Kind of Cursed Read online

  The staircase sweeps up to the second floor hallway, leaving me with six doorways to choose from. I go right. I’m not even sure why. It’s as quiet as a closet up here, but I aim for the room at the end of the hall.

  A few of the doors stand open. One is a bathroom, and another has to be Emmett’s room. There’s a stuffed snowman with a pointy head lying face-up on the ground. I think it’s the one from Frozen. My cousin Natalia’s little girl Sofie used to watch that movie on a loop. She had lots of the princess merch, but I don’t think she had the stuffed snowman. On the floor beside it are some Avenger action figures. Iron Man. Captain America. Is that Bucky Barnes?

  They make Bucky Barnes action figures?

  I’m sure Emmett will tell me all about it later. I continue down the hall. The last door is open. A pair of teal scrubs dot the floor at the foot of the bed, and a Millie-sized shape huddles under the covers.

  Even though I have food in hand and it’s hot, I don’t want to wake her. I just want to make sure she has everything she needs. I’ll go as soon as I know she’s okay. One step into the room, and I hear a jingle, and Clarence emerges from the far side of the bed.

  His growl is so low, my ears barely pick it up, but it’s enough. Grinning, I step back into the hall. So, no one sneaks into Millie’s room without the Great Pyrenees’s okay.

  Works for me.

  I’ll send Millie a text. Let her know there’s chicken tortilla soup in the fridge whenever she’s ready for it. I’m about to turn to go when Clarence jumps onto the bed and collapses beside his mistress with a huff.

  It’s not gentle. It’s not subtle, and no surprise, Millie stirs. She rolls onto her back with a deep inhale. For a split second, I consider ducking out of sight. Waking up to me standing in her doorway might freak her out. Friends or not, my place isn’t in the bedroom.

  But knowing I should go and actually making myself do it are two different things, and it turns out I suck at it.

  As if Millie knows someone’s there, her head pops up, and she squints at me. Dios mío, even though she’s pale and sick in bed, she’s so damn beautiful it hurts.

  She lets her head drop back on the pillow, but she keeps her eyes on me. “Are you a dream?”

  Not the question I was expecting.

  I chuckle. “No. You okay?” I don’t wait for her to answer, and I don’t wait for her to invite me in, or worse, send me away. I step back into the room, and now that Millie is awake and acknowledging me, Clarence seems to have no objections at all.

  I move around the far side of her bed and set the bags on her nightstand. She doesn’t even look at them. Her gaze has tracked me, and she still looks pretty confused. Her eyes are glassy, and she’s got the covers pulled tight around her like she’s freezing.

  “You okay, Millie?” I ask again because I’m not sure she even heard me the first time.

  “What time is it?” She’s frowning now, worry creasing her forehead.

  “A little after seven. You slept a couple of hours.”

  Her eyes fly open. “Oh Jesus!” She tries to sit up but only makes it onto her elbows before wincing in pain. I put a hand on her shoulder.

  “Hey. Hey. Not so fast.”

  Millie gives up, somewhere between sitting and lying, and rests the back of her head against the headboard. It looks really uncomfortable.

  “I have to get up,” she groans.

  At first I think she needs the bathroom or she’s about to be sick.

  “I’ll help you,” I offer, moving my grip to her elbow. “What do you need?”

  “It’s getting late,” she says, her voice raspy and weak. “The kids need dinner.”

  “Oh. They’re good. They had Cane’s.”

  She stills. “How? Did… Did Harry Waitr it?”

  I narrow my eyes at her. “I’m going to forgive you for that because you’re sick.”

  “What do you mean?” she asks, blinking. Then she seems to remember herself. “And I’m not sick. It’s just a cold.”

  I snort. “You’re unbelievable.” She is. In every way. Millie can’t let her guard down unless she physically collapses. Even when she does collapse, she denies it.

  It makes me want to scoop her up in my arms and pull her into my lap. Tell her she can rest her head for five minutes. Dios mío, I’ve never known anyone who tries so hard.

  “I got dinner for the kids.” Then I point to the bag on her nightstand. “Waitr got dinner for us.”

  She scoots up a little higher on the headboard for a better view. It still looks pretty uncomfortable.

