Choose Me

by Xenia Ruiz

  He obliged, caressing my lips in his mouth like one would hold something sharp: cautiously and tenderly. Smooth, I thought. A Spanish lesson had always been part of the courtship with the non-Spanish-speaking men with whom I had been involved. With Anthony, it had lasted a couple of months; after we married, he refused to learn and actually got angry when I spoke Spanish, especially if we weren’t on friendly terms and he overheard me on the phone. With Victor, it was always a competition because he thought Venezuelan Spanish was more refined than that of Puerto Ricans.

  Adam’s hand slid down my throat to my sternum where my heart was beating like crazy, hastened by his touch. I could feel my flesh getting weaker and my spirit all but withering away. I breathed slowly through my nose but didn’t move to stop him, though I knew I should. In between gasps for air, I heard moans—strange, pleasurable sounds I had not heard coming from inside me in a long time. They scared me. I tried to swallow the sounds, but they still escaped. I knew I had to gain control of the situation, soon.

  And then he started pushing me back, down to the floor, his loose locks brushing forward obscuring his face, prickling mine. I was reminded of my dream with the Oak Tree Man, the branches stretching down, caressing my face and neck. I recalled how the branches had started to twist around my neck, around my body tighter and tighter until I was suffocating. It was like a premonition.

  “Adam,” I whispered, struggling to sit up. He was kissing my throat, still pushing me down. I had one hand on his rock-hard chest, the elbow of my other arm anchored to the floor. He was so strong, solid like a wall. He came up again to my mouth, just as I uttered his name again with more gravity. “Adam.”

  “Say it in Spanish,” he whispered.

  “Adam. Wait. Stop a minute.” I pushed his locks back with one hand, away from his face, trying to regain eye contact and get his attention. But he wouldn’t open his eyes, hiding his face in my neck and covering it with soft pecks.

  “Eva, don’t do this,” he begged, and I could feel the anguish in his voice.

  “The kids might wake up.”

  He started chuckling, looking down at me with crinkled eyes. “That’s funny.”

  I laughed, glad for the respite. But just as suddenly, his eyes narrowed with lust and he leaned in again.

  “I just want to kiss you, I swear,” he said seductively, grabbing my lips again, but I turned my head.

  “Adam, you know I’ve been celibate for … a long time …”

  “I know, I know.”

  I pushed against his chest firmly just as he zeroed in again. “I’m serious. We need to stop,” I said, putting a little bass in my voice.

  Finally, he leaned back against the sofa, exhaling loudly and pushing his hair back in exasperation. We didn’t say anything for a while, each lost in our own thoughts.

  We had been seeing each other for a month, getting acquainted during lunch and dinner dates almost every day, and every weekend. One night, I had cooked an old-fashioned Puerto Rican dinner for him; he in turn cooked a down-home Creole-Georgian supper for me. It felt strange, weird, and wonderful—cooking for a man—something I hadn’t done in a while. I had actually enjoyed it, but I knew I would feel differently if I was expected to do it on a regular basis. During that time, we had succeeded in keeping things fun and relaxed, just bordering on the romantic and sensual, and ignoring the sexual intensity that was undeniably growing between us. Overall, our hands had remained in neutral zones, though there were times when we both went a little too far, when our bodies got a little too close during our good-byes. His kisses left me breathless and light-headed, like when I used to deliberately starve myself. Back then, I knew starvation wasn’t good for my body, just like I knew our passionate kissing wasn’t good for my soul now. Each time, our kissing encounters lasted longer and longer, building up, leaving me to wonder if he knew this would happen all along, that sooner or later, he would wear me down until I would break.

  “Eva, do you honestly think anyone waits ’til they’re married to have sex? Even Christians?” he asked quietly.

  “I’ve heard of people. People who’ve gotten married in our church. This one couple didn’t even kiss for seven years until their wedding day.”

