Page 86 of Dead Set on You
The lesson continues, and I stick to my corner, where I dance on my own.
But for once in areallylong time, I don’t feel quite so lonely.
Not for the first time, I think I made a mistake asking Rafael to do the bucket list. Even though I had more fun than I’ve had in a while, I’m not so sure it’s working … but it is succeeding in making me feel even more desperate to figure this out.
The lesson was far from what I imagined when I pennedtake professional dance lessons, but in the best way. There was something special about being surrounded by couples who were so wholly absorbed in one another instead of their phones and social media accounts. There was so much life in that room that for the span of sixty minutes, I felt almost alive again.
All because of Rafael, who forced me to practice along with Alma and snuck in another dance between wicked winks and secret smiles. Who roped his cousin into this whole chaotic mission to “fix” me. Who Vela’d me into tackling more of the bucket list, including beginner Spanish lessons. We covered numbers,colors, and basic greetings. He praised my pronunciation. I asked him to repeat the words where he rolls hisr’s.Tres. Miercoles. Yo quiero.
And then he left me to get takeout.
I’m sitting at his dining table, alone for the first time in days—and the quiet taunts me, giving my thoughts space to play a game of tug-of-war. Part of me can’t stop thinking about today, and the other can’t stop thinking about two days from now, when I’ll be moved to a care facility. One of the best days of my life pitted against what will arguably be one of the worst … if I even make it that long. The dull pain at the base of my skull doesn’t make me feel warm and fuzzy about my prospects, which only makes me question if the bucket list is the answer. If I’m focusing on the rightunfinished business.
The not-knowing sharpens the pain, sends it shooting down into my chest.
With a groan, I drop my head into my hands, my eyes locking in on the chaos atop Rafael’s table.
A familiar image stares up at me. The skull with the finger to its lips, the wordsLa Clandestinawritten beneath it. The logo is plastered on more of the documents on the table. Presentations. Budgets. Sketches of blueprints.
I recognize the chicken-scratch writing as Rafael’s. Squinting, I try to make sense of it. The words take shape.The Secret’s Inside. Take this secret to your grave.Taglines.
The physical pain twists into something much worse. I don’t need to scan more of the documents to know these are part of a business plan. The marketing proposal. Social media plans. Even local ad placements. I recognize the templates he’s using because they happen to be ones I created for Media Lab. This is one of Rafael’s accounts.
My headache turns dizzying.
He said he hadn’t been to work, but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t been working. I know that game; I perfected it. Working on weekends and days off, like a virus I couldn’t kick, and it looks like I wasn’t the only one infected. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t surprised. One, because Rafael doesn’t go out of his way to bring work home. And two, because he fooled me again when he said he wasn’t working.
Pre-Coma Evie would be shifting through the papers, trying to figure out if the account is up for grabs, if I can snatch it from his hands. But Coma Evie, this ghost me who has seen a different side of Rafael, who has blush-inducing, heart-stopping thoughts of his fingers trailing against my skin, caressing and lighting me on fire—well, that version of me is unsure how to feel about him hiding this.
I shouldn’t care.
Idon’tcare.
In fact, I promised to help him with Dana and the promotion when this all started, and we haven’t even talked about it. I know I should be grateful, but if Rafael hasn’t brought it up, it means he might not actually need me to help him, and while he’s not entirely wrong, it can only mean he doesn’t trust me. And if he doesn’t trust me, it can only mean nothing’s changed for him.
I feel like I’m going to be sick.
What if it’s only me feeling these strange symptoms? The pressure. The inability to stay focused and in control and in rival mode. What if this is only one sided and I’ve been spilling my guts to him while he’s been …Vela-ing me?
Oh God.
I’m a walking bundle of anxiousness when Rafael returns twelve minutes later, a plastic bag of Tham’s Thai in one hand—a very late lunch—and a six-pack of beer in the other. “What’s wrong?” he asks, his brow creasing as he sets the beers on the table and runs into the kitchen to wash his hands.
“Nothing,” I say, the tightness in my chest disagreeing. “I mean, besides the obvious.”
Rafael watches me as he returns to the dining table, shoves the papers aside, and begins to remove the food containers from the bag, enough to feed an entire family. He opens the lids, licking the sauce from his fingers as he goes. While I haven’t felt hungry in as long as I’ve been a spirit, I feel pangs for something that has nothing to do with the noodles and everything to do with the man eating them.
“Something’s bugging you.” He settles into his chair, choosing one of the containers.
“Is it?” I ask, clearing my throat. My anxiety crackles.
“You tell me.” Rafael twists a fork into his carton of pad thai and takes a bite, sighing with pleasure.
I stall my pacing, long enough to watch him lick the sauce from his lips.
“Evie?”
I mentally kick myself for getting distracted, which is precisely my problem. I’m getting distracted byhimwhen I should be getting answers.