  I lean over her and grab the spare pillow beside her. “Here. Let me help you.”

  A scowl crosses her face. It’s like the very notion of letting someone help her makes her testy, but I ignore it and slide one hand behind her shoulder blades to ease her up, slipping the pillow behind her with the other.

  “Do you think you could eat something?” I make a point of not asking if she’s hungry. Admitting as much might seem like weakness to her.

  Millie clears her throat, but she looks at the paper bag. Oh yeah, she’s hungry.

  “I don’t know.”

  “It’s just chicken tortilla soup,” I say, rolling a shoulder like I don’t care, “from La Pagua.”

  Her eyes widen and she sits up just a little higher. “Really?”

  I bite down on my smile. Millie is not going to come out and ask for it. Somehow I know this is as close as she’ll come to admitting she’s hungry and the soup is calling her name. I reach for the first bag and unroll the top. Grabbing the container, I feel heat seeping through the cardboard. Good. It’s still nice and hot. I hand it to her with a spoon before reaching deeper into the bag for the little wax paper pouch of tortilla strips.

  I hold it out. “Want some tortillas?”

  Millie swallows visibly and makes a face. “Maybe not just yet.” But she doesn’t hesitate to pry off the circular cardboard lid. Steam rises off the surface of the soup, and it’s tangy, savory aroma fills the room.

  “Mmm. That looks good,” she mutters, poising her spoon over the soup. But she stops before dipping it into the broth and looks up at me. Her blue eyes, still glassy and tired, are round with awe. “Thank you. I don’t know what else to say.”

  I let my smile loose. “Thank you is plenty.” I’m not doing this for her gratitude. I’m doing it for my peace of mind. Making sure she’s okay doesn’t really feel like a choice.

  Millie ladles a spoonful of chicken tortilla soup—minus the tortillas—and brings it to her mouth. She sighs, closes her eyes, and her whole body seems to melt a little as she savors the bite. I like the sight of that. So much I let myself just stare—until she swallows and wrinkles her nose in pain again.

  “It hurts a lot?” I ask, frowning,

  Shaking her head, Millie opens her eyes. “Probably just needs a little warming up. The soup will help,” she says, and then she scoops up another bite. She doesn’t wince this time, but I can tell it’s because she’s trying not to. Instead she braces for the swallow, and she may be fooling herself, but she’s not fooling me. It hurts.

  “Your throat has been hurting since last night?”

  She answers with a shrug and takes another bite. Then she nods toward the bag. “Did you get something for yourself?”

  I did, and I know she’s just trying to change the subject, but she’s eating, so I let her. “I got a soup for me and a steak milanesa, but if you want that too, you’re welcome to it.”

  “No, this is great. You should eat.”

  I wasn’t counting on being welcome to stay, but I’m not about to turn down the invite. I reach for the other bag and remove the soup container and spoon, leaving my foil-wrapped entree for later. I carefully peel off the lid, tear open the baggie of tortilla strips, and sprinkle them into the soup.

  Millie watches with unmasked longing.

  “You sure you don’t want to put a few in yours? The soup will soften them up,” I say.

  She
meets my gaze before looking back in her bowl. “I’m good.”

  Right. She’s anything but good. I’d bet the business on it. My guess is Millie has strep throat. I haven’t had it since high school, but that shit hurts like a mother. It also means she needs to see a doctor. But no reason to hassle her about that now. None of the walk-in clinics in town are open, but she’s going tomorrow if I have to carry her.

  I take a bite. “Mmm.”

  “I know, right?” she says hoarsely.

  I grin. “Good. Just not as good as Mami’s.”

  Amusement brightens her eyes. “Oh really?”

  I nod. “La Pagua is great. Don’t get me wrong,” I say, stirring the cup. “Best authentic Mexican in town. Just not as good as her cooking.”

  “What’s her best dish?” She tilts her head to the side, smiling. I think the soup might be helping a little. Some of the color has come back to her cheeks.

  “Mole poblano is my favorite,” I say, my voice coming out deeper at just the thought of Mami’s mole sauce.

  Millie blinks. “What’s that? Like guacamole?”

