Page 51 of Dead Set on You
I need to look away from him, because I don’t want him to see it. The pressure expands, painfully pressing against my lungs. I have no other friends or loved ones. Acquaintances and work colleagues, yes, but no one else who would have stories to share. I hadn’t had time for anyone else. And I most certainly had no time for boyfriends. Not that I didn’t try.
There was Chip, who was a literature professor at the University of Chicago. We’d met at an alumni event, one I’d attended for networking. Chip was suave and sharp and could type a grammatically correct, well-punctuated sentence, even when texting. He and I lasted all of a semester, until I discovered he was the weekend extrovert to my introvert. He preferred cocktail lounges and whiskey, and I was more of astay in, drink tea, and workkind of girl.
Then there was Theo, the sexy-AF French chef I’d met through Gemma and who, one night, over his signature coq au vin, declared he was moving back to Paris. He didn’t ask me to go with him. But he did ask me to stay for dessert.
Most recently, I dated Trevor Rhodes, a professional basketball player, and while he’d been nothing but a gentleman on our dates, we both loved our jobs more than we’d ever liked each other. There simply wasn’t space or time for a man. I had other priorities. Succeeding at work. Thwarting Rafael. Getting ahead.
“If it didn’t work with Gemma, it won’t work with anyone else,” I tell Rafael, ensuring my tone communicates I don’t want to talk about it further. “Did Dr. Wagner say anything else? Maybe something about other cases?” Yes. Other cases. “I can’t be the only person who’s ever been in a coma.”
Rafael leans forward, his tanned hands splayed against the wood table. “Other cases …” he says, more to himself than me. His brows shoot up. “Shit! I can’t believe I didn’t think of it before.”
“What?” I hedge, careful not to get too excited.
“I had an aunt in a coma.”
“Oh.” It’s not what I expected, and I’m not sure what to say. “I’m … sorry to hear that. Did she …?”
Rafael frowns. “She didn’t die, E. She had a long life. Lives down in Florida. She has—”
“Rafael.” I barely manage to keep my impatience in check. “The point?”
“The point is that she made it out of the coma, and I happen to know the person who made it happen.” I arch an eyebrow, needing him to speed things along. He smiles. “My abuela.”
CHAPTER THIRTEENNINE DAYS AFTER
Rafael’s grandmother’s house is a quaint redbrick bungalow in Melrose Park, surrounded by a tidy yard. A kid’s bike leans against the side of the house, and boisterous voices echo from somewhere in the backyard. I stall in the driveaway, standing beside Rafael’s car, which seems like a much more desirable option than his grandmother’s house. It’s saying a lot, given I’m still breathing through waves of nausea from the thirty-five-minute drive here.
“There arepeoplehere?” I ask in disbelief, my eyes boring into the back of Rafael’s head.
Rafael halts at the door, crooking an eyebrow in question. “As opposed to goblins?”
“Very funny.”
His gaze turns challenging. “Scared?”
Yes, a little bit. I can’t face his family when I can barely handleoneVela. But it’s not the number of Velas that’s got me wishing I’d let him come on his own. It’s the fact that I don’t dothis. I don’t do families and whatever’s happening to make them sound sohappy.
“Petrified,” I respond with sarcasm.
“You can’t be—”
“Tío Raffi!” A voice shrieks from the other side of the screen door, which is whipped open. Tiny arms wrap around Rafael’s waist, followed by tiny giggles. When he turns away, I catch sight of two pigtails and a hot-pink dress with purple unicorns. The little girl’s body is protectively enveloped by his, and this is one of those moments where most women would be sampling their first name withVela. Lucky for me, I’m not most women.
“Come on!” She tugs him through the screen door, and Rafael throws me one last gaze that saysShe’s terrifying, isn’t she?before he disappears inside after the mini-Vela. The screen door squeals shut, and he doesn’t see me flipping him off.
This isfine.
Rafael can talk to his grandmother for me. It’s not like I can do anything anyway. I’d probably be watching her ruffle Rafael’s hair and stuff his cheeks full of churros. And while that sounds like a good time, I have no business going in there with his family, people who love and care for him when I barely trust him. It was stupid to even think—
“Coming?” Rafael’s question startles me.
I half yelp as I whip toward him.
He’s leaning against the screen door, smirking wide enough his dimple flashes, and I wonder what it’ll take to finish the job already becausenotexisting is starting to sound really, really good. “Or do you need more time to practice that rendition of ‘Dancing Queen’?”
Embarrassment flushes my face.
I hadn’t even realized I was singing. It’s like I’m advancing through levels of mortification when it comes to all things Evie vs. Rafael, and I’ve unlocked a new level.
