So we sleep together without… you know,sleepingtogether.
Side by side, sometimes entwined, just like we used to all growing up when I’d climb in his bed to escape things at home.
If I wake up in the morning to a hard-on poking me in the ass or belly, well, that’s just biology.
Nobody ever said pulling yourself up by your bootstraps was going to be easy.
I shove through the kitchen’s swinging door, balancing a precarious tower of dirty plates.
The lunch rush is in full swing—the kind of controlled chaos that makes my pulse spike in a weirdly good way.
Salsa music blares from the ancient radio perched on the shelf above the prep station. The line cooks are shouting in rapid-fire Spanish I’m still barely learning to follow.
I catch maybe every seventh word, and only because it’s, “¡Orden, orden, orden!— ¡Llevénsela!”
Steam rises from pots of beans and rice, mixing with the smell of cilantro, grilled meat, and the ever-present scent of corn tortillas on the plancha.
“¡Mija!” Rosa, one of the line cooks, calls out without looking up from the meat she’s chopping. “More plates! We’re running low!”
“On it!” I call back, scraping the food scraps into the compost bin with practiced efficiency.
The dishwasher’s already running—that industrial beast never stops during service—but I’ve got maybe thirty seconds before the cycle ends and I need to unload. I dump the dirty plates into the designated bin, spray them down with the high-pressure hose, and?—
The smell hits me like a freight train.
Grease. Refried beans. Plus the scent of cooking barbacoa and chorizo drifting from the other side of the kitchen, which usually has me drooling.
But all the sudden?—
My stomach lurches violently.
Oh no.
I drop the spray hose and bolt for the back door, barely making it outside before I’m puking into the dirt beside the dumpsters.
“Ay Dios,” I hear Ximena’s voice behind me. A cool hand touches my back. “Harper, you okay?”
I spit, wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, and turn to find Ximena standing there with a bottle of water and a look of concern.
Ximena’s become a really good friend in the month-and-a-half I’ve been working and living at Dani’s. She’s Dani’s niece and shares a room with her boyfriend David as occupants of the second room for rent in the trailer.
Ximena’s nineteen—only a year older than me—but she’s got this put-together vibe I’ll never manage. She’s going to Austin Community College and waitressing thirty hours a week. She’s so damn… peppy all the time—just like, a naturally happy person.
She’s wearing her usual uniform: black jeans, the taqueria’s branded t-shirt, hair pulled back in a neat ponytail, and heavy, artful makeup that somehow stays perfect even in the chaos of service.
“I’m fine,” I lie, taking the water. “Just—something I ate, probably.”
“You’ve been looking green all morning.” She crosses her arms, leaning against the brick wall. “And you barely touched breakfast.”
Our shifts were concurrent today, so we ate and caught the bus together from home.
“I was running late?—”
“You made coffee and then didn’t drink it.” Her eyebrow raises. “Dani noticed, too. She asked me to check on you.”
Of course she did. Dani noticeseverything. She has a soft spot for strays, lucky for Z and me.
“I’m fine,” I insist, taking a long drink of water. The cool liquid helps settle my stomach. A little. “Probably just a stomach bug or?—”