  I bite the inside of my cheek so I won’t laugh. “No. it’s nothing like that. It’s a sauce made with like nineteen thousand ingredients—like Indian curry, except it’s nothing like Indian curry,” I ramble, feeling an excited fire stoke up inside me as I try to explain the greatest and most complex sauce in the history of Mexico. “No two mole recipes are exactly the same, but once you taste it, you’ll know it no matter whose recipe it is. It’s made with chilies—Mami uses three different kinds. And seeds. You can use pumpkin, sesame, peanuts, almonds, anise, tomatoes, tomatillos, and about a half-pound of chocolate.”

  She goes starry eyed. “Chocolate? Is it a dessert?”

  I shake my head. “No, you pour it over meat. Mami usually makes it with roast chicken, but for Cinco de Mayo, Papi grills the chicken instead,” I explain. I want to tell her Mami will serve it with turkey on Thursday, and that she should come and try it, but I already know how she feels about that.

  “Alex likes it best with pulled pork. Kind of like a Mexican brisket.”

  “Mmm,” she moans. “That sounds amazing.” She takes another bite of soup, but I can tell just by the look on her face, it’s not as satisfying as it was five minutes ago. Not after hearing about the magical mole.

  “Mami’s an amazing cook,” I say honestly.

  She looks at me. The light in her eyes has dulled a little. Her smile fades. “Just don’t take it for granted,” she says, her voice going hollow.

  Oh shit.

  I shake my head. “Millie, I didn’t mean—”

  She holds up her spoon to stop me. “I know. It’s fine. Just…” She pushes the corners of her mouth into something that can’t even come close to a smile. “Just make her write down all her recipes and tell her how good it is every time.”

  Millie doesn’t look away, so I don’t either. I hold her gaze because she has to hold all of this every day.

  “I will,” I promise, and I mean it. My parents are getting older, and Papi’s health isn’t great. But I have them, and watching Millie try so damn hard every day lets me know just how lucky I am.

  She breaks her gaze and looks toward her door. “So, the kids are okay?”

  I nod. “Present and accounted for. Fed, and in Emmett’s case, bathed.”

  Her brows leap. “Are you serious? Bathed? How did you manage that?”

  “Don’t underestimate me,” I say with a grin.

  “Hmph.” She rolls her eyes and then takes another bite of soup. But she winces, wrinkles her nose, and sets the container on her nightstand. “I think I’ve had enough.”

  She’s hardly had any. “Throat hurts that bad?”

  She looks caught and gives me that shrug.

  “You need to see a doctor tomorrow.”

  Millie shakes her head. “I’ll feel better tomorrow.”

  I hmph, imitating her. “Do you have a fever?” I don’t even wait for her to answer because I know she won’t admit it if she does. I put down my soup on her nightstand and reach across for her.

  My hands press to her cheeks. The touch should mean nothing, but as soon as our eyes meet, the memory of our kiss flames between us. All it takes is her face in my hands, and I’m in that moment. I can tell, in the open depths of her blue eyes, she’s in it too. That lost world of ours still exists right where we left it. Right here.

  The only thing that stops me from pulling her to my mouth is the heat. Her face is hot. Really hot. I shift a hand to her forehead. Fever blooms.

  “You’re burning up,” I say, frowning.

  She tries to shake out of my touch, but I grip her shoulders. “Millie, you’re really sick.”

  “I can’t be sick. I’m f—“

  My grip tightens. “If you say you’re fine one more time, I’m going to get my abuela over here to give you her egg remedy.”

  Millie’s brows drop into a glower, but she tilts her face and looks at me sidelong. “What’s her egg remedy?”

  “Trust me,” I threaten, putting on my best poker face. “You don’t want to know.”

  It’s nothing more than a little Mexican white magic she used on me and Alex whenever we were sick. Abuela would take a raw egg and make the sign of the cross with it all over our bodies. Then she’d break the egg open in a bowl by our beds and construct a little cross out of toothpicks and set that on top of the exposed yoke. She’d leave it on our bedsides until we got better. Abuela once said something about how the sickness would go out of our bodies and into the egg. Crazy, I know, but she’s my abuela. She gets away with anything.

