Kind of Cursed

by Stephanie Fournet

  Emmett is in danger of falling out of his chair.

  I roll my eyes. “Are you finished with that?”

  Luc unleashes The Dimples and hands me the clipboard. “Yes. You just need to sign the guardian parts.”

  I sign the forms, trying not to think too much about what I’m doing and why. Then I return the clipboards to the desk. A nurse opens the interior door and calls one of the other patients.

  “How much longer?” Emmett says, now fully recovered from his fits of hilarity.

  I look from Emmett to the other guy in the waiting room and back to Emmett. “There’s still somebody ahead of us, buddy. That should be pretty obvious.”

  Emmett pulls a face. “I’m bored.”

  Of course, you are, I want to say. You’ve been without entertainment for thirty seconds. But somehow, I manage to keep this snippy comment to myself.

  “Here, buddy,” Luc says, reaching into his pocket. “Want to play Smash Road?”

  Emmett’s eyes go wide. “Yeah!”

  Luc hands him his phone, and I want to kiss the man more than ever.

  Luc gets up and paces around the waiting room, giving me a chance to check out his profile. And his butt in those jeans.

  If I know anything for sure, it’s that Luc Valencia is going to make some lucky woman very, very happy one day.

  I stifle a sigh and pick up a magazine on the table in front of us. My eyes are just running over the pages when Luc sits down in the empty chair to my left. He manspreads so his right leg bumps my left.

  I look over at him.

  “You okay, linda?” he asks in a whisper.

  I frown. “Does linda mean the same thing as boba? Because if so, the answer is no.”

  His teeth flash in a sudden smile. “You’re so funny.” Then he shakes his head and looks at me from under those curling lashes. “No. It means beautiful.”

  My jaw unhinges. Before I can say anything, the interior door opens, and a teenage boy comes out. He goes to the guy waiting on the other side of the lobby, and they gather coats and keys. Then the nurse pops out again.

  “Delacroixes?” she calls, eyeing us.

  I stand. “Emmett, give Luc back his phone.”

  Emmett doesn’t take his eyes off the screen. “But—”

  “C’mon, buddy. It’s our turn,” I urge. I glance back at the nurse with a look of apology.

  “Your boyfriend can come back, too, if you want.”

  My eyes must bug out of my head. “Oh, he’s not my—”

  “Yay!” Emmett cheers in triumph, clutching Luc’s phone close.

  I glance at Luc. His brows are raised, the scarred one make him look just a little wicked. As does the half-amused-half-cautious look in his eye.

  “Buddy, I think that might be a little awkward for him,” I say. When I glance back at Luc, he’s smirking. I can almost read his mind. More awkward than everything else? This man has smelled my stinky scrubs; viewed the inside of my dirty fridge; seen nearly all of my underwear; watched me cry; kissed me senseless; slept in Emmett’s bed; slept in my bed; glimpsed me pulling up my pants; and witnessed my brother puking.

  At the thought of it all, I blush to my roots. Yeah, maybe he’s seen enough.

  “C’mon, bud. It’ll be quick.”

  “In and out,” the nurse promises with a nod.

  Emmett goes still. “Wait a minute,” he says with suspicion, eyeing the nurse. “Are you going to give me a shot?”

  Her poker face is terrible. “Only if it’s necessary.”

  Damn. Emmett has a thing about needles. It’s understandable. I give injections nearly every day, and I’m still not jumping for joy at the prospect of being stuck by one. But Emmett has always hated shots.

  And this is the first time without Mom and Dad that he’s had to face one.

  I look back at my little brother to find his eyes wide and his lips compressed. His gaze flicks to Luc. He’s trying very hard to be brave. Emmett pulls in a deep inhale through his nose. I watch his chest rise and fall.

  “I’m not a baby,” he says under his breath, and I’m pretty sure he’s saying this for no one but himself.

  But bless his heart. He’s only eight.

  Emmett gulps and nods, looking resolved. “Luc, would you come back with us?”

  Holy crap. What’s he doing?

  Surprise smacks Luc in the face, but he gets to his feet without hesitating. Then he glances at me. “I-If that’s okay with your sister.”

  Now all eyes are on me, including the nurse who looks like she’s about to run out of patience.

