"Christina," Doc says as he points at me. "What happened to you?"
It's only when I look down and see I'm clutching my side do I register the bruising pain. I guess I was too stunned to notice earlier, but my side aches.
"I-I don't know," I mumble, though I remember exactly what happened.
Mom spins me around and lifts my T-shirt. She gasps at the big red bulls-eye that is already starting to bruise.
Instinctively, I pull my shirt down and pull up on the drawstring of my pajama pants.
"Mija." Andrés's eyes widen. "Did I do that to you?"
My eyes well up with tears at the horrified expression on his face. As if the guilt from his best-friend's death in Afghanistan isn't enough of a burden, now he's got to live with this?
My throat constricts as I slowly nod. "You didn't mean to."
Andrés covers his face with his hands and sags against the headboard. "What have I done?"
"It was an accident, baby. It's not your fault." I climb back into bed and try to pry his hands from his face, but he jerks away.
"I'm a danger to you."
The dark, hollow sound of his voice frightens me. "No, you're not," I cry. "You love me and I love you. We'll get through this."
But Andrés doesn't say a word as he turns back to Doc. "Did I hurt the baby?"
"Let me take a look at it." Doc walks over to my side of the bed.
"We're fine," I snap.
I let out an exasperated breath at the shock in his eyes. I didn't mean to snap at my stepdad, but this is all too much. I don't want my parents making a big deal out of this. Andrés feels bad enough already.
I wince when Doc lifts my shirt and feels my ribcage.
"These are your ribs," Doc says as he runs a hand across my sore spot. "The baby is all the way down there." He points to my stomach and then looks at Andrés with a reassuring smile.
Damn, it hurts. It takes all of my willpower not to slap Doc's hand away.
"So the baby is fine?" I ask Doc.
He nods, and I yelp as he presses against my ribs again.
"Bruised but not broken," he says.
I turn away at the look of pity in his gaze. I want to tell him he's wrong. Very wrong. Because my fiancé is not well, and my heart feels like it's shattered into a million pieces.
Chapter Five
Christina
I head downstairs as soon as I wake up. Luckily, the room isn't tilted anymore. In fact, I'm feeling a lot stronger, other than the growing hunger in my gut and the aching pain in my side. I hurry to the kitchen and pour a cup of coffee, not for me, but for Andrés. That's when I notice the decorations. They're everywhere. Ornaments and pinecones, wreaths and mistletoe. It looks like Hobby Lobby exploded all over my mom's kitchen. A tiny stereo sits by the kitchen sink, blaring Trans-Siberian Orchestra music. It's kind of an odd feeling being in such a festive home, and I realize this is what my holidays would have been like had I been raised by my real mom. If only.
Andrés and I have one tiny tree on an end-table in the living room. A shame, really, considering I'm supposed to be going into the party decorating business. The Cobra never decorated our house for the holidays, except for a solitary white tree, empty cartons of eggnog, and bottles of Southern Comfort. And she certainly didn't listen to Christmas music.
I carry Andrés's coffee into the living room. The rest of the house is decorated with wreaths and ornaments, too, and at the far end of the living room is a tree so tall, I wonder how my parents fit it through the front door. Even from across the room, I can smell the fresh scent of pine. The tree's all aglow in whites, golds, and reds, and something about it warms my heart. It reminds me of Christmases at Karri's house, though on a much grander scale.
Then warm fuzzies in my heart shrivel up at the sight of Andrés lying across the sofa at an awkward angle. His legs are too long, so his feet are propped up on the armrest and his head is scrunched at the other end.
He shifts around, so I sit next to him and set the steaming mug on the coffee table. "Good morning, baby." I hope he doesn't notice my smile is forced. I hope he can't tell I spent half the night crying over him. After my parents left our room, Andrés took his pillow and a spare blanket, mumbling something about not wanting to hurt me again, and he left me. In the seven months we've been dating, I haven't slept without him, other than last month when we'd broken up for a week. I missed him last night. I missed snuggling into his warm body. I missed the way he kisses my neck and tells me "good morning." I hate that he felt we needed to sleep apart.
Andrés looks up at me and flashes a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Good morning, mija."