He arches a brow, eyeing me with a smirk. "Do you think I'm going to let you work around paint fumes?"
"I'll stop if I feel sick." I walk to the counter, so he doesn't see I don't feel well right now. I belch into my fist. Yuk. It tastes like vomit. I grab my cup of coffee off the counter and take a sip. Mmmm. Hazelnut. The warm, sweet liquid masks the nasty taste in my mouth and soothes my parched throat.
"And what about the baby? Those fumes aren't good for our child."
I turn on my heel, nearly spilling coffee down my shirt in the process. The room tilts, and I lean one hand against the counter for support and then close my eyes. Okay, note to self: no sudden movements while pregnant.
"Mija, you can't paint cars anymore."
My eyes fly open. "But you need me." Even as I'm mentally berating myself for the emotion that slips into my voice, I realize he's right. Shit. The paint fumes. I had forgotten all about that. I recall all of the warning labels on the paint cans, something about "do not inhale" and "toxic to the developing fetus."
Hopelessness washes over me as I slouch against the counter. I feel so bad letting him down. I know the new artists aren't dependable.
My eyes water, and I can't help the tears that spill over.
What the fuck, hormones? Leave me alone already!
Andrés comes up to me and wipes my tears with the pad of his thumb. I read the pity in his soft gaze.
This sucks.
"What am I supposed to do all day?" I ask through a sniffle.
"You've got a lot to do, mija. Start with calling your doctor."
I check the microwave clock. It's already seven-thirty. Her office should be taking appointments in a half hour. Doctor Brewer has been my GYN for the past three years. She's the only doctor I trust. Unfortunately, she's also in high demand. I'll be lucky if I can see her this week.
Andrés motions to the spread on the kitchen table. "I made you breakfast."
He leads me by the elbow to the table and pulls out a seat. After I sit down, he puts my coffee and plate in front of me.
I narrow my gaze at the meat strips that look more like processed cardboard than bacon. It doesn't smell like bacon, either. I fan my nose and push the plate away. Whatever this crap is, I think it's gone sour.
"What is that?"
"Turkey bacon. This is a healthy breakfast." Andrés picks up a strip and takes a bite. "Mmmm." He frowns, and I can tell he wants to spit it out, but then he chases it down with a large swallow of coffee. He's so not fooling me.
I scowl down at the little plastic cup of pink goo by my napkin. Yogurt. Ugh. What happened to eggs and pico de gallo? Surely chicken protein and vegetables isn't unhealthy. "I don't like yogurt," I say as I push the cup toward Andrés.
He picks it up and sets it back down in front of me. Then he sprinkles some brown crap that looks like granola on top of it.
"It's got calcium, mija. Our baby needs it." He bats his thick lashes and looks at me with sad, dark eyes.
Damn. I know I can't refuse him.
I sigh as I pick up a spoon. I wonder if Andrés realizes how much sugar is in this crap. I try not to concentrate on the taste of strawberry and cinnamon overload as I swallow a spoonful and wash it back with a gulp of coffee.
"Easy on the coffee," he says. "You only get one cup a day."
I clench the handle while eyeing him over the rim of the cup. Sadly, it doesn't look like he's kidding.
One cup! How will I have enough energy to get through the day? I'll be napping by noon.
Oh, well. I heave a sigh as I sink into my chair. I don't have a job at the moment, so I guess I'm free to take a nap. I stifle a yawn as this feeling of fatigue washes over me. Why did I even bother getting out of bed?
Andrés is already tapping on his phone. His workday has officially begun. He'll be texting and emailing his assistant managers the rest of the day and even during dinner.
I mentally make a list of things I can do. I don't have any wedding planning until I hear back from my mom. I guess maybe I can paint at home. I've got a few blank canvases, and I've been dying to paint portraits of my brothers.
I groan when I think about what's in those paints. Unless I get the cheap, kiddy finger crap, I doubt I'll be doing any painting for a while.
I sink even lower in my seat as I absently swallow a spoonful of the yogurt granola crap.
That's when it hits me. My life isn't mine anymore.
***
Looks like I don't have time for that nap after all. After calling my doctor's office and finding out she can't see me for another two weeks, I was contemplating going back to bed. I was feeling so exhausted after only one cup of coffee, I had to drag myself out of the house when my mom called. She's already hired a wedding planner, and we're meeting at a posh lakefront restaurant.