by Tara West
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 wa
nt 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."
"Andrés, stop." I try to swat him away, but he's too fast. He lifts my shirt before I can stop him.
He gapes at the angry purple and red bull's-eye. "Fuck!"
I turn up my chin and put on my best big girl smile. "It doesn't even hurt."
Actually, that's a lie. It hurts like hell, but the pain is bearable as long as I don't breathe too much. All night I had to envision myself breathing through a straw just to manage the pain. I'd thought about asking Doc for a painkiller, but I'm not risking my baby's health with drugs.
"Liar." He courses his fingers through his thick hair, clenching the roots. "I'm sleeping on the sofa from now on."
I suck in a sharp breath. "Andrés, no!"
"Yes. What if next time it's not your ribcage?" Andrés squeezes my shoulders, and the pain reflected in his eyes breaks my heart. "What if it's your stomach? What if I hurt the baby?"
"For how long?" I ask, though my throat is constricted with emotion. Tears well in the backs of my eyes, and it takes all of my willpower to hold them at bay.
Andrés fixes me with a determined expression. "Until these dreams stop."
"You need to go back to that doctor." I hate the whine that slips into my voice. I know Andrés needs me to be strong right now. I do my best to put on a straight face, but my emotions are like a ping pong ball pinging all over the place, and I don't know if I want to scream, swear, or fall to pieces.
"I plan on it."
Andrés wipes a tear off my cheek. Damn tear. I didn't mean for it to fall.
"Is there anything I can do to help?"
"Stay with me."
The hard angles of his face soften, then sadden.
I cup his face in my hands, imploring him to read the sincerity in my gaze. I hate seeing him like this—vulnerable, scared, broken.
"Forever," I manage to choke out before more traitorous tears spill over my eyelids. "I love you."
***
After browsing the sites of several bridal shops in Austin, I've convinced my mom we don't need to fly to New York for my dress. Considering how sick I was yesterday, I don't think I could tolerate the flight, anyway. We're looking through a site and I'm floored by all the pretty dresses. Now comes the hard part, finding one to fit a petite woman who's five foot three, basically a child.
When we'd started searching for bridal gowns, Andrés made a few jokes about first communion dresses before my mom talked him and Doc into taking my brothers outside for a game of tag. Sadly, Andrés wasn't far off the mark. Some of the flower girl dresses looked like they'd fit me.
I've found several styles I like, but I wonder how long a dress would take to hem.
"Can they have the dress ready in two weeks?" I ask my mom.
She pulls away from her laptop monitor and gapes at me. "Two weeks? That's not enough time to plan a wedding. Now, if we waited until the spring... ."
"I'll be as big as a house." I laugh. "Andrés and all of his cousins were big babies. He was ten pounds!"
Mom taps her chin with the end of a pencil as she pulls up a calendar on her monitor. "What about February first? That gives me six weeks to plan, and you'll only be nine weeks pregnant."
I know Andrés wanted to get married sooner, but my mom is right. Two weeks isn't much time to plan a wedding.
I look down at my stomach, which is flat at the moment, despite the fact that I ate four wedges of toast and two servings of scrambled eggs. I wanted bacon, but Doc said I shouldn't eat anything greasy. Andrés had the nerve to agree with him.
I smooth a hand over my abdomen. "I shouldn't be showing at nine weeks, right?"
"Not too much. You won't be able to wear a form fitting dress." Mom clicks on the mouse and exits out of all the screens with the hip hugging dresses I've selected. "I've always preferred the traditional gowns, anyway."
She pulls up this big, puffy thing with sequins that looks like a cotton ball on steroids.
My head starts to spin, and I'm afraid it has nothing to do with morning sickness. There is no way I'm wearing that monstrosity to my wedding.
My mom is apparently oblivious to my horrified expression as she adds the page with the puffy gown to her favorites. "This might work if I hire the right wedding planner."
I still don't see why my mom needs a planner. They are expensive, and they take care of things that we could do ourselves, like hiring the caterer and venue. If we had the wedding at Tio's ranch, we wouldn't need a wedding planner.
I open my mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. Why don't I speak up for myself? What's wrong with me?
And though I want to deny the truth, I already know the answer. I've only known my birth mother for three weeks. She's missed so many of my milestones already. If I take away my wedding from her, I know she'd be disappointed. Maybe she'll think I'm ungrateful. Considering the hellish upbringing I went through with my adoptive mother, I'm not willing to risk anything that would jeopardize my relationship with my new mom.
I look over at her. She looks blissfully happy as she hums to herself while doing a search on wedding planners.
I slouch in my seat as I get this sinking feeling in my gut, like our wedding is turning into a runaway train with my mom at the helm, and I'm an unwilling passenger.
Chapter Six
Ch
ristina
"Are you better, Sissy?"
"For the most part." I look down at my brother, Gio, as he tugs on my shirt sleeve. Gio's shadow, my youngest brother, Manny, is right behind him. They are only three and four years old, and I'm not being biased when I say they are the cutest brothers ever.
They have golden brown skin, thick dark hair, and chubby cheeks like my stepfather and my mom's bright green eyes and wide smile—my eyes and smile.
I'm not quite sure who they inherited their naughtiness from. I was always an obedient child. Although it was mostly because I was raised under my adoptive mother's cloud of manipulation and degradation.My real mom, Jenny, was just a teen when she gave birth to me and was forced to give me up. I'm thankful we found each other, and that I found my new brothers. In the few short weeks I've known them, I honestly don't know how I could live without them.
Gio bats thick lashes and give me his best pleading gaze. "Because you promised you'd play tag with us."
I groan as I look across the sofa at Andrés. Shit. I was hoping my brother would have forgotten about tag. Though I would ordinarily love to play with them, my body is so sore, it feels like I ran a marathon. Andrés and I have been relaxing together for the past half hour. Actually, I've been enjoying a nice foot rub and a good book while he answers work emails and texts with his free hand.
"I know," I say as I set it down and rest my hand against my temple. I heave an exaggerated sigh. "I'm still a little dizzy."
I feel a pang of guilt at the look of disappointment in my brother's eyes.
Gio scrunches his face and plants both fists on his hips. "But Doc said you had morning sickness, and we've already had lunch."
"Yeah." Manny wags a finger at me. "Peanut butter and jelly and celery sticks."
Gio looks over at Manny and makes a face. "I hate celery."
I laugh when I see the bulge protruding from Gio's pocket. "Is that what I saw you stuffing down your pants?"
His eyes go wide and he shakes his head a little too hard. "No."
"Don't lie to me." I point as the head of the stalk. "You've got one hanging out of your pants."