Say Forever(12)

"Your Uncle Arturo is the baker, right?"

"Yeah. He owns restaurants and a bakery in San Antonio." He nods as his eyes light up. "He makes the cakes for all our parties."

I smile. I remember his uncle's cakes. He made this amazing chocolate layer cake for Tio's sixtieth birthday party. It had whipped, creamy frosting and a gooey, fudgy center.

"I love his cakes." I rub my hands together and lick my lips. "What about that triple chocolate thing?"

He leans forward, and there's this intense look in his gaze, like he's about to reveal something top secret. "You should try his red velvet."

My mouth falls open, and I gape at him for a long moment. Red velvet is my most favorite cake of all time. Just the thought of it and my mouth waters.

"You really are my soul mate," I squeal, reaching for his hands.

He smiles and squeezes back. "We still need to set a date." Then he taps on his iPad and shows me the calendar. He's got January fourth open. January fourth!

I gasp and pull back. "That's two weeks to find a dress and come up with a theme. Are you crazy?"

He flashes a sideways grin. "That way you don't have time to change your mind."

"You're funny." I laugh and roll my eyes. As if I'd want to change my mind. "Let's tell our families first, and then we'll come up with a date."

"Who first?"

"My mom's expecting us. We can tell her tonight and your family tomorrow."

I should feel a sense of relief when Andrés nods in agreement. We're actually going to get married. We're planning the celebration and setting the date. But as a strange unease settles in the pit of my stomach, I feel anything but relieved. I already know Andrés's family will be overjoyed when they find out we're getting married. They've been bugging us to settle down and have kids, anyway.

But what about my mom? Weird, because even though I met my birth mom a few weeks ago, I feel as if I've known her a lifetime. Despite the fact that she was forced to give me up for adoption when she was a teen, we've grown close over the past few weeks. I wonder what she'll say about Andrés and me getting married so quickly. She'll probably think we're only doing it because I'm pregnant, especially when she finds out Andrés wants to marry in two weeks. My mom's opinion means so much to me. I only hope she approves.





Chapter Three



Christina

Andrés swears he's driving safely, that he isn't going too fast around the turns, but the two hour trip to my mom's house feels like I'm stuck on Dante's roller coaster ride into hell. It takes all my willpower not to vomit all over the leather seats in Andrés's truck. I even make him stop twice because I feel like I'm unable to hold my breakfast a minute longer. Some fresh air and a few burps later, we're back on the road, and I'm sick all over again.

So this is what morning sickness feels like.

It fucking sucks.

My head is swimming by the time we pull into my mom's drive. I don't even have the strength to get out of the car. I rest my cheek on Andrés's shoulder as he carries me inside. My head is throbbing, and to make matters worse, my mom is fussing at me from behind Andrés's shoulder. He carries me to our upstairs bedroom and lays me on the bed. I curl up in a fetal ball, close my eyes and groan as a wave of nausea overpowers me. I mumble something about the annoying glare from the overhead lights, but I don't think they hear me. I groan louder and try to open just one eye, but it's like I'm stuck on a merry-go-round. I just want to the room to stop spinning. Is that too much to ask?

Mom is sitting beside me, stroking my hair, which kind of feels nice, but the misery I'm feeling trumps everything. I lean over and start to gag as bile projects into my throat. I'm vaguely aware of Andrés holding a waste-basket beneath my chin and of my mom holding my hair before I lose my breakfast.

And boy do I lose it, all of it: pancakes, eggs, a double order of bacon, and a stolen toast wedge plus two cups of coffee come racing back up, burning my throat and singeing my nostrils on the way out. I heave and heave until there's nothing left but bile, and then I heave some more.

When I'm finally finished, I lay back on the pillow and lick my parched lips. Despite the burning in my nasal passages, I can still smell the rancid stench of my own breath, a mixture of rotten blueberries and curdled cream.

I'm never eating blueberry pancakes again.

Never.

I don't know who lifts my head up and forces me to drink water, but the beverage is a welcome relief to the burning in the back of my throat. I take several sips before I lie back down. The world doesn't swim so much when my eyes are closed, so I think maybe I'll keep them closed for a little while. Maybe I'll even take a nap. For some reason, I'm exhausted.