  “I-I…”

  Emmett steps closer and crooks his finger, beckoning me to bend down. When I do, he puts his mouth to my ear.

  “I don’t want to cry about getting a shot. That’s for babies.” He’s whispering, but it’s so quiet in the waiting room, Luc must hear it. “If Luc comes with us, I won’t let myself cry. Not in front of him.”

  I hold Luc’s gaze over Emmett’s shoulder. Yeah, he’s heard. His eyes are as soft as I’ve ever seen them. He gives me the slightest nod.

  In for a penny. In for a pound.

  I swallow my sigh. “Okay. Let’s go.”

  The nurse looks relieved as she holds the door open for all three of us.

  I’m sure I look the opposite as she motions me to the scale. “Okay, ma’am. You’re first. Hop on.”

  Great.

  I want to be all confident, body positive, and devil-may-care about Luc or anyone else knowing how much I weigh. The urge to order Luc to look away is almost more than I can master, but I do, toeing off my boots—hey, they’re heavy—and stepping on.

  But as it happens, after the nurse slides the chunky balance in place and taps the little weighted arrow until the beam levels out, she silently notes the number, keeping it private. I start to shiver a little as I step off the scale. I sneak a peek at Luc while I pick up my boots, but he has the good grace to be engrossed in studying Emmett’s Smash Road progress.

  I think I love him.

  The thought sends me into such a tailspin I don’t even notice what Emmett’s weigh-in is and if it’s normal or not.

  Clearly, whatever virus or bacterium that has invaded my body has messed with my prefrontal cortex and likely amped up my amygdala. That’s the obvious explanation because my logical, reasonable thinking is definitely not what it used to be, and my emotions—not to mention my sex drive—are throwing a rave.

  Yep, nothing between my ears can be trusted until I crush this illness.

  In the exam room, the nurse goes through her routine while I clutch my elbows against the chill. Q&A. Blood pressure. Temperature. Emmett and I both have fever, but mine is a little higher 102.6, compared to his 101.2.

  “Dr. Singh will be right with you,” she says before ducking out and leaving the three of us to stare at each other. So far, aside from the scale, none of this has been too awkward. At least it’s a walk-in clinic, so there’s no paper gowns.

  I would have drawn the line at paper gowns.

  “What?” Luc says, eyeing me funny.

  Crap. Did I just say that out loud? Damn you, fever!

  He’s leaning against the empty exam table while Emmett and I languish on the chairs, but he straightens up and comes over to me. He bends down, searching my face. I want to grab him by the collar, yank him down, and mush his mouth against mine.

  “Your eyes get glassy and you talk loco when your fever spikes,” he says, his eyelids lowering as he studies me. “Did you take anything when you woke up?”

  I don’t even hear his question. He’s too close.

  “Back up, Valencia. My amygdala isn’t the boss of me!”

  His brows lift, his hand flattening against his slate-like abs as he laughs. “Wh-ha-ha-hat?”

  “You heard me,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest.

  Luc shakes his head, amused.

  Without warning, I want to cry. My bottom lip quivers and my eyes fill. What the hell is wrong w
ith me?

  “Hey.” Luc isn’t laughing anymore. He reaches forward and tucks a stray lock behind my ear. I put my hair in a ponytail today because I can’t remember when I last washed it. I’m sure I look like a turd on roller skates. “You’ll feel better soon. I’ll take care of you until then.”

  My throat aches with the effort not to sob or sniffle. I force a nod and look down at my knees so I don’t have to face Luc like this. I see his steel-toed boots step away and then return before he thrusts a tissue in front of my face.

  Defeated, I take it and dab my eyes.

  “It’s okay, Millie,” Emmett says beside me. “At least you didn’t throw up.”

  The door opens then and woman in her forties with a lab coat and braid streaked with gray steps in. She takes in my current state and Emmett’s pallor and addresses Luc. “What have we got here?” Her words are clipped, touched with an Indian or perhaps Pakistani accent.

  Luc points to Emmett. “Sore throat, fever, vomiting. Started last night.” Then he shifts to me. “Sore throat, chills, fever spikes, delirium, no appetite. Started probably Monday.”

  I blink, stunned at his account. I’d like to contradict him, but I can’t. He’s right.

