Page 31 of Plus One

Whatever she carried, it lived in her body the same way his history lived in his. Not visible to most people. But there. Always there.

And for the first time, Maurice found himself wanting to know someone’s story not to help them, not to fix them, not to fulfill some duty.

Just to know them. To understand. To see and be seen.

A street vendor pushed a cart past, calling out: “¡Pasteles! ¡Coquito! ¡Feliz Año Nuevo!”

Music swelled from a nearby bar.

Maurice’s phone buzzed again. The 1800 alert. Thirty minutes until another group meal. He silenced it and typed a message in the group chat. He and Monique would not join them.

A flurry of quick replies followed as Maurice pocketed his phone.

They started walking again, following the waterfront. The promenade was decorated for the season. Nativity scenes in some alcoves, lavish Christmas trees wrapped in lights in others. A banner overhead announced a New Year’s Eve concert.

“What do you do?” Monique asked, her camera raised toward a weathered fishing boat bobbing in the water. “Back home, I mean.”

She’d asked him twice now. What could he say that wouldn’t smother this thing blooming between them?

His teeth clenched and his jaw ticked as he searched for the right words.

I spent decades in prison and now run a reentry job program with your aunt’s wife.Saying that would nullify these hours they’d spent together, making their meeting, their connection, feel like more of a setup than it already was.

“I work in—” he started. Swallowed his words. Started again. “Construction.” This was true, but not the whole truth.

Monique looked at him for a minute. Then she sighed and walked farther down the cobblestone street.

He was used to people walking away.

He found her two streets over at the kind of place most people would have walked past. Wobbly tables, plastic chairs, fluorescent lights, hand-painted menu on the wall only in Spanish. She looked mostly relaxed at the counter as she completed her order.

“I got enough for both of us,” she said, not really looking at him as she placed two paper cups on a table near the window.

“Thank you,” he said, lowering himself into the chair that groaned under his weight.

She shrugged, still not meeting his eyes. Instead, she picked up her cup and looked out the window at nothing.

Outside, bass boomed from passing cars, children laughed, and elders fussed. But between Maurice and Monique, the silence grew uncomfortable and sharp. A woman with a placid face and grease-spotted apron sat plates of steaming fried dough on their table.

Maurice had always been good with silence, but this one had a sharp edge that he didn’t know what to do with.

He watched her and then mimicked her movements.

Monique wrapped a napkin around an alcapurria and blew on it before taking a bite.

He took a napkin and picked up a fritter. “These look good.”

She looked at him. He put his food down.

“So,” she said, her voice flat, “you want to get to know me more.”

“Yes.” He picked his fritter up again.

“But knowingyouisn’t allowed.”

His jaw tightened, and he sat his fritter back down on the plate.

“You asked me what I did. Asked me about my pictures. I told you.” She sat her food down and wiped her hands. “I asked you twice, and you act like I’m fishing for state secrets or something.”