the second plate, not the first love

I knocked on Geraldo’s apartment door with one hand, while the other trembled slightly, either from nerves or the fact that I was wearing five-centimeter heels I hadn’t worn in ages.

Inside, the soft sound of acoustic guitar floated through the air. Not jazz, not trendy pop. But classical Latin music, like the kind you hear on a late afternoon in San Miguel de Allende. My grandmother’s house.

Geraldo opened the door still wearing an apron, his dark hair slightly tousled, and his smile... God, that smile was as warm as an open oven. His hazel eyes scanned me from head to toe, and for a moment, he was silent.

“Dios mío,” he murmured. “You look like… something that just made me forget which spice I just added.”

I laughed, a little shy. “You sure you can cook in this condition?”

He raised an eyebrow. “I could cook during a blackout. But if you sit too close… it might accidentally turn into dessert.”

Okay. That was cheesy.

But somehow, I didn’t mind it.

His apartment was simple but warm. A Pedro Almodóvar film poster on the wall, bookshelves full of Gabriel García Márquez and Milan Kundera, and a cozy corner with trailing houseplants spilling over onto the wooden floor. The open kitchen faced a small dining area, where a round table had already been carefully set with candles and two handmade ceramic plates.

“Wow,” I whispered. “You did all this?”

He nodded as he returned to the kitchen. “I like to cook. Sometimes, the only way to make someone feel at home… is to give them food that tastes like home.”

That sentence hung in the air for a moment, like seasoning slowly soaking in.

I nodded quietly and sat down.

He served mole poblano on a wide plate. Chicken drenched in a rich chocolate-chili sauce from Puebla, topped with sesame seeds, with a faint aroma of cinnamon filling the room. I stared at it wide-eyed.

“Seriously? This is more effort than my birthday.”

“I’m not your Dad.”

The words came out so easily. Then came a pause. Long.

I looked at him, trying to gauge if he meant it. But he was already busy opening a bottle of wine and pouring it into my glass.

We ate slowly, with conversation flowing like a quiet current. About our childhoods in Mexico, my grandmother who used to make me sketch the tile patterns of her floor, his younger sister who’s still in high school and plays in a rock band.

Geraldo laughed freely, often imitating his grandmother’s dramatic accent. And for the first time in a very long while, I laughed without guilt. Without feeling like joy was something I needed to justify just because Reagan wasn’t the reason for it.

After dinner, we sat on his small balcony, sipping wine and listening to the city settle. The lights below twinkled like stars that had moved closer to earth.

“I’ve thought about this,” he said suddenly. “You’re like a mural on a backstreet wall in Mexico City. People walk by, maybe not all of them stop. But they always glance. Because there’s something there. A color they don’t see every day.”

I turned to him. “You sure that’s not just the two glasses of wine talking?”

He laughed. “Could be. But if it is, then the wine’s just being honest.”

I swirled the wine in my glass, watching the deep red liquid spin.

“Geraldo,” I said softly. “You know I don’t trust easily, right?”

He looked at me. Serious now. His hazel eyes like a calm lake that ran deep.

“I know,” he replied. “But I’m not here to push you. I’m here because… I want to be wherever you are. Even if that’s just on the first page of a story you’re not sure you want to write yet.”

I was silent. For a long time.

And that night, for the first time, those words didn’t feel like a line.

Not a tactic. Not a trap.

Just a sentence from a man who saw me.

Not as a shadow, but as someone who deserves a future.

:::

The evening sun streamed through the cracks in my apartment window, spilling golden light across the wooden floor. The scent of sautéed onions and chilies filled the air. Geraldo stood in the kitchen, wearing a thin white T-shirt and gray joggers, stirring something in a small pot. Soft Latin classical music played from his Bluetooth speaker.

“I swear you have a thing for bell peppers,” I said, leaning against the kitchen counter with a mug of warm tea in my hands.

“Bell peppers are underrated,” he replied without turning. “They can be sweet, spicy, comforting. Just like you.”

I scoffed. “Please don’t flirt while cooking. I’m afraid the food will start tasting like illusions.”

He laughed, and I caught the curve of his dimples from the side. Geraldo, in these past two months, had become something like home to me. Quiet, not flashy, but warm and real. He wasn’t a love that burned everything down, but a steady yellow light that never went out. And me... I was starting to feel like I might actually deserve to be loved.

My phone rang on the dining table. “Mamá” flashed on the screen.

I answered it while stepping out to the small balcony, the evening breeze tousling my hair.

“Hi, Ma?”

Her voice sounded hesitant, like she was catching her breath. “Tara, are you busy?”

“No. Just got home. Why?”

There was a short pause, then she said gently, “Tiara is getting married.”

I froze. “...What?”

“Reagan proposed last week. The wedding will be next month. At the De Russo family’s garden house, in Napa.”

I sat on the balcony chair, still holding my tea. “That’s... fast.”

“It is,” she said. Then a long sigh on the other end. “I was surprised too. Your Daddy... well, you know him. He’s thrilled. And the De Russos are... pressuring, in their way. But Tiara seems happy. She says they want a fresh start. She says this will fix everything.”

I closed my eyes for a second. There was a strange ache in my chest. Not because I still loved Reagan. I didn’t. I was sure of that.

But the feeling was like watching a train you almost got on… now pulling away with someone else on board, and you still can’t help wondering where it’s going.

“Are you sure this isn’t because of pressure from Reagan’s family?” I asked finally.

My mom was silent. “I don’t know. Tiara says it’s her decision. And you know I’d never want to ruin my daughters’ happiness. Even if... something feels off.”

I pulled my knees to my chest, resting my chin on them. “I’ll come.”

“Really?” My mother sounded relieved. “Thank God. It would be strange if you weren’t there. You’re still her twin, sweetheart. Her sister.”

I gave a half smile. “Yeah. Her sister.”

There was a pause, then my mom’s voice softened, almost teasing. “And you’ll bring your boyfriend, right? That Geraldo guy? The one who cooks, and is polite and smart and has a smile like a telenovela actor?”

I chuckled. “You’ve been stalking my I*******m, haven’t you?”

“I’m your mother. A mother’s main job is silent surveillance while pretending not to know anything.”

I laughed quietly. Even in the middle of strange news like this, my mother always knew how to make things feel a little lighter.

“Bring him, okay? The whole family will be there. I want you to... look happy. Because you deserve to be.”

The breeze swept across my skin again, this time deeper somehow.

“Okay, Ma,” I said at last. “I’ll come. And I’ll bring Geraldo.”

After the call ended, I went back inside. Geraldo had already plated dinner. Roast chicken with peppers, mashed potatoes, and avocado salad.

He looked at me and came closer. “You okay?”

I nodded slowly. “Tiara’s getting married.”

His eyebrows rose as he sat across from me. “Wow... that’s pretty soon, huh?”

“Yeah.” I picked up my fork. “But that’s not what’s bothering me. I just... didn’t expect it.”

He didn’t say much. Just reached for my hand across the table, gently tracing his thumb over mine.

And that night, in the comfort of warm food and Geraldo’s steady hand, I realized my life no longer revolved around Reagan. But old wounds—though no longer bleeding—still had a way of aching when the weather suddenly changed.