by Tara West
"You're welcome. And if the wedding prep gets too out of hand, you can always screw it all and get hitched in Vegas." She tosses up both hands in the air, like she's on a roller coaster at Six Flags.
Oh, right. If only. "Our families would freak."
Grace grasps the edge of the table with her perfectly polished nails and leans forward. "Who cares what they think? Besides, you have your maid-of-honor's blessing. My opinion is the only one that counts." She laughs again, more like the unaffected Grace I know.
Wow. Just the thought of running off to Vegas with Andrés and screwing this whole wedding planning thing makes me giddy inside. The idea is too tempting, but I think again of the horror in my mom's and Tia's eyes when we get back from Vegas and announce we're already married, and that swelling inside my chest quickly deflates.
Luckily, I don't have time to dwell on my disappointment, as the waiter finally shows up with my brownie.
"Omigod," I squeal like an eighth grader who's been asked out by the hottest boy in school. "Have you ever seen a brownie like this?" Grace had warned me it was big, but this thing is monster enough for three people to share, which is exactly why I'm glad I ordered my own. Now I have something to snack on when I get a chocolate craving in the middle of the night.
I immediately stab it with a fork, but quickly realize I'll need a knife to cut through all those layers of fudge sauce and gooey dough.
Grace works faster than me, cutting through her brownie like a logger with a chainsaw. She moans as she takes the first bite. "It's perfection."
"Do me a favor and don't tell Andrés about the brownie," I say with a wink. I finally saw off a chunk and twirl fudge sauce around my fork before sinking my teeth into chocolate bliss. "Mmmm," I groan and don't have the mental facility for much else. All rational thought has completely shut down, and I focus all my brain cells on savoring the rich, chocolaty flavors that explode in my mouth. If I could get an orgasm from food, this would be the brownie to do it. In fact this brownie is so damn delicious, its euphoric flavors are almost enough to make me forget about my problems.
Almost.
Chapter Fourteen
Christina
Grace and I spend the rest of the day bridal shopping. We hit at least ten different shoe stores and I can't find the right pair. I'm probably making this harder than it needs to be. All I need is a pair of white heels, right? I know it sounds crazy, but none of the shoes I try on speak to me, and after a while they all look like the exact same shoe, white satin heels with buckles, and sometimes pearly flowers.
Big whoop.
I'm not interested in the same old bridal shoe. I want something different. That bold voice inside me tells me I should be daring and go for something either red or pink to match the hues of the flowers on my dress, but then that wimpy Christina whom I thought I'd gotten rid of last year rears her timid head and warns me Tia would have a heart attack if I walked down the aisle in red shoes.
We finally give up shoe shopping and go to Hobby Lobby instead. I'm ecstatic when I find flowers that look almost like the Cyclamen on my gown. I've been thinking I want to design my own bouquet. That way I can keep it forever, and now I have the perfect flowers. I also spot these adorable little gossamer butterflies I'm going to sew onto the bottom of the gown once I finish painting in the flowers.
It's late evening when we finally drag our weary butts home. Tonight is my night to cook, which means I've got pizza takeout in Grace's backseat. I ask Grace if she wants to come inside, but she's going to Violet's ranch to patch up things.
Andrés is sitting at the kitchen table, tapping away at his laptop when I stumble through the door, steaming pizza in one hand and a big bag of crafts in the other.
As soon as he sees me, he jumps up and takes the box. "Where have you been?"
I jerk back, stunned by the harshness of his tone.
"I was with Grace," I say, shocked by the way he slams the pizza box down.
He leans against the kitchen counter, folds his arms across his chest, and glares at me like I'm one of his wayward mechanics. "I've been trying to get ahold of you for the past three hours."
"Oh." I shrug as I walk past him toward the bedroom. "I turned my ringer off," I say this in the same indifferent tone I would use to choose between pepperoni or mushrooms. I've had a rough day dealing with his family's shit, and I'm not going to deal with his anger, too.
Andrés's footsteps echo behind me, and I can practically feel him breathing fire down my neck. "What if I had an emergency?"
