’d done… They were pretty fucking embarrassing. I think I got used to kinda laughing it off, y’know? Maybe it was easier to make myself the butt of the joke so I could beat them to the punch. Like a self-preservation thing, I guess. So I didn’t have to sit in the shame.”
“So which one were you doing out there? The ham thing or the self-preservation thing?” Worry prickles at the thought that he might be hiding his discomfort with all this. With our arrangement. With me.
He chuckles. “That was just because I’m a big ol’ dork who likes making you laugh.”
I grin and my cheeks heat anew, though this time it has nothing to do with the spicy food. “So, the first one?”
“Yup.” He watches me for a long moment, then seems to snap out of it like he’s shaking off distraction.
I take another sip of water before carefully replacing my red plastic cup on the ring of condensation on the shiny tablecloth.
Miles insists on paying for dinner when we settle up, waving me off when I try to argue. “I got this one.”
“But I’m the one who got you into this whole mess. Shouldn’t I be paying?”
“Nah. Last time we hung out, I got a taste of your world. Saw how the fancy girls live.” When I make a face, he winks.
