Page 96 of Dead Set on You
“I’m not waiting in here,” I say as Rafael turns off the engine.
“Even with Owen guarding the door there?” Smirking, he gestures to the security guard.
Before I can respond, Lupe taps on the window, startling both of us. “Let’s go!” she commands impatiently, peering into the truck and hooking her finger toward the door.
“I hope the building’s on fire,” Rafael grumbles, pushing open the door. I exit the truck and follow after them, staying close to their heels as they walk past Owen into the building and down the dimly lit hallway.
Rafael walks beside me, irritation pulsing off of him. “And here I thought you didn’t have ‘rough’ days,” I say, attempting my best Vela-esque smile. His frown smooths out, but I can tell he’s still annoyed about whatever his cousin wants.
“She can be a real pain in my ass,” he mutters as we turn the corner into the bar.
Lupe stops abruptly, earning another curse from Rafael. She grins and flips a switch.
Lights flicker to life.
“SURPRISE!”
I startle, squeaking as the shouts wash over us.
A group of people manifest from the shadows, blowing on colorful horns and waving shiny streamers. Some wear cone hats withHAPPY BIRTHDAYwritten across them. Silver and white balloons dance atop the ceiling.
“Shit,” Rafael mumbles, clutching his chest.
Lupe throws her arms around his shoulder with a laugh. “¡Feliz cumpleaños, primo!” Eyes bright, she squeezes him, and he tucks her beneath the crook of his arm. “I know you’re on a mission that’slife and death, but I figured a couple hours of celebratinglifewon’t hurt.”
“I really hate you.” He plants a kiss on her cheek. Lupe playfully shoves him away as a rowdy group of people move in on Rafael from all directions. Their eager voices become muffled as music starts, getting louder and louder. Other bodies begin to move throughout the bar, waitstaff bearing food-laden trays and guests boasting gifts and bottles.
It’s his birthday. June 18. A date on which I religiously made it a point to send gifts one might buy for (very) old family members: a yearly subscription toSenior Living Magazine, boxes of Poligrip, and on occasion, adult diapers. I’ve been so distracted I haven’t paid attention to the dates. They’ve bled into one another, and now it’s mid-June. The unexpected—and potent—surge of panic makes me stumble.
Blinking it away, I force myself to focus on the birthday boy. People swarm him, hugging and kissing. He fields at least a dozen people’s well wishes before he’s ushered to the bar and given a shot of tequila, followed by another and another.
Many are strangers, but I recognize two of Rafael’s sisters, who join him—Gloria, the oldest, and Graciela, the pregnant one. Another one, who looks like the female version of Rafael, squeezes between them and wraps her arm around his waist. Gianna, the youngest Vela sibling. I know her from his lock screen photo—and the ones at his abuela’s house. Rafael beams as he talks animatedly to her.
Beside her, Rafael’s best friend, Harry Hughes, whom I met every time he popped in to take Rafael to lunch, sips on a drink. He’s Rafael’s foil in every way, rugged and blond and very Australian. Harry’s a head taller than Rafael, and while he looks like a long-lost Hemsworth brother, Harry’s shy, reserved, and not at all into women.
Rafael and Harry laugh at something Gianna says. The lights dim further, the music gets louder, and the drinks flow freely.
And I soak it all in.
I don’t need flesh and bones to feel the Vela effect. It’s around me. In smiles and laughter. In hugs and comforting touches. And it draws me from my shadowy corner, steering around people dancing as a DJ spins from a booth. Strobe lights move in rhythm to the music. Waitstaff pass around trays of appetizers—mini assorted tacos, ceviche, pastries. Another waiter serves drinks with skeleton bones as stir sticks.
I move closer, gravitating toward Rafael, needing to know what’s making him seem like he’s been lit up from the inside, so unlike the Rafael I saw when I woke up on his sofa days ago. It tugs me toward him, like mind compulsion.
Pieces of conversations make me slow and lean in.
“The vision really came to life!”
“The food—best I’ve had.”
“Anything he touches is gold.”
Eyeing an empty place around the circular bar, I plant myself on the side opposite Rafael and his squad. He catches my gaze, smiles—deep enough The Dimple says hola—and winks beforehe leans across the bar to talk to Lupe, who is in full bartender mode.
She sashays behind the counter, clad in leather shorts and a black tee, shouting over the music to another bartender. I should go home, or better yet, go back to the hospital and force this plasma back into the body until it sticks.
But I stay. Because I’m curious about Rafael’s life in ways I can’t explain. I want to be a part of his day without waiting for him to unwrap a year’s supply of Just for Men because of the sick joy it brought me. I want to be here with him and his people, wearing a sexy dress and stealing his time and attention. I imagine finding a quiet moment, wrapping my arms around him, and breathing him in. I’d curl my fingers into his unfairly thick hair and rise up on my toes to whisperHappy birthdayin his ear before letting someone else take my spot. We’d separate, reluctant to let go, but with the promise of more.
Daydreams and wishful thinking are going to be my actual demise. They knife into parts of me I didn’t know existed—namely, the fullness in my chest that continues to take up real estate.