"Did you?" I heave my weary limbs onto the bed and start removing my heeled boots, not bothering to make eye contact
"That's not the point. Tia called me freaking out." His voice rises an octave with each word. "She said you took off today upset."
"Yeah." I laugh under my breath. "Major understatement." Why am I not surprised Tia would try to drag Andrés into this? As if he doesn't have enough stress to deal with right now. I slip off my socks and wiggle my toes as pain lances up the soles of my feet all the way to my ankles.
"What the hell is going on?" Our bedroom isn't big to begin with, and Mr. Angry Ogre's booming voice shakes the cramped space around me.
I resist the urge to cover both ears with my hands. "Don't raise your voice at me," I say through clenched teeth.
Again, I remind myself he's been under a lot of stress lately. I rotate my ankles to alleviate the soreness. That's when I notice they look bigger than normal. I'm only a few weeks pregnant and my ankles are already swollen? Crap! What are they going to look like when I'm nine months? I have this sudden horrifying vision of me wobbling around with swollen kankles that resemble monster truck tires. So not good.
"You could have at least called to tell me you were okay."
Ugh. He's not giving up, is he?
"You never answer my calls when you're at work," I say dryly. I want to add something about how he's quick to answer Tia's calls, but I don't want to piss off the ogre even more.
"You could have sent a text."
"You never answer those, either."
Andrés steps into my personal space, hovering so far over me, he looks ready to topple at any moment. "I was fucking worried!"
Oh, no, he didn't just swear at me. Sore feet and swollen ankles be damned, I pull myself up and stand on the bed. Now I'm the one towering over him.
That throbbing temple above my eye swells like a raging river. I jab my finger in his chest. "And I was fucking fed up!"
Andrés's jaw drops and he takes a step back, holding out his palms in a defensive gesture. "Christina, don't get your blood pressure up. It's not good for the baby."
Really, Andrés? It's a little late to think about my blood pressure now. "Then don't upset me!"
Andrés's face falls faster than a pile of dominoes. Something about that wounded look in his eyes tugs at my heartstrings. He runs his hands over his cheeks, before flashing a sad smile. Now those heartstrings are about to snap, and I feel like a total bitch for hurting him.
"I'm sorry, mija." The rawness in his voice makes it sound like his chest has been split open. "I've had a stressful day at work and then this."
I slump back onto the bed and groan at the heavy discomfort in my feet. "You always have a stressful day at work." I lie down, thinking the pain will lessen if I elevate my feet.
"You don't know what it's like running five businesses at once." When Andrés looks down at me, his big, sad eyes remind me of a frightened child who's lost his mother.
My heart quickens, pounding out a painful staccato in my ears. I hate this. I hate knowing Andrés is dealing with stress all day and then coming home to more stress, and I fear the days ahead may not be any better. I don't even want to think about what we have to look forward to each night.
"Then quit." I drape my arm over my eyes, not just because I'm exhausted, but because I don't think I can stand to see his reaction.
I realize the significance of what I asked him to do; walk away from a thr
iving business and a good income. But Andrés is clearly not happy, and I don't see how we can go on with him coming home in a bad mood every day. Is this the life we have to look forward to? Because right now I'm thinking it's hardly a life at all.
"What?" he rasps, his voice barely audible above the din of my pounding heart.
"Tell your uncle you don't want to do it." I try to keep my tone even, which is in complete contrast to the quickening of the blood pumping through my veins.
"I can't do that. Who's going to provide for you and the baby?"
I sit up, resting on my elbows as I stare pointedly at him. Andrés is still standing by the bed, and though he's tall with a solid build, he appears to be shrinking. It's then that it hits me, just how much this job is stressing him. This is not the same strong, confident man I met last summer. This man, whom I once thought of as a tower of strength, is crumbling piece by piece, and now the pressure of the baby has to be making his stress worse.
My throat tightens at the realization. "There are other jobs."
"None that pay this well. We can have a big down payment for a house in a few more months. Don't you want our child to have a yard to play in?"
