Chapter 45 Your Favorite
The open-plan space welcomed her: twenty-foot ceilings, pendant lights still off, the city skyline beyond the glass turning from gold to rose to bruised violet. She smiled— small, private— as she opened the Sub-Zero refrigerator. Cool air brushed her face, carrying the clean smell of citrus and fresh herbs. Everything waited, neatly arranged: a bundle of cilantro tied with twine, Roma tomatoes glossy and red, a net bag of limes, chicken thighs wrapped in butcher paper, a canister of masa harina on the pantry shelf beside the avocado oil.
She gathered ingredients methodically— almost ceremonially— setting them on the island like offerings. First the tortillas. She measured masa harina into a wide ceramic bowl, added warm water from the instant-hot tap, a generous pinch of sea salt. Her fingers sank into the mixture— cool at first, then yielding. She kneaded slowly, rhythmically, until the dough came together smooth and pliant, no longer sticky. She rolled small balls between her palms, pressed each one flat in the tortilla press— metal creaking softly— then peeled the perfect circle free and laid it on the preheated cast-iron skillet.
The first tortilla hit the heat with a soft hiss. It puffed gently in the center, edges browning in delicate freckles. The smell— warm corn, toasted earth— filled the kitchen like a hug. She flipped it with a flick of her wrist, counted to fifteen, then transferred it to a clean tea towel folded in a shallow basket. She repeated the motion— press, cook, stack— until eight warm tortillas sat steaming under the cloth.
Next, the chicken. She patted the thighs dry, then rubbed them with a spice mix she kept in a small glass jar: ancho chili powder, cumin, smoked paprika, granulated garlic, a whisper of oregano, salt, pepper. The powder stained her fingertips red. She heated avocado oil in the same cast-iron skillet— shimmering, fragrant— then laid the thighs skin-side down. They sizzled instantly; the sound was satisfying, almost musical. She didn’t crowd the pan— three at a time— watching the edges crisp to deep mahogany, fat rendering in tiny pops. Flip. Sear the other side. When the internal temperature hit 165 on her instant-read thermometer, she transferred them to a cutting board. The knife moved in quick, sure strokes— bite-sized pieces tumbling onto a plate, juices pooling pink-gold.
Salsa came together fast. She diced tomatoes into neat cubes, red onion into fine mince, jalapeños into thin rings— seeds left in for heat. A handful of cilantro leaves torn by hand, juice from two limes squeezed over the top. Salt. A grind of black pepper. She stirred once with a wooden spoon, tasted— bright, sharp, alive— then stirred again.
Assembly was quiet ritual. She laid a warm tortilla on a plate, piled chicken high, spooned salsa over the top, scattered raw onion slivers, finished with a final squeeze of lime. The taco rested in her palm— perfect, steaming, fragrant.
She didn’t sit. She leaned back against the counter, robe loose, hair falling forward as she brought it to her mouth.
First bite: tortilla yielding, chicken smoky and tender, salsa exploding with acid and heat.
“Hmmmm.” The sound came low, involuntary. She closed her eyes for half a second, chewing slowly. “Gaud, I’m an excellent cook.”
Another bite— bigger. Lime juice ran down her wrist; she licked it off without thinking. The third bite finished the taco. She reached for another without hesitation.
Then the doorbell chimed— two bright notes that cut the quiet like a snapped string.
Maggie froze, taco halfway to her mouth. Salsa dripped onto the marble. She chewed once— slow— then swallowed.
“That must be Tyler,” she muttered.
The bell rang again— longer, more demanding.
She set the taco down carefully, wiped her hands on the tea towel, and padded toward the foyer. At the door she rose onto her toes, pressed her eye to the peephole.
Tyler stood there: white button-down fitted across his shoulders, black trousers, hair deliberately messy, a bouquet of red roses clutched in his left hand like a peace offering. His grin was wide, hopeful, the one he always used when he knew he’d pushed too far.
“I know you’re in there,” he called, tapping the bell again.
Maggie stayed silent. She took another slow bite of the taco she’d carried with her— chewing deliberately while staring at him through the tiny lens.
“Please open the door,” Tyler pleaded, shifting his weight. “Come on, mama.”
She swallowed. Wiped her mouth with the back of her wrist. Then, voice low but clear enough to carry: “Thought I told you not to come.”
“I need to settle things with you, babe.”
“What if I don’t want to settle things with you?”
“You must want to settle things with me.” His tone dipped— soft, coaxing. “I insist.”
“No. I don’t.” Another bite— crunch of onion, burst of chili.
“At least take the flowers.” He lifted the roses higher. “Your favorite.”