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He’s yours, the hormones hiss. Eliminate her.
Her hand is still on his arm as he looks down at her and she gives him a saccharine smile, pointing to an item in front of his body—at a level she could easily reach if she only waited ten more fucking seconds for him to get out of the way. Like a normal shopper!
Sweat forms under my arms as my heart mercilessly pounds, but when my eyes catch on a box of condoms next to me, my plan becomes fully baked.
I’m going to walk up to him with this box and say, They don’t have the extra small condoms you like. Will these work? Then I’ll turn the box to read them like I have no other concern. Before he can answer, I’ll say, Nah, you’re right. I look over at blondie and ask, Do you work here? Do you carry extra small condoms?
But for once, my logical brain pipes up before I make my move. That’s too harsh, it tells me. Take it down a few notches.
Taking a deep breath, I calm my nerves and put on an unaffected front as I walk toward them. Raf has already handed her the bottle of whatever, and he’s smiling back at her. It’s his run-of-the-mill grin, but I know better than anyone that smile can make panties wet.
When I reach the cart, he finally sees me, but he doesn’t look the least bit unfazed. The woman’s head turns as well, and her hand immediately releases. The dress I’m wearing does a pretty good job at covering my pregnant belly, so I push it out as far as I can and rub it.
“Hey, sweetheart,” I mock the nickname from earlier but keep a neutral tone. “Are you ready?”
Blondie’s face falls and she finally backs away to an acceptable distance.
Raf nudges the cart forward, leaving the woman standing there with wide eyes, and I can tell he’s holding back a fit of laughter. “Come on, sweetheart. I think we got everything we need.”
Chapter 19
August 24th
Angie
“Where are you pulling that cheese from?” Rafael asks as he opens the back door to his moms’ house with a reusable grocery bag slung over his shoulder and carrying a ten-inch glazed fruit tart, which I plan on eating half of.
I glance at my hand then back to him. “My pocket.”
“Why do you have cheese in your pockets?”
“They were free samples. They want you to take them,” I say with a furrowed brow and follow him into the kitchen from the back deck.
His dimples dig in. “They want you to take one.”
“There’s no sign. Are you cheese-shaming me? The woman who is creating human lives—your offspring, the fruit of your loins—and you’re shaming her?”
“¿Qué pasa?” Ana admonishes her son instead of greeting him, lightly smacking him on the shoulder. She’s wearing a casual, dark brown tank dress that’s fitted nicely over her mid-size body and her long dark hair is pulled up in a styled ponytail. It’s a hot day, so once again stepping inside to glorious air conditioning is a relief.
“When someone pulls cheese from their pocket,” he says, switching to Spanish and setting the bag on the counter, “and they left home over an hour ago, I think I have the right to ask questions.”
“She’s right,” Ana says, taking me in her arms before her own son and hugging me tight. “She can eat whatever she wants. My grandchildren require a happy mother. How are you, darling? You look perfect.”
“Hungry all the time,” I sigh, breaking the embrace.
We told our families about the twins shortly after finding out, and it was like telling them we were pregnant all over again. They went berserk, but again, his father had a similar unenthused reaction, but kept a jovial tone through the conversation at least.
“Well, you’re in luck,” Christina says, walking into the room in her summer home uniform of tan cargo shorts and a gray cotton T-shirt. “We made beans and rice, and the enchiladas will be ready in ten minutes.”
My stomach churns at the thought of meat immediately. Okay, just breathe, I tell myself. You still have salad, rice and beans, fruit tart, and a few pieces of pocket cheese jangling around.
“What kind did you make?” Rafael asks, taking the salad contents out and finding the big wooden bowl in the cupboard.
“We made two: cheese with green sauce, and potatoes with mole. We weren’t sure which one you’d prefer,” Christina shrugs. “If none of that sounds good we can whip up something else,” she adds with a genuine smile.
Confusion dawns on me. “Where’s the meat?”
Ana puts the tart in the fridge and then turns her head to me with a pinch between her sculpted eyebrows. “Rafael said meat makes you sick, so we didn’t make any.”
