As soon as he sees me, he jumps up and takes the box. "Where have you been?"
I jerk back, stunned by the harshness of his tone.
"I was with Grace," I say, shocked by the way he slams the pizza box down.
He leans against the kitchen counter, folds his arms across his chest, and glares at me like I'm one of his wayward mechanics. "I've been trying to get ahold of you for the past three hours."
"Oh." I shrug as I walk past him toward the bedroom. "I turned my ringer off," I say this in the same indifferent tone I would use to choose between pepperoni or mushrooms. I've had a rough day dealing with his family's shit, and I'm not going to deal with his anger, too.
Andrés's footsteps echo behind me, and I can practically feel him breathing fire down my neck. "What if I had an emergency?"
"Did you?" I heave my weary limbs onto the bed and start removing my heeled boots, not bothering to make eye contact
"That's not the point. Tia called me freaking out." His voice rises an octave with each word. "She said you took off today upset."
"Yeah." I laugh under my breath. "Major understatement." Why am I not surprised Tia would try to drag Andrés into this? As if he doesn't have enough stress to deal with right now. I slip off my socks and wiggle my toes as pain lances up the soles of my feet all the way to my ankles.
"What the hell is going on?" Our bedroom isn't big to begin with, and Mr. Angry Ogre's booming voice shakes the cramped space around me.
I resist the urge to cover both ears with my hands. "Don't raise your voice at me," I say through clenched teeth.
Again, I remind myself he's been under a lot of stress lately. I rotate my ankles to alleviate the soreness. That's when I notice they look bigger than normal. I'm only a few weeks pregnant and my ankles are already swollen? Crap! What are they going to look like when I'm nine months? I have this sudden horrifying vision of me wobbling around with swollen kankles that resemble monster truck tires. So not good.
"You could have at least called to tell me you were okay."
Ugh. He's not giving up, is he?
"You never answer my calls when you're at work," I say dryly. I want to add something about how he's quick to answer Tia's calls, but I don't want to piss off the ogre even more.
"You could have sent a text."
"You never answer those, either."
Andrés steps into my personal space, hovering so far over me, he looks ready to topple at any moment. "I was fucking worried!"
Oh, no, he didn't just swear at me. Sore feet and swollen ankles be damned, I pull myself up and stand on the bed. Now I'm the one towering over him.
That throbbing temple above my eye swells like a raging river. I jab my finger in his chest. "And I was fucking fed up!"
Andrés's jaw drops and he takes a step back, holding out his palms in a defensive gesture. "Christina, don't get your blood pressure up. It's not good for the baby."
Really, Andrés? It's a little late to think about my blood pressure now. "Then don't upset me!"
Andrés's face falls faster than a pile of dominoes. Something about that wounded look in his eyes tugs at my heartstrings. He runs his hands over his cheeks, before flashing a sad smile. Now those heartstrings are about to snap, and I feel like a total bitch for hurting him.
"I'm sorry, mija." The rawness in his voice makes it sound like his chest has been split open. "I've had a stressful day at work and then this."
I slump back onto the bed and groan at the heavy discomfort in my feet. "You always have a stressful day at work." I lie down, thinking the pain will lessen if I elevate my feet.
"You don't know what it's like running five businesses at once." When Andrés looks down at me, his big, sad eyes remind me of a frightened child who's lost his mother.
My heart quickens, pounding out a painful staccato in my ears. I hate this. I hate knowing Andrés is dealing with stress all day and then coming home to more stress, and I fear the days ahead may not be any better. I don't even want to think about what we have to look forward to each night.
"Then quit." I drape my arm over my eyes, not just because I'm exhausted, but because I don't think I can stand to see his reaction.
I realize the significance of what I asked him to do; walk away from a thriving business and a good income. But Andrés is clearly not happy, and I don't see how we can go on with him coming home in a bad mood every day. Is this the life we have to look forward to? Because right now I'm thinking it's hardly a life at all.
"What?" he rasps, his voice barely audible above the din of my pounding heart.