Say Forever (6 page)

"It's a special occasion food," Mom says matter-of-factly, as if it's a perfectly natural thing to serve vomit -hors d'oeuvres at my wedding.

I close my eyes and try to imagine Andrés eating shrimp puffs and little mints. I try to imagine him sipping champagne and dipping strawberries in a chocolate fountain. But the only image that comes to mind is Andrés drinking a Corona with a lime wedge. I can see him eating brisket or fajitas, but finger foods? He'd probably pile all the shrimp on to his plate and smother it in hot sauce.

"Shouldn't our special occasion be filled with food we like?" That wave of dizziness turns into a hammer, pounding a nail right in the center of my forehead. Ugh. I lay back and look at my mom with eyes half-open. Can't she see I'm in no mood to discuss seafood pastries? Whoever thought it would be a good idea to combine the two, anyway? What's next, the anchovy doughnut?

"What would you rather serve your guests, a tamale or a shrimp puff?" she asks me haughtily, which is not a good thing. I'm having Spitting Cobra
déjà vu.

"My guests?" I ask through a groan. "It's mostly going to be Andrés's family and you guys, Grace and Violet, and a few sorority sisters. I'm pretty sure they all like tamales."

Mom leans in and clasps my hands. She stares at me with watery eyes. Great. I hate watching people cry, especially her.

"Christina," she says with a shaky voice, "you're my only daughter. My only. All these years we spent apart, all the milestones I missed. Let me make it up to you. Let me throw you a lavish wedding."

"Mom, I—"

She holds up a silencing palm. "I want to do this for you. I'll pay for everything. We'll fly to New York and have your dress made. I know some of the top designers." She smiles at that, as if I'd be happy to travel anywhere other than to the bathroom and back.

I sink back into my pillow as that nail in my forehead twists and turns. The sharp ache is so severe, it sends another wave of nausea straight to my empty gut. I hate being pregnant. Why did I even bother waking up? I wish there was some way I could sleep through the next eight months.

I'm not in the mood to argue, so I nod my assent and close my eyes. She can serve the shrimp puffs. I'll probably be too sick to eat anything, anyway.

***

I'm resigned to lying in bed the rest of the day, doctor's (aka, my stepdad's) orders. Luckily, my stepdad was an ER doctor for several years before he became a pediatrician, and he's had experience dealing with severe morning sickness. He made me ginger tea and gave me motion sickness bracelets, which seem to be working, because the room has only a slight tilt now. It sucks not being able to do anything, but Andrés and I pass the time playing poker. Too bad strip poker is out of the question, but I'm too queasy to think about anything sexual right now.

I stare down at my hand, hoping a pair of sevens beats whatever Andrés is holding. I peer at him over my cards, and the guy's face is totally unreadable. I'm usually pretty good at gauging his moods, but not when it comes to cards.

Oh, well. What's a few more chips added to Andrés's growing pile? "My mom wants us to have a different kind of
wedding." I almost quote her by saying, "real wedding" but I know Andrés would be insulted. Truthfully, I was offended when my mom said it, but I don't think she meant to come off that way.

"Is that what you want?" he asks, keeping his eyes on his cards.

I heave a sigh. "I don't know. I was kind of looking forward to tamales."

"Tell her."

"I can't. She says she's been dreaming of this day."

Andrés looks up, and I think I see a flash of anger beneath the surface of his dark gaze. "This is
your
day."

My day? Why does that bother me? Doesn't he feel like part of this wedding? "This is
our
day, Andrés." And then I recall my mom telling me Andrés had been sulking earlier. Is he feeling rushed? Does he feel obligated to marry me now that I'm pregnant? I know he said he wanted kids, but is this baby too soon for him? I lean forward and grasp his forearm. "Are you sure you still want to do this?"

Andrés sets down his cards and cups my face in his hand. "I've never been more sure of anything in all my life."

As tempted as I am to get lost in his seductive smile and those large, Spanish eyes, I can't seem to turn off that nagging voice in the back of my head.

"No second thoughts?"

Andrés drops his hand. "None. You?" His face is a mask of stone again, except for the expression in his eyes, so intense, I feel compelled to look away.

My throat suddenly feels tight. "No." I shake my head. "I love you."