  The threat to call my grandmother must be enough because Millie sinks down into her pillows. “Fine. I’m sick. I feel like shit,” she says, grumpily. “Happy now?”

  “H-happy?” I choke, laughing. “No, boba, that doesn’t make me happy.”

  She frowns. “Boba? What does that mean?” She bats my hands away from her arms, and I sit back, ignoring the sting her brush off delivers.

  “I’ll give you one guess,” I say, but give her no time to respond. “Have you taken anything for the fever?”

  Millie looks over at her nightstand, her brows knitting tighter. I follow her gaze to the bottle of Advil. “Yeah…?” She drags out the word.

  “Yeah?” I ask, picking up the bottle. “When was that?”

  She purses her lips. “This morning and…” Her gaze drifts to the left as though she’s searching her memory. “Maybe before I fell asleep. I know I meant to.”

  I set the bottle back down. “Have any Tylenol? Just to be on the safe side?”

  Millie nods. “Bathroom cabinet.”

  I’m up and across the room. Her bathroom is small but neat. No stray lingerie, unfortunately. I grab the bottle of Acetaminophen, carry it back to her room, and shake out two pills into my hand.

  “Here.”

  She pops them into her mouth and then chases them with a sip of water that makes her grimace. Seriously, it hurts just to watch her.

  When she lies back against the pillow, she looks spent. As though the last twenty minutes with me took all she had.

  “Get some rest,” I tell her. “I’m taking you to a walk-in clinic tomorrow.”

  I expect her to put up a fight, but Millie just closes her eyes. “We’ll see.”

  Shit. I’d like it better if she put up a fight. The fact that she doesn’t means she probably feels even worse than I imagine.

  I’ve never wanted to wrap someone in my arms more than I do this minute, but that’s not allowed. Instead, I collect the food containers and takeout bags and head downstairs. Harry, Mattie, and Emmett are sprawled across all three sides of the sectional, but when I step into the living room, they all perk up.

  “How is she?” Mattie asks, her green eyes pinched with worry.

  “Under the weather, but okay.” I keep my voice light. Not just for her, but for all of them. Mattie is the one who’s most obviously worried, but he
r brothers are paying close attention, so I know they feel it too. And who could blame them? Without their parents, Millie is all they have. I don’t have to see the tightness in their faces to know that at some point, they’ve all wondered what would happen to them without her. “She ate some soup, and she’s resting now.”

  Emmett’s face clears at this. “Are you going to stay with us?”

  His question stops me in my tracks. I was planning to put the rest of Millie’s soup in the fridge and tell them goodnight. Make sure they lock up behind me. Come back in the morning.

  But I don’t really want to leave. Not Millie. Not the kids. It’s just not my place to stay.

  I look to the twins. They’re looking at me. Waiting for my answer? Do they need me to stay? Fourteen is old enough. I know Millie leaves them in charge now and then. But would it make them feel better if I stayed?

  “We’re just about to watch Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 2,” Harry says, holding up the remote. “Wanna join?”

  The three kids are wearing the exact same expression. Cautious. Hopeful. Hell, yes, I’m staying.

  “Hit play.”

  “Yay!” Emmett launches off the sofa cushions like he’s spring loaded. He smacks the space next to him. “You can sit in Millie’s spot.”

  Warmth floods my chest. “Sure,” I say. “Just let me put this away.”

  When the credits roll two hours and fifteen minutes later, my bicep is just pins and needles. Emmett’s sleeping head has been using it as a pillow for the last forty minutes. The other two are awake, but they seem just as relaxed as he is.

  Looks like that’s my cue.

  I start to slide out from underneath Emmett’s melon, trying not to wake him.

  Harry shakes his head. “I have to get him upstairs anyway,” he says to me. Then he leans over and puts a hand on his little brother’s shoulder. “Hey Em, wake up.”

  Emmett whines in protest, but he turns his head and sets me free. I get to my feet.

  “Anything I can do before I go?”

  “Nah,” Harry says, giving Emmett a nudge. “We’re good.”

  “I’ll be back first thing in the morning,” I tell them, making sure I meet Mattie’s always watchful gaze.

  She nods. And then Emmett whines again, but this one comes out a little rougher. I turn to see him push Harry’s hand away.