Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
NINE DAYS AFTER, PART II
There are things you learn when you spend years beside someone, then across from them, but always within several feet of each other.
You learn about their habits and their quirks.
Their likes and dislikes. In many ways, you sometimes know more about your coworkers than you know about your loved ones.
Add intention—and subterfuge—and you know more than you’d probably like to know about a person.
Take, for instance, that I know Rafael has nine levels of anger and gets a pain in his knee when it rains.
Would I ever confess to having this knowledge? No. Not even on my deathbed.
Which is why meeting his family and learning more about this other side of him is alluring.
It’s the reason I seek out Rafael instead of heading far, far away from here.
That, or deeply embedded vampiric compulsion leads me to the backyard, where at least ten people crowd around an outdoor table.
Spanglish and laughter mingle with music from a radio.
Rafael’s grandmother commands the grill with metal tongs in hand while his mother entertains two little girls—Elena and her sister Emma of the Girl Scout cookies—and their dolls.
He stands between a dark-skinned man and his sister Gracie, who absently rubs her belly.
The man says something, and Rafael throws back his head and laughs, deep, low, and full of joy.
The sound makes me stall, makes me swallow past a rush of warmth in my chest.
I’m sick, I remind myself. Almost dead. It’s why I’m feeling this way.
Still, I take preemptive steps to safely distance myself from Rafael and his family, circling to the back of the yard, where a lone swing sways beneath an elm tree. I press close to the tree and watch.
Rafael pulls away from his sister. His gaze connects with mine, and the warmth rushes up and down and everywhere at once. I look away, suddenly fascinated by the tire swing, and will my fever to subside. Dirty diapers. Really spoiled eggs. Old, saggy …
A squeal has me turning back to the Velas.
Rafael has an arm around his mother, and she leans into him, dwarfed in his embrace—like one of those staged photos that come with photo frames, only this is real.
I’ve imagined this, the coven of Velas he returns to each night, many times.
But I never came close to guessing that Rafael Vela came from … this.
Love. Laughter. Togetherness.
Everything I’ve been deprived of. Everything I’ve been starving for.
And now I’m a ravenous person staring at a feast I can’t have.
Or maybe … won’t have?
Because if we don’t figure out a way to get me back into my body soon, I don’t need a doctor to tell me my chances of going back are more brittle than my chewed-through nails. The thought stabs at the hollow spot grief has carved out in me—sharper than anything I’ve felt in a while.
I breathe past the pressure burning my throat, searching for the words of an ABBA song.
“Swing me!” a voice trills, drawing my attention away from the lyrics of “Super Trouper.” Rafael is walking toward the swing, Elena’s tiny hand tucked in his. He lifts her onto the swing, not even wasting a breath with the effort. She kicks her legs as he gives her a push, groaning dramatically.
“What did you do? Eat a hippo?” he asks.
She giggles, a soft tinkling noise. “Just the hot dog!”
“Those Chicago dogs, huh?” he huffs, smiling at me over the top of her head.
I hold his gaze for exactly the length of one swing because the fondness in his gaze (the one directed at Elena) makes my chest squeeze, but this time it’s not the usual ache—it’s something else.
Something that wasn’t there before the coma, something that makes me wonder what it would be like to know this side of Rafael, whose smile reaches into dimple territory and who laughs with his entire being.
Who hugs like it’s the last goodbye or a long-awaited hello.
Who tries food when it’s shoved into his face without thinking it’s been laced with Dulcolax.
Who makes your chest feel too full and too fluttery with a gaze.
Easy.
The answer surprises me. I tear my eyes away, fighting the blush blossoming in my chest. I massage the place between my breasts to ease the fullness. Someone must be sitting on my body in the hospital room. It would explain these new symptoms.
“I’m going to have to go home soon, tornadita,” he says. The nickname makes me wonder if they have more in common than DNA.
“Aww,” she pouts, swinging her bare feet. “Why?”
He gives her another push. “I have some business to take care of.”
“Mama says you’re not working anymore.”
“Your mama talks too much,” Rafael says, deepening his voice to mock sternness, which only earns another giggle. “Now, go wash up for dinner!”
She hops off with a squeal and darts across the yard, her younger sister chasing after her. Rafael stuffs his hands into his back pockets and hangs behind. “I’ll be quick.”
“You and food? Quick?” I roll my eyes. “Sure.”