"I love you, too, mija." His mouth hitches up in that devastatingly sexy half smile that usually lands him in trouble. If only I wasn't so sick. "So you going to tell her, or do I have to?"

"No, not you." I shake my head and instantly regret it, as I'm overcome with dizziness.

"Good." He laughs. "I'm already on her shit list."

I moan as I lean back against the cushioned headboard. "She wants to meet with a wedding planner Monday. The least I can do is hear them out, and then if I don't like their ideas, I'll say something."

Chapter Four

Andrés

The nightmare is back. I'm navigating the Hummer down the windy incline. James is sitting beside me. Two fresh-faced soldiers, brand new to the unit, and to the Army, are in the back. I swerve when I see the pothole, and the force of the blast knocks the vehicle on its side. It skids down the incline for several yards, and when it finally comes to a halt, James, or what is left of James, is lying on top of me.

I can't do anything, I'm so numbed from shock. The blast knocks out my hearing, and I drift in and out of consciousness several times. I have no idea how long I lay there with my best friend's body on me. Minutes? Hours? Of one thing I am certain: after the dust from the blast has settled, I hear not a sound from the other guys in the truck. Not a sound. But I smell their blood in the air.

While I lay there in agony, waiting for help to arrive, I hear it, the faint sound of a baby crying.

A baby?

Where the hell did a baby come from? Is it injured? Does it need my help? I'm struggling to get up, but James's corpse is holding me down. I push James, but it's like fighting a brick wall. The baby's cries intensify, and I'm panicking now. I cry out for someone, anyone, to come help us.

"What do you think you're doing, Andrés?"

I holler as I look up. James is gone, and my tio is in his place. One side of his face looks like it was bashed to a bloody pulp. The right half of his bottom lip has been detached from his face and his right eye socket is a hollow mess of ooze. He's pressing down on my chest with a tire iron.

"Get back to work, mijo," he scolds. "You're wasting daylight."

***

Christina

"Andrés, wake up. Please."

I'm barely aware of the tears streaming down my face as I try to wake my screaming fiancé. He's thrashing about in bed so violently, I don't have enough time to get out of the way as his hand crashes down on my ribcage.

"Ouch!" I scream, cradling my side. I kick off the covers and scoot out of bed just before his fist comes crashing down again.

"What's going on in here?"

I turn to see Doc standing in my doorway. He's wearing nothing but white cotton undies and holding a baseball bat above his head like he's a caveman preparing to club his next meal. With his slight paunch, greying beard, little round spectacles and jovial smile, my stepdad reminds me of Santa Claus. I've never seen him angry or upset. To say his barging in here like this, wielding a baseball bat is unexpected, is an understatement.

"Andrés is having a bad dream," I cry.

Doc flips on the lights, sets down the bat and walks to the other side of the bed. I avert my gaze, not because I don't want to see my stepdad in his underwear, but because he's wearing them backwards.

My mom rushes in. She's fastening her robe and I can clearly see she's naked underneath.

If my fiancé wasn't thrashing around in bed like he's possessed by a demon, I might be a tad embarrassed for them right now, but I'm too overwhelmed to feel anything.

"What's happening?" Mom asks me.

"I don't know," I say with a quavering voice. "I thought his Army dreams were over."

Mom pulls me to her and I lean my head on her shoulder while watching my fiancé.

"Andrés, wake up." My stepdad shakes him hard on the shoulder.

Andrés swats at him. "What about the baby?" he mumbles.

"Andrés, you're dreaming," my stepdad tells him as he shakes him harder.

Much to my relief, Andrés mumbles a few more times before opening his eyes. He lies there for a moment, looking wide-eyed at Doc before he sits up and stares at my mom and me.

"What happened?" he asks as he rubs the sleep from his eyes.

"You were dreaming," I tell him as I wipe a stray tear from my cheek. I thought Andrés had conquered these dreams and now they're back. Why? And what had he mumbled about the baby? Though somewhere in the back of my mind I suspect the answer, I want so much to deny the obvious truth. He's not ready to be a father. He's not. And this dream confirms it. Why else would the nightmares come back?

"Christina," Doc says as he points at me. "What happened to you?"

It's only when I look down and see I'm clutching my side do I register the bruising pain. I guess I was too stunned to notice earlier, but my side aches.

