Page 29 of Not a Strong Enough Word

I wink at her and look up at the menu hanging above the cashier. “Let’s order.”

“What are you up to?” She sounds skeptical, but I don’t look at her. If I do, I’m likely to spill all my deepest, darkest secrets, and not just the fact that I have her book in my backpack.

“Trying to impress you,” I say simply. “Now, what kind of tacos do you like?”

She sighs and turns her attention to the menu board. “I’m assuming you’ve been here before, so you tell me what’s good.”

“It’s all good. Like I said, tacos are the perfect food. You literally cannot go wrong.” I think for a moment, then add, “Unless you top them with sour cream.”

“We’d better get one of each, then.”

She’s joking, but I nod and step forward to order one of everything on the menu. It’s a small restaurant, so the menu isn’t extensive, but Scarlett can’t stop laughing about how serious I am.

As we wait for our food, we chat about little things. Every once in a while, she’ll catch one of the cooks eyeing us, then rolling their eyes, and she’ll burst into a fit of giggles all over again.

I’d probably order one of every type of taco in existence just to hear her laugh like that again and again.

It doesn’t take too long for them to get our order together, and the teenager behind the counter passes me four foam containers that squeak when they rub against each other. I thank the kid, leave a massive tip in the jar next to the register, and ask Scarlett if she can hold the door for me. She laughs as she pulls the door open.

We walk down the street to a small park. The summer sun is warm, and the heat of the tacos is seeping through the containers to warm me even further. It’s a relief to finally set them down in the grass while I spread out a large blanket from my backpack.

Scarlett sits cross-legged on top of it and starts opening containers of food. “I’ll admit, it does look good.”

Joining her on the ground, I inspect the tacos. I grab a shrimp that has fallen loose and pop it into my mouth. “Mmm,” I hum in satisfaction.

“You like the shrimp ones?” She clasps her hands in her lap and leans forward slightly, curious.

“They’re tied with carne asada for my favorite.”

She nods as if she’s packing away this information for later. “Well, I’m starving.” Her fingers wiggle over the tacos as she makes her decision. Carefully, she extracts a pork taco from one of the containers. When she takes a bite, her whole body relaxes on a moan. All the blood in my veins rushes south, and I have to shift to hide what that noise does to me.

“Okay, you were right. This is heavenly.”

After she takes another bite, some juice from the taco runs down her chin. I use a finger to wipe it off, but before I can pull it away, Scarlett dips to draw it in her mouth. She swirls the digit with her tongue, and then there’s no hiding what she’s doing to me.

“Fuck, Scarlett,” I groan.

She releases my finger and smiles. “Maybe later,” she says coyly. “Right now, I want to enjoy the sunshine and these tacos.” Her expression becomes shy, and her cheeks turn a gorgeous shade of pink. “And you.”

I kiss her then, because how couldn’t I? It occurs to me as my tongue dances with hers that I could kiss her every single day for the rest of my life, and it wouldn’t be enough.

She pulls away, smiling, her joy spelled out across her face. I grin back as I grab my own taco and start eating.

We chat and watch people play catch while we eat. She doesn’t make a big deal about it, but I notice she leaves the shrimp and carne asada ones for me. When we’ve both eaten our fill, I throw the empty containers into a nearby garbage can and pull her book out of my bag. She squeals in delight, and we both lie on the blanket. She curls up against my side, her head on my chest.

I’ve had several relationships, though none of them got very serious. I should be wary of such strong feelings for her so soon, but for some reason, I’m not. If someone were to tell me right now that I wouldn’t be spending the rest of my life with this woman, I’d tell them to check again. It’s simply unimaginable.

Once, before he died, I asked my dad how he knew my mom was the person he’d spend his life with.

“How do you know I love you?” he said.

I furrowed my brow in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“It’s simple. How do you know I love you?”

“I just do,” I said, feeling like I was missing the point.

He nodded sagely, as if I had gotten it right. “I just knew I loved her, too.”