Not Sure If He’s the One? Take Him to Taco Bell

My least favorite fast food joint helped me find my forever

Photo by Mike Norris

“You two should have a fancy dinner by the water. Make everybody else go to Taco Bell.”

My boss was clearly not over the fifteen thousand dollars he’d spent on his quaint vineyard wedding. And my plan to drop an even more ludicrous amount of money on my waterfront nuptials seemed to trigger him.

But it was really important for me to get married by the water. My dad was cremated, and we spread his ashes in the ocean. Getting married by the water would symbolize my dad walking me down the aisle.

Yes, I know it’s not the same. No, it doesn’t really make sense. Yes, I’m sentimental. No, I can’t help it.

“Then only the people who actually care would come to the ceremony,” he added.

His suggestion was actually quite brilliant. Until I realized that I didn’t want to have a fancy dinner in my fancy white dress in a fancy hotel overlooking the water with my soon-to-be husband. I wanted to be at Taco Bell with everybody else—and I don’t even like Taco Bell.

When I left, I told my ex-fiancé the truth. That I couldn’t marry him. Because he wasn’t the one. Because he wasn’t my best friend.

I left my three-stone engagement ring on the nightstand, on the last Polaroid photo we’d taken together. My ex, my best friend and I had our arms around each other on a seaside cliff on our last road trip together—the sun was setting behind us. I bet he wanted to burn that picture. Maybe he did. I hope he did. I’ve heard that anger is healthy. Better than sadness.

“I ended it,” I told my best friend over the phone. “Can we please go on a drive?”

He told me that he didn’t feel like it, because he thought it was his fault that my ex and I broke up.

Just a few nights before, I called to tell him how I couldn’t love his best friend, the man I was about to marry, in the ways that I should.And how I loved him—my best friend—instead, in all the ways that I shouldn’t.

So, he wasn’t wrong, but at the same time, it really wasn’t his fault. If I never said a word, none of this would’ve happened.

He picked me up anyway, and we went to a Taco Bell drive-through. He ordered a Crunchwrap Supreme and a Baja Blast for himself and a chicken quesadilla for me. We ate while sitting on the tailgate of his car in the parking lot. There were cars parked sparsely around us, but it was dead quiet.

When I looked up at the sky, I was met with the garish brightness of Taco Bell’s neon sign and the tall, equally spaced lights in the parking lot. I couldn’t see a single star. Good. It would’ve been offensive on a night like this.

“We can’t be friends,” he said.

“I know,” I mumbled to my quesadilla.

He was my ex’s best friend before he was mine, so we knew that we had to part ways. Even if we were to be together, we knew that it couldn’t be now.

And no, “my quesadilla” wasn’t and will never be his pet name.

I threw rolled-up wrappers at him, and he spat ice cubes at me. He dropped me off at home, then he moved two states away. We didn’t laugh or cry or hug.

I got through most nights in my empty apartment by downing a generous shot of whiskey for dinner. Sometimes, I called him in a haze, then deleted his name from my call log just before I fell asleep. When I woke up, I pretended that it was nothing more than a dream. Sometimes, I got drunk enough to tell him that I missed him. He was always sober, and he never said it back.

We saw each other a few times over a couple of years. Each time, we acted like it’d be the last. We spent almost every night driving out of the city, through snaking hills and sometimes, unpaved roads. That’s our thing--scenic drives--even when it’s almost completely dark out, and the only way that we could sense any hint of scenery was through the twists and turns. My ex always used to get nauseous, but it made us feel like we could fly.

Then, seemingly out of nowhere, he told me that he loved me.

“What?” I gaped at him.

I’d always sensed that he did, but I never expected to hear him say it, or how much I needed to.

On his first birthday that we celebrated as a couple, he insisted that we have Taco Bell. I cancelled the dinner reservation I’d made at the best restaurant in his town and changed back into my loungewear. I could almost hear my bank account breathe a massive sigh of relief.

What? I wasn’t going to let him pay for dinner on his birthday!

He pulled up to the drive-through line and ordered a Crunchwrap Supreme and a Baja Blast for himself and a chicken quesadilla for me. When we got home, he dimmed the lights and set the coffee table, then we ate while watching Before Sunrise. His apartment smelled like fresh laundry, old leather and even older wood, just like the candles I tend to gravitate toward.

It was actually pretty romantic, except for the small inconvenient fact that I don’t like Taco Bell. The food’s sad enough when it’s fresh and warm. It’s even more disappointing at room temperature. But hey, it wasn’t my birthday.

Then, seemingly out of nowhere, he farted, and it made his place smell more like beans and cheese than the musky candles I like.

“I just farted,” he announced, with pride and giggles, as if there was any doubt that it was him all along.

I thought, I’d marry him in a Taco Bell parking lot.

I didn’t think about the water, or the lack thereof.

Sorry, dad.

Andrea Lius lives and writes in California. Her words have appeared in Hippocampus, glassworks, and Emerge Literary Journal, among others. Find her on X or Bluesky: @liuswrites.