Page 89 of Dead Set on You
“Yes?” I whisper, retreating a step, needing a moment to collect myself.
Rafael’s gaze scans me with concern. “Are you sure you’re okay? Because we can put this all on hold if it’s making it worse.”
I’m not sure what “this” is for him, but for me it’s becoming the inability to stop the inevitable, to slow time so I can separate my daydreams of Rafael and his hands from the ones where I should be doing everything possible to get my spirit back into my body—before I’m moved to the care facility, before it’s too late to do anything, before I can’t go back to my life.
And I need to get it together, because somethingishappening. The pain. The dizziness. The incessant pounding in my head. It’s worsening by the day, and it scares me.
“I’m fine, I promise.” I force a small smile with the lie.
“Fine enough you can tackle more of the bucket list?”
I nod, because the bucket list means taking action, trying to figure this out. “If you’re up for it, I’ve always wanted to learn how to cook but haven’t had time for it. I physically can’t do many things on the list, but I think … I think that would be fun,” I say, a little uncertain about admitting another weakness. Most adults know how to cook … or rather, most adults who haven’t spent their time chasing clients and promotions would have found the time to learn.
Rafael grins like it’s Christmas. “Cooking?”
“Yes.”
“Anything specific in mind?”
“Anything you’re really good at?”
His grin turns wicked. “No Vela would speak this out loud, but we all know that my cooking is second only to Abuela’s.”
I feign surprise, because I knew this already. “You don’t say.”
He rubs the back of his neck, his shirt lifting, revealing a strip of tanned skin beneath.
Catching on fire, I snap my attention to his face—his stupidly handsome face that doesn’t lessen the temperature.
“I mean, my primo Jorge Luis thinks he’s really the best chef in the family, but that’s because he hasn’t tried my pozole rojo,” Rafael says.
“Pozole rojo?”
“Don’t tell me you haven’t had it.”
“I haven’t even heard of it.”
Rafael’s eyes bulge dramatically. “Damn, E. You’ve sat beside me for years and haven’t realized it’s only one of my favorite Mexican dishes?” He shakes his head. “Slacking.”
I snort. “I actually worked. I wasn’t only planning your demise.”
Nowhesnorts. “Tell yourself that.”
“You’re delusional.”
“I think you mean delectable.”
The denial catches in my throat.
He’s not wrong.
“Tell yourself that,” I say, already walking toward the door and outside (really hoping I’ll find my senses along the way). “Also, you might want to get that.” I gesture toward his phone, which has buzzed and dinged for as long as I’ve been awake.
“Like with most dishes, making good pozole rojo is all about the ingredients,” Rafael says, pushing a shopping cart down the aisle of Mexico Lindo Supermercado, a quaint Latin produce store a few blocks from his apartment. “Hominy and pork are the main characters, but I like to focus on the side characters.”
“Hmmm. Tell me more, oh master chef.” I walk beside him, abandoning my self-imposed task of trying to decipher the contents of containers lining the walls only to discover Rafael’s attention is entirely elsewhere.
“The trick to making itdelectableis in the chilis.” His eyes scan a dried- and pickled-veggie-laden shelf as his finger runs along the packages of dried peppers. Muttering beneath his breath, he slows over a package and holds it up to me. “Ancho chilis.” He tosses it into the cart. We move along the aisle. “Guajillo chilis … and …” He holds up another package of peppers. “Since I know you like a little extra kick: chiles de arbol.”