Again, it's all about the baby. Though I've had my suspicions before, I can no longer deny this baby is the underlying cause of Andrés's stress. He's letting this job break him down all because we got pregnant.
"I like our apartment." I try to sound hopeful, but my voice comes out flat. My gaze circles our small bedroom. Our home is barely big enough for the two of us. Where will we put a baby? The spare bedroom is my art studio, which means I'll either need to give up my passion or we'd need to get a bigger place. A bigger place means more money, more money means more work, and more work means more stress.
"So you don't want our child to have nice things?"
My heart stops beating for an eternal second as I look up into Andrés's accusing glare. How many more people are going to make me feel like shit before I crack? I'm so damn sick of being a passenger on the guilt trip express. When is this ride going to end, or will it be stuck in fourth gear for the rest of my life?
That throbbing in my temple returns with a vengeance, and I'm starting to feel nauseous. The swelling in my ankles is not going down. All I can think of is Why me?
Because of the baby, that nagging voice inside my head answers.
Panic seizes me and my limbs turn heavy as if my veins are filing up with concrete.
I jerk up and pound my fists on the bed. "I don't even want this child!"
Andrés crumbles before my eyes, like a cliff face caught in a landslide. He falls to his knees beside the bed, his eyes watering with unshed tears. He picks up my hand, squeezing it to his chest. "Do you mean that, mija?"
The pain in his eyes is harder to bear than staring into the blinding sun. I look away, feeling a familiar wave of shame wash over me. "Everything was fine until I got pregnant." I look down at my fingers as I twist them in my lap. "Now you're having nightmares, and we have to get married."
"You don't want to marry me?"
"I do but not like this. Everything is being rushed and forced."
"Would you rather wait?"
The sorrow that weighs down my chest is so heavy, I fear I may suffocate. "Yes, but the baby."
Andrés settles his hand on my belly. "Our baby, mija." He speaks with such tenderness, I feel as if my heart may burst into a million pieces. He's cherishing our unborn child, and I'm resenting it. I don't deserve Andrés, and I definitely don't deserve to be a mother.
I sniffle. "I know," I barely manage to say as my throat constricts. I lay back and close my eyes, even as tears slip out from beneath my lashes.
I sigh as Andrés tenderly strokes my cheek. He rubs my belly with the other hand, as if he's soothing our unborn child. The pain from my guilt is so severe now, I imagine it cutting a hole through my chest. I deserve it for admitting I don't want this child.
What's worse is that I'm not so sure I didn't mean it. Though Andrés is five years older than me, I still feel so young, like a baby myself. Now I'm going to be a mother, and the father is always working. Though he says he'll help me, I fear he'll be too busy. I don't know if I can do this alone. And what about my new job? Will I have time to get our design business off the ground? I also fear Tia will be visiting all the time. If she's this pushy about our wedding, I can imagine how she'll be when the baby comes. She'll be telling me how to raise my child, intruding on my life and my sanity.
"What did you mean when you said things are being forced?" My eyes fly open. Andrés's hands have stilled, and his dark brows are drawn together.
Because you're pregnant, Christina, a voice inside me echoes. Shut up! I tell the voice. I was going to marry him, anyway, but not like this. We were going to take our time and plan the wedding we wanted, not the one that's being forced on us. My mom has forced Nora and shrimp puffs. Tia has forced Marie plus more bridesmaids, and now she's trying to make me change my dress.
Andrés stares at me expectantly, waiting for an answer. My mom is my problem. I'm too ashamed to bring up the baby again, but he should know about his aunt. If anyone can get her off my back, he can.
I sit up and straighten my shoulders. "Tia says I can't paint flowers on my gown. It makes me look soiled," I emphasize the "soiled" part with as much venom as I can muster. "She's forcing me to have four bridesmaids. Marie doesn't even like me. Why would she want to be in our wedding? And now Karri... ."
"Druggie Karri?" he interrupts.
I let out a slow and shaky breath. "Yeah, only I don't think she was on drugs today."
Andrés's shoulders stiffen. "I don't care. She is not going to be in our wedding. I'll talk to Tia tomorrow, mija, okay?"