“One serving only.” He pats his belly—which is mostly muscle—and winks. Another wave of warmth flushes through me because I’m nothing but plasma that’s clearly lost its ability to process normal emotions.
Lucky for me, he’s already walking toward his family.
I can’t help but watch the Velas as they move in coordinated synchrony, passing around plates loaded with food. Toasting with wine and tequila.
I lean in to listen, but there’s too much chatter and lots of it in Spanish. It’s what I get for never getting to bucket list item #8 in all these years: Learn Spanish. Would have helped. Especially behind enemy lines.
Rafael looks this way, flashing a smile.
My brain glitches, and I skip a breath (or several).
I need to make myself scarce. I shouldn’t be here, for lots of reasons.
Mostly, they don’t need my Evie energy around them, not on his niece’s birthday, not around his sister who’s hoping for a baby, and certainly not around his grandmother with the prayers tucked into her heart.
I decide to wait for Rafael in the front yard, watching fireflies dance in the dark. Crickets chirp. A breeze makes the leaves sing. And oh, what I wouldn’t do to feel it.
Even pray.
I peer up at the clear sky. If you’re up there, send help.
It’s not God who shows up.
I feel Rafael before I hear him.
“Hey,” he says from the doorway. The wood creaks beneath his weight as he joins me on the stairs. “Everything okay? You disappeared.”
“Part of my ghostly prowess,” I say, my gaze wandering in his direction. Somehow Rafael looks better now than he did this morning—and it does the opposite of convincing me he isn’t a vampire. The charm. The Vela-ing. The ability to do things to my blood. The theory has merit.
Rafael grins, leaning his elbows on his arms. “We can be a little much,” he says, watching the fireflies. The breeze catches his hair, musses it and moves on. “Sorry.”
I’m glad it’s too dark for him to see my shock.
Must be the way he says sorry, or the fact that he’s said it at all, that stuns me.
Are there countless things—stealing my yogurts, in addition to my accounts—that he could apologize for?
Yes, certainly. But for this? For taking me to see his grandmother, bringing me into his home and around his family, to help me?
“Don’t apologize. I was … unprepared,” I say, unable to look away even though I want to disappear. It’s hard to be honest with your enemy. It’s much harder to apologize. “I’m the one who’s sorry.”
Rafael scans my face.
I’ve never apologized, not once in all these years.
“It’s okay. I know it’s all a lot to process,” he says, without a trace of sarcasm. Like he’s also testing out the reluctant partners thing to see how it works.
Feeling strange without our weapons at each other’s throats, I shake my head. “You have no idea, Raffy Taffy … or is it Raffi now?”
A grin splits one side of his face, and The Dimple makes a brief cameo. “Only if you want me to inform the Oak Ridge Country Club there isn’t a Mr. Pope.”
I gawk at him, mouth open. “You know about that?”
“You basically stole my spot.”
I bite the insides of my cheeks to keep from giving myself away.
I may have pulled some strings at the ORCC and had Rafael Vela’s name swapped to Thomas and Evie Pope.
I don’t care much for golfing, but the number of CEOs and business owners at the club were enough to make the membership—and its steep cost—worth it.
Taking Rafael’s spot was the incentive I needed.
“Your name disappeared from the wait list,” I say innocently.
“Like my truck disappeared from my parking spot?”
“I plead the Fifth.”
“Can’t say I haven’t entertained repainting your apartment while you’re away.”
I press a hand against my heart. “You wouldn’t dare.”
His gaze turns positively wicked. “Rafael wouldn’t dare. Raffi is a different beast.”
“I’m surprised you’re still single.”
“Who says I am?”
I ignore the challenge in his eyes and the ridiculous tightening in my chest, and I hold up one finger. “For one, your atrocious driving skills.” Another finger pops up. “Your irrational obsession with carbs.” Then another. “The Violets of the world.”
“Only one Violet.” Rafael pointedly waggles one finger. “And you forgot attempted murder.”
A snortle croaks out of me before I can stop it. We both freeze. Rafael stares at me as if I’ve sprouted horns.
I clear my throat, refusing to acknowledge the last few seconds. “I didn’t forget. Just trying to abide by your conditions, that’s all.” I shrug. “The third one is proving especially difficult,” I drawl, giving Rafael a chance to forget he made me laugh and a chance to remember The Conditions?.
He leans back, resting his elbows on the stairs, mouth curling into a sly grin. “I am lovable, aren’t I?”
“In the way serial killers are lovable …”