Page 45 of Dead Set on You
“Okay,” I agree. “Easy.”
Rafael eyes me like he doesn’t quite trust me before he digs his hands into his pockets, which tugs down his waistband, revealing a sliver of tanned waistline that saysHello—remember me from this morning?
A volcano of mortification erupts, making me wish we weren’t packed together, separated by only a few feet of space. We haven’t been this smushed together since The Elevator Incident one year ago, and the memory of those forty-five minutes is seared into my DNA forever.
It was the Mondayest Monday—a full twelve months into freezing him out—and I was ready to call it a day earlier than normal. As luck would have it, Rafael was the sole passenger on the North Elevator, and with no other choice (taking the stairs in stilettos wasn’t an option), I got on, eager to get home before seven. Two floors into the ride, the elevator stalled. Two minutes later, disaster struck.
A small space, no AC, and mild claustrophobia were all it took to break me down. It started with pacing the elevator, moved to profuse sweating, and ended with me throwing up—all with him watching. It was one of the most mortifying days of my existence, and that has nothing to do with puking and everything to do with him lending me his backpack to do it in.
The memory makes my cheeks flush.
We’re not in an elevator, and I’m not on the verge of puking. But we are packed together, and his nearness doesthingsI can’t rationalize.
“Okay—what else?” I ask, my tone impatient and annoyed.
“Condition number two—you stop insinuating I put you in a coma.”
“Did you?”
Rafael groans, rubbing the back of his neck. “Would I be trying to help you if I had?”
“Maybe your Catholic guilt got to you?”
He mutters to himself, a mix of Spanish and frustration.
“About done?” I level a questioning look at him.
“Are you?” he parrots, his brows crinkling.
I answer with a shrug, but we both know I need him, which means I need to save my theories on his involvement for another day. One when I can pick them apart and analyze them.
“I won’t make further accusations.” I hold up three fingers, like he did yesterday, and try hard not to feel pleased with myself when he mumbles to himself again. “Anything else? My parking spot in front of Media Lab? Lifetime supply of free lunches? My firstborn?”
“Oh, have you penciled children into your five-year plan?”
I try not to react to his tone. “Nothing you should worry your twisted mind with,” I say, feeling increasingly convinced that working together might not work at all. “And it’s a ten-year plan, Rafael. It’s—”
Two knocks rattle the door. We both startle.
“Mr. Rafael, are you okay in there?” Cristina’s voice is muffled.
Rafael clears his throat, but his eyes never stray from mine. “Yes, all is good. Just … some indigestion. From breakfast.”
“Indigestion?” Cristina repeats. “Oh no.”
“Yes. Too much …”
“Alcohol,” I provide when he delays too long.
“Gluten,” he answers instead. The amount of pizza and burgers he eats would disagree.
Cristina is quiet for a moment, likely because she’s probably also seen him tear into her desserts right after saying, “Come to Papa”.
“Okay, Mr. Rafael. Can I get you something to help?”
“Um. No, no. I’ll be right out.” Rafael leans into the door and groans for dramatic effect. “As soon as it passes.”
“Oh, poor dear,” she adds. I roll my eyes at her concerned tone. “Please let me know if you need something.”