Relief floods through me as I nod.
Andrés strokes my cheek again as the clouds in his eyes disperse. "So one bridesmaid and flowers on your gown, right?"
"Yes."
Andrés clasps my hands, and his thumb comes to rest on my ring finger. He strokes that diamond and emerald band with tenderness.
"So if I change it back, will you want to marry me?" The veins in his neck strain as he clenches his jaw. His voice drops to a shaky whisper. "Will you want to have our baby?"
The longing reflecting in his gaze is more than I can bear. I throw my arms around him and sob against his chest. "I'm sorry, Andrés. I'm just feeling overwhelmed."
He sits beside me and pulls me into his lap. "Shhh, mija," his says in a heated breath against my ear. "It's going to be okay."
But the more he tries to soothe me, the more the tears fall, and I'm not sure how I can stop up this dam of sorrow. I want to believe him, so very badly, but none of us acknowledge the words I left unspoken. Do I want to marry him? Deep in my heart I know I do, although I was hoping we could wait until this spring or even next year. But we can't. All because I'm pregnant, and though I loathe myself for feeling this way, I can no longer deny the surge of bitterness that has created a chasm in my heart. I do not want this baby.
***
After I cry my heart out for what feels like an eternity, Andrés fixes me a steaming bubble bath. He later dresses me in an oversized T-shirt, and we eat pizza on the sofa in unnerving silence. I can tell Andrés has a lot on his mind, and I'm afraid I may have said too much.
Does he resent me now for admitting I don't want his child?
Instinctively, I lift my T-shirt and settle my hand over my abdomen. The muscles there are still taut from all the sit-ups I do with Andrés almost every morning. I find it hard to believe a child is growing in there. I rub my fingers across the smooth surface, wondering what the baby is doing. Is it digesting the food I ate today? Maybe sleeping? Does it have a heartbeat yet? Can it feel me touching my stomach?
This whole pregnancy thing seems so surreal. Other than a little bit of morning sickness and swollen ankles (which have thankfully returned to normal size), there's not much evidence I'm growing a person. Hard to believe something so small is uprootin
g our lives in such a big way.
Andrés clears his throat, and I look up to see him staring intently at me. He sets our plates on the coffee table and scoots closer. He settles his hand over my abdomen, too. I'm surprised at how warm it is. Even though I took a hot bath, I'm chilled. I shiver and lean closer to him as he wraps his arm around me, his other hand still cradling my abdomen. I sigh into him, nuzzling his neck. He plants a feather-soft kiss on my forehead, and then another, and another. He kisses my brow, my eyes, the bridge of my nose. I gasp as his hand drifts down my abdomen and dips beneath the elastic of my panties.
I arch my head back, and Andrés kisses my neck as he lowers us onto the sofa. He deftly slides off my panties and cups my pelvis in his hand, dipping his finger into me and circling my clit with moisture. I groan as a wave of pleasure washes over me. I pull him down for a kiss. He tastes like tomatoes and beer, and something more. He tastes like mine. All mine. This man who is kissing me, fingering me, is my fiancé, my future, and I love him with all my heart. Renewed hope surges through me, and I think that as long as Andrés loves me, we will find a way to work it out. We must.
The tempo of Andrés's finger matches the urgency welling inside me. I love him. We must find a way to work it out. I can't live without him. "Please, baby," I cry against his mouth. "Please love me."
"I do love you, mija." He groans as he grinds his finger deeper into me. "Forever."
"Make love to me," I beg. "Please."
I cry out as he pulls his finger out. He jerks off his pants and throws them to the floor before he settles between my legs. He pulls my shirt over my head and I arch, wrapping my ankles around his waist, needing him inside me. Wholly. Fully. Mine.
I gasp at the intensity in Andrés's gaze, so dark and thunderous, he looks almost dangerous. His mouth is on mine, crushing me to him. He slips his hand beneath my ass, lifting me as he thrusts deep into me, so far that our hips are locked. He grinds his shaft against me, over and over, in slow, undulating circles.