“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?”

I shake my head. The fire in my mouth isn’t the kind that deadens taste buds. It’s the kind that makes all the other flavors come alive. “I’ve never tasted anything like this.”

“Good.” He finally takes a bite.

We eat in silence for a minute. I don’t want to speak or blink or do anything to take away from the flood of sensations, or make him think I’m not appreciating it. I need to taste every flavor. They’re mine, created for me, and it’s odd, but I love the selfishness of it. When I look up he’s watching me again.

“You look so serious when you eat,” he says.

I smile and feel the start of a blush. “I told you I was hungry. And I’m trying to concentrate.”

“There won’t be an ingredients quiz afterward.”

“That’s good, because I wouldn’t do very well. I’m just concentrating on enjoying it.”

He takes a sip of his water. “Yeah, I’ve seen that look from you before. In the parking lot last night. And the freezer on Thursday afternoon. And I think it was the storage room on Wed—”

“Okay, enough,” I say, fully blushing now and trying to think of somewhere to steer the conversation. “So, you graduate after this next year?”

“Yeah.”

“What then?” I ask.

“I know what I don’t want to do.”

“And what’s that?”

“For starters, be on some reality-TV cooking show.”

“That doesn’t surprise me. You don’t seem like the claw-your-way-into-the-spotlight type.”

“My mom suggests it every time I talk to her, like that’s the only reason she can come up with for getting a degree in culinary arts.”

“She doesn’t see the benefits of having someone to make her food that tastes like heaven?”

Reed glances at my half-empty plate. “She’s not quite as easy to please as you.”

“So no reality TV, no being your mom’s personal chef. What does that leave?”

“Most of my classmates dream of being the head chef at some trendy, big-city restaurant. But I’ve lived in a big city before, and I kind of like the feel of a small town better. Somewhere like Elizabethtown.”

“Not so many trendy restaurants here,” I say. “Unless you count the Olive Garden.”

“Yeah, no offense to fine dining here, but I don’t want to end up at the Olive Garden, making the chicken parmigiana for the rest of my life.”

“A fate worse than death?”

“Not if you like making chicken parm. But if you think food is more than paint-by-numbers, then yeah.” Behind hair and lens, a glint of intensity burns in his eyes.

“My dad wants me to come back to California and work for him,” he continues.

“He’s a chef ?”

“No. He’s . . . I don’t really know what he is. A businessman? That might be a stretch. He invests in businesses that seem legitimate at first, but then they either tank or turn out to be scams. I can’t exactly say it to him, but I’d rather do something real.”

“Like food,” I say, and take the last bite on my plate.

“I can’t tell if you’re being sarcastic or not.”

I shake my head, mouth too full to speak. When I can, I say, “Definitely not being sarcastic.”

He nods. “It’s a little tricky, not having their support exactly. I’m paying for my tuition, my rent, my bills, and nobody’s going to hand me my dream job when I’m done.”

“You still haven’t told me what that is.”

He pauses. “I want to have my own restaurant.” He won’t look me in the eye, but I can hear the drive in his voice, the hum of energy and talent and fearlessness.

I drag my fork through the sauce on my plate, pulling white streaks behind the tines, then turn my fork and make a crosshatch pattern. Reed takes his own fork, leans over and adds a few swirls around my design.

“You don’t gush compliments like other girls,” he says.

I open my mouth to protest, but he stops me. “No, I don’t want you to. I like that you say what you mean.”

“You sure? If you really want, I could moan after each bite and go on about how it’s the best meal I’ve ever tasted.”

“No,” he says, then stops himself. “Although now that you mention it, I would be okay with a little moaning. But I meant that you’re sincere. It was a compliment.”

“Thank you. And these other girls you cook for—is gushing compliments really the usual?”

He shrugs, and doesn’t take the bait. “There is no usual.”

That could mean he doesn’t usually cook for girls or they all react differently.

“The only girl I’ve cooked for regularly would be my last girlfriend. She turned out to be less than sincere about a lot of things.”