Say Forever(15)

"I like Mexican food," I say, but this wave of dizziness makes me say it with less conviction than I'd intended.

"It's a special occasion food," Mom says matter-of-factly, as if it's a perfectly natural thing to serve vomit -hors d'oeuvres at my wedding.

I close my eyes and try to imagine Andrés eating shrimp puffs and little mints. I try to imagine him sipping champagne and dipping strawberries in a chocolate fountain. But the only image that comes to mind is Andrés drinking a Corona with a lime wedge. I can see him eating brisket or fajitas, but finger foods? He'd probably pile all the shrimp on to his plate and smother it in hot sauce.

"Shouldn't our special occasion be filled with food we like?" That wave of dizziness turns into a hammer, pounding a nail right in the center of my forehead. Ugh. I lay back and look at my mom with eyes half-open. Can't she see I'm in no mood to discuss seafood pastries? Whoever thought it would be a good idea to combine the two, anyway? What's next, the anchovy doughnut?

"What would you rather serve your guests, a tamale or a shrimp puff?" she asks me haughtily, which is not a good thing. I'm having Spitting Cobra déjà vu.

"My guests?" I ask through a groan. "It's mostly going to be Andrés's family and you guys, Grace and Violet, and a few sorority sisters. I'm pretty sure they all like tamales."

Mom leans in and clasps my hands. She stares at me with watery eyes. Great. I hate watching people cry, especially her.

"Christina," she says with a shaky voice, "you're my only daughter. My only. All these years we spent apart, all the milestones I missed. Let me make it up to you. Let me throw you a lavish wedding."

"Mom, I—"

She holds up a silencing palm. "I want to do this for you. I'll pay for everything. We'll fly to New York and have your dress made. I know some of the top designers." She smiles at that, as if I'd be happy to travel anywhere other than to the bathroom and back.

I sink back into my pillow as that nail in my forehead twists and turns. The sharp ache is so severe, it sends another wave of nausea straight to my empty gut. I hate being pregnant. Why did I even bother waking up? I wish there was some way I could sleep through the next eight months.

I'm not in the mood to argue, so I nod my assent and close my eyes. She can serve the shrimp puffs. I'll probably be too sick to eat anything, anyway.


***


I'm resigned to lying in bed the rest of the day, doctor's (aka, my stepdad's) orders. Luckily, my stepdad was an ER doctor for several years before he became a pediatrician, and he's had experience dealing with severe morning sickness. He made me ginger tea and gave me motion sickness bracelets, which seem to be working, because the room has only a slight tilt now. It sucks not being able to do anything, but Andrés and I pass the time playing poker. Too bad strip poker is out of the question, but I'm too queasy to think about anything sexual right now.

I stare down at my hand, hoping a pair of sevens beats whatever Andrés is holding. I peer at him over my cards, and the guy's face is totally unreadable. I'm usually pretty good at gauging his moods, but not when it comes to cards.

Oh, well. What's a few more chips added to Andrés's growing pile? "My mom wants us to have a different kind of wedding." I almost quote her by saying, "real wedding" but I know Andrés would be insulted. Truthfully, I was offended when my mom said it, but I don't think she meant to come off that way.

"Is that what you want?" he asks, keeping his eyes on his cards.

I heave a sigh. "I don't know. I was kind of looking forward to tamales."

"Tell her."

"I can't. She says she's been dreaming of this day."

Andrés looks up, and I think I see a flash of anger beneath the surface of his dark gaze. "This is your day."

My day? Why does that bother me? Doesn't he feel like part of this wedding? "This is our day, Andrés." And then I recall my mom telling me Andrés had been sulking earlier. Is he feeling rushed? Does he feel obligated to marry me now that I'm pregnant? I know he said he wanted kids, but is this baby too soon for him? I lean forward and grasp his forearm. "Are you sure you still want to do this?"

Andrés sets down his cards and cups my face in his hand. "I've never been more sure of anything in all my life."

As tempted as I am to get lost in his seductive smile and those large, Spanish eyes, I can't seem to turn off that nagging voice in the back of my head.

"No second thoughts?"

Andrés drops his hand. "None. You?" His face is a mask of stone again, except for the expression in his eyes, so intense, I feel compelled to look away.