Page 57 of No Sweeter Poison

“I have to go somewhere tomorrow afternoon. Come with me? It’s a nice drive.”

This isn’t the first time I’ve asked and I half expect another rejection. She lingers by the door, not quite meeting my gaze. Finally, she nods and leaves without saying a word, making me wonder if I’ve crossed one of her boundaries or if she even cares.

OLD FRIENDS

Alejandro

“I ’ve never driven a luxury car before.”

“And you’re never going to drive one again.” I grip the door handle. “Slow. Down.”

Dahlia giggles as her foot applies pressure to the gas pedal.

The winding mountain road and steep decline makes the speed she’s driving at near suicidal. The convertible top is down and the wind whips through her hair, tendrils of fire against the hazy blue sky above our heads, while a pair of sunglasses conceals half her face. Not the half that’s smirking, of course, I can see that perfectly well.

The terrain is yellow, green, and rocky, with patches of tile roofs scattered across the valley, all connected by swirling roads below us. As we approach the exit, I tap her thigh and gesture towards the GPS screen. She glances down and follows the instructions, taking the exit at the right, and we drive for another two or three miles until we hit the pueblo nestled between hills and mountains.

“Follow this road and take the next left.”

She nods and a few minutes later we pull onto the curb outside of La Flor.

“We drove three hours for a restaurant?” she puts the car in park.

“We drove three hours for an experience.”

The moment the front doors open, music fills my ears, the soft strumming of a single guitar as familiar to me as the back of my hand. Rich scents invade my senses—fresh bread, rice, fried meat, and something sweet lingers in the air. On the far-right wall is a mural of a flamenco dancer made of glass and stone and the far-left is all glass windows. The booths are red leather with dark wood tables and Dahlia is already tapping her feet against the tile floors, admiring the blue and yellow flower pattern beneath. She really does have a trained eye for everything.

“These are ceramic,” she points. “Late nineteenth century. I’m guessing around 1888. The shape of the windows out front was a dead giveaway.”

I can’t help but laugh. Does her brain have an off switch or is she always like this?

“Alejandro!”

We turn our heads. Behind the bar is a view of the kitchen and a man with red cheeks and light blond hair is stirring something in a tall metal pot. He lifts his spatula and waves.

I smile. “Moises, estás exactamente donde te dejé. En la cocina.”

“¡Casi no te reconocí, desconocido!” he teases before his gaze travels to Dahlia. “Veo que trajiste a una amiga.”

She gives a little wave. “Hi. I’m Dahlia. I didn’t understand like 80% of that.”

I stifle a laugh and Moises wiggles his brows at me. “An American?”

“Ah!” Dahlia lifts a finger, swiftly correcting him. “A New Yorker.”

“There’s a difference?” he asks.

“Huge.”

Moises and I exchange glances, me giving a light shrug, him suppressing a smile.

“All right then, Señorita Nueva York. Go ahead and take a seat, I’ll send Bertha over in a minute.”

I walk straight down the aisle towards my favorite booth at the far end of the restaurant. I wait for Dahlia to pick what side she wants to sit on before I slide into the bench across from her, facing the exit. She turns her head and admires the view outside the window.

“How often do you come here?”

I suck my teeth and wince. “Not so often anymore. But I visited more when I was younger. I ran away a lot as a teen.”