How to Ruin a Wedding(54)

When he finishes, I take the bottle and leave it beside him. He grips my wrist. “Why do you look sad?”

I gaze down at his fingers on me, then lean in and wrap my arms around him in a tight hug. He stiffens, then eases, pulling me closer to him. And I think of Bethany saying he just goes with the flow, makes this easy-to-like version of himself, and I wonder if even this hug is that too. Just reacting to me for my comfort. Maybe he doesn’t want to touch me at all, right now.

I pull away, and he brings his hands to my shoulders, his brows bunching. “What was that for? Was girls’ day that torturous?”

“No,” I answer, “it was perfect, and fun, and I want Bethany to adopt me.” I press my finger against his chest. “The hug was for kid Anders.”

“Excuse me?”

“You know,” I say, “if I do anything you don’t like, you can tell me. You don’t have to appease me because you think it’s the right thing to do. Tell me to leave you alone if you need to. And you should do that to anyone else too.”

He gives me a little shake. “What are you talking about?”

I think the fever is making it hard for him to keep up.

“Lie down.” I pull at his arm.

His gaze is trained on me, laser focused. Whatever he’s thinking, I have no inkling, but he shifts and does as I say. I reach into the bag, snap the tiny ice pack I got, and place it on his head.

“I’m going to make you something that I promise you can keep down,” I tell him. “Just wait here. If you fall asleep, that’s okay—I can warm it up later.”

His hand reaches for my wrist again, sliding down until he holds my palm in his clammy, hot hand. I brace myself for his opposition, but he watches me carefully again, and I wish I could figure out what’s going on in his head.

“I’ll be right back,” I promise, and he lets me go.

I bring the bag with me to the kitchen, then get to work, moving around as quietly as I can while putting the food together. Each time I use a dish or utensil, I wash it so Anders doesn’t see any mess if he slips out of the room.

I peel the yuca in my hand—no cutting board here—like I’ve done a hundred times before, the motion muscle memory from watching my mom do it when I was little. The kitchen fills slowly with the scent of sofrito sizzling in oil. I drop in the chunks of meat and vegetables and pour in water to let the sancocho stew in the pot.

My stomach keeps turning on itself as I stir the stew. I hate when people are sick. It’s always a reminder, a trigger, watching Mom hunched over the toilet or the trash or the floor when she couldn’t get to the bathroom fast enough. Watching her gave me this unreasonable anxiety—that anyone sick isn’t just sick, but finally showing symptoms of some grave disease that had been hiding within them all along.

I made myself sick countless times taking care of Taina. I never showed her, but every day her anemia gave her a bad spell or she had any kind of virus, I would spend all night taking turns watching her breathe, then vomiting in the bathroom from fear.

Of course, Anders is just sick. A fever is normal. Nobody goes through life without it. Yet my chest tightens and releases like the claw in those rigged machines at an arcade—pinching closed over and over. It’s been a while since I felt like this, but I quickly wipe away a tear when one slips, stirring the pot until it boils.

After the stew is cooked through, I pour it into a bowl and bring everything I need back to Anders. I pause at the doorway.

Now that he thinks he’s on his own, his hand is over his eyes like they’re pounding from pain, and he holds the ice pack to his neck. His lips turn down.

Anxiety gnaws at my organs.

My tiny container of medicine falls from my tray, and Anders jolts up, a strained smile on his face.

I try to do the same as I approach him. “This is sancocho,” I explain. “It’s a stew, a mix of veggies and broth. I used chicken for it—it’ll be better on your stomach. Just try a little. Don’t force yourself too much. But you do need something in you.”

He motions to take it from me, then places it on his thighs. After gathering a spoonful of broth, he brings it up to his lips.

I grip his wrist, lean down, and blow when I spot the steam rising from the spoon. When I pull away, my cheeks heating up, he doesn’t give me a funny look or call me dramatic—he just tastes it.

He sucks in a breath. I can’t tell if it’s relief for having something in his stomach or if he’s trying not to get sick. Then, he takes another spoonful, and another, until just an ounce of anxiety stops eating my insides.

The bowl is halfway empty before he says, “I think I have to take a break.”

I snatch it from him, dropping it on the tray so hard some broth splashes out and lands on my hand. I hiss, jerking away.

Anders grasps my palm, inspecting the skin. “Are you okay?” he says, filled with concern as if I’ve given myself a third-degree burn, as if he isn’t the one with glassy eyes and a head drooping on his neck.

“Yes.” I pull away, moving the tray to the bedside table, and grab my next potion.

I open the Vicks VapoRub and gather some on my finger. “Lie down?” I ask this time.

He opens his mouth, then stills when he sees whatever look of pathetic worry I have on my face, and does just that. I swipe the eucalyptus ointment on his forehead, then rub small circles at the base of his neck, moving down to the center of his chest.