"I-I don't know," I mumble, though I remember exactly what happened.

Mom spins me around and lifts my T-shirt. She gasps at the big red bulls-eye that is already starting to bruise.

Instinctively, I pull my shirt down and pull up on the drawstring of my pajama pants.

"Mija." Andrés's eyes widen. "Did I do that to you?"

My eyes well up with tears at the horrified expression on his face. As if the guilt from his best-friend's death in Afghanistan isn't enough of a burden, now he's got to live with this?

My throat constricts as I slowly nod. "You didn't mean to."

Andrés covers his face with his hands and sags against the headboard. "What have I done?"

"It was an accident, baby. It's not your fault." I climb back into bed and try to pry his hands from his face, but he jerks away.

"I'm a danger to you."

The dark, hollow sound of his voice frightens me. "No, you're not," I cry. "You love me and I love you. We'll get through this."

But Andrés doesn't say a word as he turns back to Doc. "Did I hurt the baby?"

"Let me take a look at it." Doc walks over to my side of the bed.

"We're fine," I snap.

I let out an exasperated breath at the shock in his eyes. I didn't mean to snap at my stepdad, but this is all too much. I don't want my parents making a big deal out of this. Andrés feels bad enough already.

I wince when Doc lifts my shirt and feels my ribcage.

"These are your ribs," Doc says as he runs a hand across my sore spot. "The baby is all the way down there." He points to my stomach and then looks at Andrés with a reassuring smile.

Damn, it hurts. It takes all of my willpower not to slap Doc's hand away.

"So the baby is fine?" I ask Doc.

He nods, and I yelp as he presses against my ribs again.

"Bruised but not broken," he says.

I turn away at the look of pity in his gaze. I want to tell him he's wrong. Very wrong. Because my fiancé is not well, and my heart feels like it's shattered into a million pieces.

Chapter Five

Christina

I head downstairs as soon as I wake up. Luckily, the room isn't tilted anymore. In fact, I'm feeling a lot stronger, other than the growing hunger in my gut and the aching pain in my side. I hurry to the kitchen and pour a cup of coffee, not for me, but for Andrés. That's when I notice the decorations. They're everywhere. Ornaments and pinecones, wreaths and mistletoe. It looks like Hobby Lobby exploded all over my mom's kitchen. A tiny stereo sits by the kitchen sink, blaring Trans-Siberian Orchestra music. It's kind of an odd feeling being in such a festive home, and I realize this is what my holidays would have been like had I been raised by my real mom. If only.

Andrés and I have one tiny tree on an end-table in the living room. A shame, really, considering I'm supposed to be going into the party decorating business. The Cobra never decorated our house for the holidays, except for a solitary white tree, empty cartons of eggnog, and bottles of Southern Comfort. And she certainly didn't listen to Christmas music.

I carry Andrés's coffee into the living room. The rest of the house is decorated with wreaths and ornaments, too, and at the far end of the living room is a tree so tall, I wonder how my parents fit it through the front door. Even from across the room, I can smell the fresh scent of pine. The tree's all aglow in whites, golds, and reds, and something about it warms my heart. It reminds me of Christmases at Karri's house, though on a much grander scale.

Then warm fuzzies in my heart shrivel up at the sight of Andrés lying across the sofa at an awkward angle. His legs are too long, so his feet are propped up on the armrest and his head is scrunched at the other end.

He shifts around, so I sit next to him and set the steaming mug on the coffee table. "Good morning, baby." I hope he doesn't notice my smile is forced. I hope he can't tell I spent half the night crying over him. After my parents left our room, Andrés took his pillow and a spare blanket, mumbling something about not wanting to hurt me again, and he left me. In the seven months we've been dating, I haven't slept without him, other than last month when we'd broken up for a week. I missed him last night. I missed snuggling into his warm body. I missed the way he kisses my neck and tells me "good morning." I hate that he felt we needed to sleep apart.

Andrés looks up at me and flashes a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Good morning, mija."

I motion to his bare feet hanging over the couch. "You don't look comfortable."

"I'm fine." He kicks the blanket to the floor and sits up. He narrows his eyes before reaching for the hem of my nightshirt. "Let me see your side."