  Dr. Singh eyes me with pursed mouth. “Mmm. Not too good.” She draws her stethoscope from around her neck and sets the earpieces in her ears, nodding to me. “You first.”

  She listens to my heart. My lungs. Shines a light in my nose. Checks my ears. Then I get the tongue depressor.

  “Mmm. Very red,” she says. “We’ll swab it.”

  The nurse shadows her as she gives me a gag-inducing throat swab. Seriously, it’s like I’ve tried to swallow a sword. The nurse takes the nasty thing to the back while the doctor swaps out her gloves and gives Emmett the exact same treatment, finishing him off too with a swab job.

  “Shouldn’t be long. Wait here.” She leaves the room, and I clear my throat trying to shake the scratchy tickle. At least I don’t feel like crying anymore.

  “My money’s on strep,” Luc says, leaning against the table again.

  I shrug. “Maybe. We’re not coughing, so it’s probably not flu.”

  The door swings open again.

  “Streptococcus,” the doctor says. Then she turns her pointed stare at me. “You shouldn’t ignore a sore throat and high fever. Strep can develop into rheumatic fever, and if you get that, you’ll have rheumatic heart disease. Not too good.”

  The nurse comes in with a tray bearing two syringes. Emmett gasps.

  Dr. Singh looks at him and cracks her first smile. “These aren’t for you, young man. They’re for your sister.”

  “Both of them?” I ask, hoping the urge to cry isn’t resurrected.

  “Both,” she says, and I’ll be damned if she doesn’t look happy about that. “That is, the penicillin you have to take. The cortisone is optional, but if you take it, you’ll feel better by tomorrow.”

  “I want to feel better.”

  “Then two shots it is. Hip or thigh?”

  “W-w-wait. Why doesn’t he get one?” I jab my thumb at Emmett, who’s now eyeing me like the traitor I am.

  Dr. Singh smiles again. “You’re worse off than he is. We caught his early. He gets the oral antibiotic. Hip or thigh?”

  Since either one of those options require me to drop my pants, I point to Luc and Emmett. “You two. Out.”

  Emmett scrambles to his feet. “Thank God. I don’t wanna watch.”

  Luc gives me a look of amused concern. “You sure, Millie? That cortisone shot is fuerte. I could hold your hand.”

  I shoot him a sour glare. “Go.”

  I have no idea what fuerte means, but it doesn’t sound good. It’s the nurse who does the honors while Dr. Singh scribbles out Emmett’s prescriptions on a pad. The penicillin is just a pinch. But Luc is right. The cortisone shot goes into my hip like a fiery lake through a straw.

  “Sweet Jesus,” I hiss, clutching the exam table.

  When I join Emmett and Luc in the waiting room, I’m limping just a little.

  Luc winces in sympathy. “I got one when I tangled with some poison ivy a couple of years ago. Burns like El Diablo.”

  I wave away his attention. “Worth it. I’ll feel better tomorrow and—” I freeze.

  Tomorrow. Tomorrow is Thanksgiving.

  At the look on my face, Luc’s brows shoot up. “What’s wrong?”

  I cover my mouth in horror. “Thanksgiving.” My heart starts hammering in my chest. I recognize the symptoms of hyperventilation and sink into a chair. “I never—I never placed an order at Whole Foods.”

  I’d meant to do it Monday, but I felt like crap, and the day had been crazy with all of the kids’ interruptions. Every free moment I had between patients I’d spent responding to their texts.

  I look up at Luc. “Do you think I can place an order now and pick it up today?”

  He just shrugs, looking completely unconcerned. “Maybe, but you’re not going to.”

  I blink. “Why not?”

  Les Dimples spring into action. “Because y’all are coming to my family’s for Thanksgiving. Mami and Papi are already expecting you.”

  Emmett’s eyes bug. Then he leaps into the air, fist held high. “Yes!”

  “B-B-But…”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  LUC

  “Dios mío, what are those?”

  Millie is trying to lock her front door with a ginormous arrangement of flowers balanced on her hip.

  “I can’t go to your parents’ house for Thanksgiving empty-handed,” she says, turning her face away to avoid getting a mouthful of greenery. “That would be rude.”

