Say Forever(14)

I wake up with a splitting headache and a throat that feels like sandpaper. I struggle to sit up against the headboard, heaving a sigh of relief when I open my eyes and the room is no longer spinning. It's at an odd tilt, though, and I get the feeling I'm in one of those crazy fun houses with floors at awkward angles. I know one side of my mom's home didn't sink into the ground while I was asleep. Oh, well. A tilted room is better than a spinning room.

I grab a glass of water off the nightstand, swearing as I slosh about half of it all over the bed. I spill more down my neck as I miss my mouth on the first few tries.

Damn. Losing my equilibrium sucks.

I finally manage to down what's left in the glass. The cool water is amazingly refreshing, soothing the burn in the back of my throat.

Vomiting blueberry pancakes sucks, too.

My arm feels like a runaway crane as I wave the empty glass awkwardly toward the table. I swear when the glass misses and falls to the floor with a thud. Luckily, I don't hear it break.

I close my eyes and lean back into my pillow. I groan at the pain in my head, as if a monster earthquake has cracked a chasm in my skull.

Could this really be morning sickness? Really? I don't remember it being this bad with Karri. Then again, she'd probably been too hopped up on drugs to notice.

A few seconds later, I hear a gentle tapping on the door.

"Feeling better?"

I open one eye and then the other. Mom is picking the empty glass up off the carpet. She's still in her pajamas, so I figure it must be morning. Her auburn hair is pulled back in a messy bun, and her eyeliner is slightly smudged. Doesn't matter, though. She's still beautiful. Her cheeks have that youthful flush and her green eyes are big and gorgeous with or without makeup. I hope I look this good when I'm thirty-nine.

I flash a weak smile. "The room's not spinning so much."

"I remember morning sickness." Mom leans down and pats my hand. "It wasn't so bad with you, but with the boys it was terrible."

I gape at her for a long moment. Shit. She already knows I'm pregnant. Then again, how could she not know when I'm a barfing mess? I was hoping I could break it to her some other way.

"You forgot your pills at my house, remember?" Mom says as if answering my thoughts. "You show up three weeks later sick with a sulking fiancé."

"Sulking?" I struggle to sit up on my elbows. "He's sulking? Where is he? "

Mom pulls up a chair and sits down beside me. "Downstairs with Doc."

Oh, great. I wonder how Andrés has been dealing with my mom and stepdad. Doc is a sweet guy, but I can imagine him and my mom giving Andrés a lecture. I wonder if they are the reason Andrés was sulking, or maybe the reality of me being pregnant has finally sunk in. I've had three weeks to stress over this. He just found out this morning.

"Is he still sulking?" I ask, almost afraid to know the answer.

Mom heaves a sigh, and then eyes me pointedly. "If either of you are having second thoughts, I need to know before I start planning this wedding."

"I'm not having second thoughts." I sit up straighter and, luckily, the room looks less tilted. "I love him, and I think we've got the wedding mostly planned." I hope my mom doesn't think I expect her to plan this wedding, especially not when Andrés wants to get married in a few weeks."We're doing it at his Tio's ranch. His aunts are going to make tamales and cake."

Her eyes widen, and she's got this expression that looks a mixture between amusement and horror. "Christina, don't you want a real wedding?"

"This would be a real wedding." I can't pretend I'm not offended by her comment. I know what she's talking about. I was raised by socialite parents, after all. My adoptive mother would have wanted me to have a grand wedding at the country club, or maybe someplace posh like Paris. She would have had a heart attack at a backyard wedding with tamales and Tejano music. But I guess I had hoped my birth mom would be different.

"No, no," she says, laughing, which makes me feel even worse. "Like a formal reception at a five star hotel with a caterer and little mints on the tables."

"Little mints?" I ask. I know the mints are small, but they are the start of something big. And big weddings take time, and money, something neither Andrés nor I have at the moment.

"And fondue and shrimp puffs," she says in the same tone Grace uses to scold her evil Chihuahua when she catches him chewing her shoes.

Ew. Fondue and shrimp puffs, something The Cobra, aka my evil adoptive mother, would want for my wedding. Fondue is okay, I guess, but I don't like shrimp unless it's in Spanish rice. I rest a hand on my stomach and groan. Just the thought of shrimp puffs makes me queasy.