Page 55 of Dead Set on You
I haven’t quit a single thing in my life.
I won’t start now.
CHAPTER FOURTEENNINE DAYS AFTER, PART II
There are things you learn when you spend years beside someone, then across from them, but always within several feet of each other.
You learn about their habits and their quirks. Their likes and dislikes. In many ways, you sometimes know more about your coworkers than you know about your loved ones. Add intention—and subterfuge—and you know more than you’d probably like to know about a person. Take, for instance, that I know Rafael has nine levels of anger and gets a pain in his knee when it rains. Would I ever confess to having this knowledge? No. Not even on my deathbed.
Which is why meeting his family and learning more about this other side of him is alluring. It’s the reason I seek out Rafael instead of heading far, far away from here. That, or deeply embedded vampiric compulsion leads me to the backyard, where at least ten people crowd around an outdoor table. Spanglish and laughter mingle with music from a radio. Rafael’s grandmother commands the grill with metal tongs in hand while hismother entertains two little girls—Elena and her sister Emma of the Girl Scout cookies—and their dolls. He stands between a dark-skinned man and his sister Gracie, who absently rubs her belly. The man says something, and Rafael throws back his head and laughs, deep, low, and full of joy.
The sound makes me stall, makes me swallow past a rush of warmth in my chest.
I’m sick, I remind myself. Almost dead. It’s why I’m feeling this way.
Still, I take preemptive steps to safely distance myself from Rafael and his family, circling to the back of the yard, where a lone swing sways beneath an elm tree. I press close to the tree and watch.
Rafael pulls away from his sister. His gaze connects with mine, and the warmth rushes up and down and everywhere at once. I look away, suddenly fascinated by the tire swing, and will my fever to subside. Dirty diapers. Really spoiled eggs. Old, saggy …
A squeal has me turning back to the Velas.
Rafael has an arm around his mother, and she leans into him, dwarfed in his embrace—like one of those staged photos that come with photo frames, only this is real. I’ve imagined this, the coven of Velas he returns to each night, many times. But I never came close to guessing that Rafael Vela came from …this.
Love. Laughter. Togetherness.
Everything I’ve been deprived of. Everything I’ve been starving for.
And now I’m a ravenous person staring at a feast I can’t have.
Or maybe …won’thave?
Because if we don’t figure out a way to get me back into my body soon, I don’t need a doctor to tell me my chances of going back are more brittle than my chewed-through nails. The thought stabs at the hollow spot grief has carved out in me—sharper than anything I’ve felt in a while.
I breathe past the pressure burning my throat, searching for the words of an ABBA song.
“Swing me!” a voice trills, drawing my attention away from the lyrics of “Super Trouper.” Rafael is walking toward the swing, Elena’s tiny hand tucked in his. He lifts her onto the swing, not even wasting a breath with the effort. She kicks her legs as he gives her a push, groaning dramatically.
“What did you do? Eat a hippo?” he asks.
She giggles, a soft tinkling noise. “Just the hot dog!”
“Those Chicago dogs, huh?” he huffs, smiling at me over the top of her head. I hold his gaze for exactly the length of one swing because the fondness in his gaze (the one directed at Elena) makes my chest squeeze, but this time it’s not the usual ache—it’s something else. Something that wasn’t there before the coma, something that makes me wonder what it would be like to know this side of Rafael, whose smile reaches into dimple territory and who laughs with his entire being. Who hugs like it’s the last goodbye or a long-awaited hello. Who tries food when it’s shoved into his face without thinking it’s been laced with Dulcolax. Who makes your chest feel too full and too fluttery with a gaze.
Easy.
The answer surprises me. I tear my eyes away, fighting the blush blossoming in my chest. I massage the place between my breasts to ease the fullness. Someone must be sitting on my body in the hospital room. It would explain these new symptoms.
“I’m going to have to go home soon, tornadita,” he says. The nickname makes me wonder if they have more in common than DNA.
“Aww,” she pouts, swinging her bare feet. “Why?”
He gives her another push. “I have some business to take care of.”
“Mama says you’re not working anymore.”
“Your mama talks too much,” Rafael says, deepening his voice to mock sternness, which only earns another giggle. “Now, go wash up for dinner!”
She hops off with a squeal and darts across the yard, her younger sister chasing after her. Rafael stuffs his hands into his back pockets and hangs behind. “I’ll be quick.”
