Page 80 of Scars of the Sun
She propped her hip on the counter beside me, crossed her arms. Taking out the maseca was suddenly very interesting, and I gave the shrimp a few once-overs to make sure that they truly were deveined.
When it was evident I wasn’t going to say something, Ramona huffed. “Are you okay?”
I felt about five inches tall. It was one thing for everyone else to know that I wasn’t shit. It was far, far worse to have my mate see me that way. Too weak to handle some silly nightmares that I didn’t even remember by the time I woke up.
“Yeah.” I couldn’t look at her and see the rejection in her eyes, so I started on washing the vegetables and limes. The action at least let me do something with my hands, and I felt Ramona staring at me as I dried everything and began to work on the shrimp.
I chopped them into smaller pieces, tossing them in a bowl. “Do you want help?” she asked, almost hesitantly, and I risked a glance in her direction. There wasn’t anger rolling off of her, but I couldn’t parse through the nuance of her emotions. She didn’tlooklike she was about to demand we dissolve our matehood.
“You ain’t got to, baby,” my southern accent slipped to the forefront, and I frowned.
With a light touch on my shoulder, she stepped up to the ingredients I had laid out. “Just tell me what to do.”
“Um. You can slice those limes? There’s a citrus thingy in that drawer over there,” I pointed my knife at the right one, “and all the juice goes over the shrimp.”
She nodded, her big curls bobbing, and we worked in silence to get the shrimp marinating. It went a lot faster with her beside me, and soon, I was starting on making the tostadas while she chopped the tomatoes, cucumbers, onions, and cilantro. Kneading the dough had always been my job before my life went to shit, and my hands worked with instinctual ease.
The soothing nature of making tortillas gave me enough courage to apologize. “I’m sorry, baby. For fucking up.” The words sliced up my throat, but I needed to say them. She deserved that much.
Ramona sighed and finished the last cuts through the cilantro. “I didn’t like that you left.”
I nodded, jaw working as I tried not to fucking cry. My princess had already been through so much. She still carried those dark feelings with her, and I needed to at least be mentallysteady for her. Knowing I already failed was making it hard to not break down.
I didn’t realize I’d stopped kneading the masa and was staring off into space until her touch on my back snapped me back to attention. She rubbed in small circles, right between the shoulder blades. When I didn’t pull away, she stepped closer and rubbed her cheek on my shoulder.
I was shaking, trying to hold everything in, but she was sneaky this way. My mate. Her touch was reassuring and safe. When was the last time that I truly felt safe?
“What do you need, Río?”
“Beats me,” my chuckle was far too shaky for my liking, but there was nothing I could do about it. Even with the best of intentions, she couldn’t erase all the wounds I’d covered with my tattoos and years on the run.
“Does that happen a lot?”
What was she going to do when I gave her the depressing truth? Even if I wanted to, though, I couldn’t lie to her. “Off and on. Haven’t had one that bad in a few months.”
She placed a kiss over my work t-shirt that I still had on, right over my mating mark. “What normally helps you? I wanna know how to handle it better next time.”
“Princess. It’s not on you. You’ve got enough?—”
“Shut up. Tell me. I promise not to panic again if it happens.”
I clenched my eyes closed and began moving again. Not enough to separate us, though. I’d set out the cast iron tortilla press I had bought after my second year on the run. The store-bought shit never tasted right, so I indulged in the unnecessary appliance. Part of the reason why I had to buy a truck in that same year was because I couldn’t really stop myself from holding onto little parts of normal life. My Iceman and a small amp. Art supplies. The comal that I had already set up and heating on the stove.
“I…” The masa was warm between my palms as I pulled from the large ball, creating smaller ones that would soon be the tostada shells. After I’d made a few, Ramona jumped in, working slowly to make balls the same size as mine. “Just trying to calm me through it, I guess? If it looks like I’m—hurting myself. Wake me up like you did.”
She nodded and finished off the last of the dough, and I started flattening the first in the tortilla press. “I can do that.”
She accepted this so easily. Being mated to someone so broken that they couldn’t even trust their dreams not to leave them puking and overwhelmed. “Thanks, baby.”
Ramona hummed and watched me transfer the dough circle to the hot comal with a practiced turn of my wrist. I gave it a few seconds, letting the masa cook, before flipping it over with my fingers. Once it was done, I moved it to a plate and went to press the next one.
My mate already had it ready, a little thick, but not bad. I smiled in thanks.
We had a little assembly line going, and after the tortillas were all made, I moved them to the pan of hot oil. My initial intention of a low-effort meal had turned into a long process, but the quiet, concentrated time with Ramona was nice, and the result would be way better than eating our ceviche with tostadas from a plastic bag.
I showed her how to fry in the cast iron skillet, letting her take charge of the tongs while I instructed. The apartment filled with the aroma of my childhood, and I’d almost forgotten how this morning began. At least, until she deposited the last tostada on the baking sheet I’d designated for draining. “I’m still mad at you.”
I sucked in a breath, forced it out of my nose. “How can I make it up to you? I don’t really know how to get the memories to stop, but I don’t want to scare you like that ever again, and?—”