The Vow

sections. Juice has stained his hands scarlet.

“So, what are you making?” I ask.

“Nope.”

“Oh, come on. Tell me. I can smell it—is it pork? I’m starving.” I leave the counter to peer through the glass door of the oven, but he’s faster, blocking my way with his body, pomegranate hands held up in front of him.

I narrow my eyes. I may be able to squeeze past him, but probably not without staining my new top. My new white top.

He shakes his head. “Don’t even try it.”

The whole week has been brimming with this kind of bliss. Just being near Reed, telling him things, taking his teasing, listening to how deep and soft his voice gets when he is close to me—it washes everything in gold. Even watching him do menial tasks like making change and carrying buckets makes me feel like I’m sneaking something delicious.

It’s nothing like that constant anxiousness of being with Chris Dorsey, the feeling of being on show and trying to prove that I like it.

But the week has been busy too. There were only a few times that Reed and I found ourselves alone, and we were almost too surprised by it to know what to do. Until we were touching, and then we knew exactly what to do. It happened once when Flora was out back taking a cigarette break and a second time when she sent the two of us to take the garbage to the Dumpster. We never had more than a minute or two, but that was enough to relearn exactly what his lips taste like, and how his hands press on the small of my back when he wants me to come closer, and what happens to him when I accidentally sigh into his mouth.

“You don’t really want to ruin the surprise, do you?” he asks, taking a step toward me and away from the oven.

“You aren’t really going to stop me, are you?”

Reed takes a moment to consider it, then reaches out quickly, and before I can duck away, grips my upper arms. His hands are warm and strong, and I don’t even try to wiggle free, just stare at him with my mouth open in mock surprise. I think he might kiss me. He’s squeezing my arms and pulling me in, but at the moment of sinking into him and closing my eyes, the oven timer begins to buzz. It’s one of those old-fashioned dial timers that goes tztztztztztztztz and makes you desperate for it to stop. Reed grumbles something and moves me back to my spot at the counter so he can turn around and silence it.

I look down at my arms. Hot-pink juice handprints circle each biceps. “Unbelievable,” I say, because mock annoyance seems like the best route to get what I want. “Well, now I’m definitely looking in the oven.”

He turns off the timer and sighs. “Fine. Ruin the surprise, and if they look done can you pull them out?” He tosses me a hot pad and goes back to his short stretch of avocado-colored countertop to finish deseeding while I wrench open the heaviest oven door I’ve ever encountered. The hinge squeals like an injured animal.

“Wow,” I mutter.

“Yeah, welcome to the kitchen that time forgot. According to my grandma, these are the same appliances that they put in here in the seventies when they finished the apartment, so it’s kind of miraculous that they still function.”

The kitchen is more like a kitchenette really, just a tiny strip to the side of the main room, but it’s clean, and I almost feel like I’ve stepped into a time machine and come out in my parents’ childhood. Reed’s over-the-garage apartment has shiny shag carpet in burnt orange, a faded velvet chair in the same avocado green as the kitchenette countertops and appliances, a bookshelf with a sagging middle, and a twin bed pushed up against the far wall.

Once the oven door is open it’s hard to tell what I’m looking at. I close it and turn to Reed. “What is it?”

“Stuffed peppers. It’s Mexican, and you were right—the filling is shredded pork. That”—he points to the saucepan on the glowing far burner—“is walnut sauce to go with it, along with the pomegranate seeds. Do they look done?”

“I don’t know what stuffed peppers look like when they’re done.”

He comes back to the oven and inspects them. “Like that. It’s called chiles en nogada.”

“I don’t even know if I believe this is Mexican food,” I say. “I’m an expert on the stench of Taco Bell, and this smells nothing like it.”

“That’s an interesting area of expertise.”

“Just the smell. Mo has to have a Gordita Supreme at least every other day. But this smells . . .” I take a full breath and my head fills with the aroma, rich and warm and exotic. “Like the most delicious thing I’ve ever eaten.”

He transfers the sizzling chiles to our plates. “You haven’t eaten it yet.”

“The most delicious thing I’m about to eat. You lied. You told me you only made French sauces at culinary school.”

“I think I’m being misquoted. But I learned to make this before I came back to Kentucky. One of the perks of living in California is access to authentic Mexican food.”

“You’re telling me Taco Bell isn’t authentic?”

He laughs and tosses the last deseeded pomegranate husk in the trash. “A couple of my aunt’s kitchen guys were really talented chefs back in Mexico, before they came to the States. I used to beg them to show me how to cook real food. This one poor guy was a chef in a four-star restaurant before and stuck flipping frozen patties all day at Burgers and Burgers, practically losing his mind.”

“I can imagine.”

“Plight of the artist, right? Half of those guys were illegal, but my aunt didn’t care as long as she could get away with paying them minimum wage. And they were just happy to be getting a paycheck.”

Reed drizzles the creamy walnut sauce over the peppers and scatters a handful of pomegranate seeds on each of our plates. It’s stunning, the scarlet seeds over white sauce, but I’m not even seeing the food anymore.

Illegal. My mind twists and trips over the word. My palms are instantly clammy. I know this conversation has nothing to do with Mo or me or his status or what we did. Obviously. I know that. But that whole jumble of worries that I’ve been pretending doesn’t exist comes so quickly to life that I nearly stumble over my own thoughts. I can’t even think of a response.

“I felt bad for them,” he says.

I bite my lip. He felt bad for them. That’s good. That means he’s decent, human, even compassionate, but feeling bad for illegals isn’t the same as marrying someone so they don’t get deported. It’s not the same as being okay with your girlfriend, or whatever I am, marrying one.

He puts the saucepan back on the oven and takes both plates over to the card table, where he’s put utensils, napkins, even a little cluster of wildflowers in a jelly jar. I don’t think anyone has ever put this much effort into anything for me.

I didn’t think I’d felt guilty about marrying Mo. I don’t. Uneasy, maybe, because I don’t know how illegal what we’re doing really is, but I do know that I love Mo. Nobody can prove otherwise. So if I do feel the smallest twinge of guilt, maybe it’s for not being able to tell Reed.

“You’re quiet all of a sudden.”

I take a deep breath and force the thoughts back down. “This looks amazing. Can we eat?”

He nods, takes a deep breath, and picks up his fork, but he doesn’t start. I can feel him watching me as I cut into the pepper and scoop the filling onto my fork. Of course. He’s nervous. I’ve been so self-absorbed, but this is his mural, and now I see the worry in his eyes. Maybe he’s been nervous all along and I just haven’t noticed. His gaze is fixed on my face as I chew.

I have to close my eyes as the flavors burst in my mouth—gentle heat from the pepper, salty tang of the pork, sweetness of pomegranate, the velvety-rich walnut sauce. He’s waiting, but I don’t know what to say. I love you; can I have your babies might scare him, but it’s my most sincere thought. Instead I open my eyes.

He’s waiting.

“Reed, this is art.”

He smiles. “Not too spicy for you?”