  I climb the porch steps to unburden her as the kids race to my Tundra.

  “Shotgun!” Emmett calls.

  Someone’s feeling better. I take the arrangement from Millie and call over my shoulder. “Not today, jefe. You three in the back.”

  He doesn’t look back at me but drops his shoulders instead. “Awww.”

  “Not middle!” Harry shouts.

  “Not middle!” Mattie echoes.

  “Aww, man!” Emmett whines.

  My eyes track to Millie who’s dropping her keys into her purse with a look that clearly says, Tell me about it.

  This woman. I swear. She has the patience of Job.

  “How are you feeling?” I’m dying, dying, to touch her, but I don’t. As much as I’d like it to be, this isn’t a date. Of course, if it were, it wouldn’t involve her siblings. Or my parents.

  She nods her relief. “Much better, thanks. The doc wasn’t lying about that cortisone shot.”

  I walk her to the passenger side of the Tundra just as the back doors slam shut. We have about three seconds of semi-privacy. I reach for the door handle before she can and stop.

  “You look great,” I say. And she does. Under her denim jacket, she’s wearing a hunter green blouse that sets off her fiery hair and the vivid blue of her eyes. And I’m going to have a hard time keeping my eyes off those jeans today.

  Millie looks great in scrubs. She looks great in anything. But scrubs don’t do her hips and thighs justice like these jeans.

  “Thank you.” For all her stubbornness and spirit, Millie can’t take a compliment without blushing. That goes with the hunter green too. “So do you.”

  The way her gaze sweeps over me, I realize she has never seen me cleaned up. Millie doesn’t say more, but I pick up plenty when she swallows and takes a second look.

  “You ready?” I ask.

  Ooph. Wrong question. That just killed the mood. Worried eyes meet mine. “I can’t believe I agreed to this.”

  Actually, I can’t believe it either. It took some convincing, and not just from me. The rest of the Delacroix clan had to mount a pretty solid offensive with specific avenues of attack. We’ll get to be with Luc! (Emmett’s). There will be kids there our age! (Mattie’s). Mexican food! (Harry’s). I’m not sure if they ever really convinced her or just wore her down, but out of all
the many things I’m thankful for, the fact that they did is what I’m celebrating today.

  “It’ll be fine,” I promise. “It’ll be fun.”

  It’ll be a zoo, but I haven’t mentioned that yet.

  I open the truck’s door before she can change her mind, help her in, and hand back the flowers.

  I was wrong.

  It isn’t a zoo. It’s a circus. With at least one sideshow in every room of my parents’ house. Papi and Uncle Raul are singing “Cielito Lindo” for Abuela, who sits in her glider, rowing back and forth to their serenade. As always, her glider is camped in front of the TV, which is tuned to NBC's coverage of the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade. The TV’s volume is somewhere between obnoxious and ear-splitting.

  My cousin Felicité’s two boys, Isaac and Ian, ages six and five respectively, fight on the sofa over what looks like pieces of a Happy Meal toy. I lead the Delacroixes past the serenade and the scuffle into the buzzing hive of the kitchen, where Mami, Aunt Lucinda, and all four of my cousins are talking over each other, stirring, tasting, grating, and basting. As soon as we walk in, Mami’s hands shoot up like she’s doing the wave. She rushes over, pushing Aunt Lucinda—who’s filling circles of dough with pumpkin puree—out of the way.

  “¡Bienvenidos! Welcome! Welcome!” she shouts, wiping her hands on her apron. She opens her arms, aiming to hug Millie, who looks terrified. But to my surprise, Millie hands me the flowers and—instead of bolting for the door—leans in, stepping into Mami’s embrace, the back half of her torso disappearing behind my mother’s bingo wings, the front lost in Mami’s ample bosom.

  “You must be Millie,” Mami says into her hair. “Luca has told us so much about you.”

  I groan, but with all the noise in here, no one else can hear it. I’ve mentioned Millie to Mami exactly three times. Granted, yesterday morning’s conversation about her and the kids was the most detailed, but I don’t need Millie to think I’m more obsessed with her than I am.

  She knows enough already.

  Drawing back, Millie shoots me a surprised look. “He has?” I can tell what she’s thinking, and I hope she can read my expression just as clearly.