  “How do you know for sure? Were you with them twenty-four/seven? It’s not possible. How do people know if they’re compatible?”

  “It depends on how important you think sex is in a relationship.”

  “Very. If it wasn’t important, God wouldn’t have made our bodies the way He did.”

  I wanted to tell him that he sounded like Anthony at eighteen, before he touched my behind, when he was still trying to get into my pants. One of his favorite lines had been, Nothing’s going to happen that you don’t want to happen. It reminded me of what my mother used to say: People can only do to you what you allow them to do.

  “What happens if you get married and on your wedding night, you find out the sex is bad. What do you do then?” he asked.

  “I’ll work it out with my husband. Sex isn’t rocket science. Otherwise, we’d all be geniuses.”

  He stared out of the floor-to-ceiling living room windows, rubbing the back of his neck, his eyes avoiding mine. I crossed my legs Indian-style and took a deep breath. I knew our relationship was going to end, if not tonight, soon. He was not going to wait.

  “You know, nothing about Adam and Eve was about love,” he said.

  “Why are you always bringing up Adam and Eve? We’re not Adam and Eve. I’m Eva Clemente; you’re Adam Black.”

  “Because you insist on making this about your religious beliefs,” he retorted, whipping his head around to look at me with tapered eyes. “Celibacy is based on religion, isn’t it? The apostles, priests, and nuns. The way I heard it, God’s purpose in creating man and woman was about companionship and procreating generations of followers. God didn’t say ‘man needs someone to love,’ He said ‘it’s not good for man to be alone.’ Love was never mentioned. Even having children isn’t about love. What’s that passage? About bringing children into the world in pain?” He turned away again, and I suspected he didn’t want any answers to his questions.

  I looked at his profile as he stared out the windows, his arms resting on his upraised knees, his voice even. He knew more about the Word than he let on, but he was the kind of person who dissected every word, argued it too much instead of accepting it as is. The Word was not debatable.

  I prayed the phone would ring, anything to keep me from having to make the decision that I knew had to be made. I hated myself for being weak, for not being strong enough to turn to God for strength. And then, I did. Help me, Lord, I thought. Then I mouthed the words as Adam’s voice continued on in the periphery.

  “Look, I’m not trying to sweet-talk you or convince you to have sex with me now, okay? I said I was going to try to have this relationship with you, and I am trying. But, you know, we can’t continue kissing … we can’t continue like this and expect … you can’t expect me not to feel anything.”

  Closing my eyes, I waited. Just say it’s over, I told him in my mind. Make the decision. I had been strong all my life: through my mother’s death, my father’s withdrawal, my failed marriage, my children’s tough years, and the bad times in my relationships. I had always made my own decisions without consulting anyone. I didn’t begin relying on God for strength until after I got saved, and lately, I hadn’t been leaning on Him enough. Be the strong, independent woman you’ve always been, I heard the voice within me say. Be a woman of God, for God’s sake.

  Then there was the other voice. Why? Why did I always have to be the strong one? Weren’t men supposed to be the stronger sex, the heads of households? Why couldn’t he practice restraint and wait? Wait for what? I was tired of being strong. Being strong was too hard. It looked real good to the outside world, a shining example to aspiring superwomen everywhere, but on the inside, it was wearing out its welcome, it was wearing me thin.

  For once, I wanted to sit back and let s
omeone else take control. I closed my eyes and folded my hands in my lap face-up and thought back to the previous Sunday’s sermon: “Let go and Let God.” It was directed toward singles in unhealthy or mismatched relationships. “Let go of that mate and let God pick your fate,” Pastor Zeke had declared. Lately, it seemed as if every sermon contained a hidden message specifically aimed at my life. Or maybe it just seemed that way because I was so distrustful of my own decisions that everything appeared to hold a possible answer.

  Father God, help me. Give me the wisdom to do the right thing here. Give me a sign.

  “What are you thinking?” I heard Adam ask.

  I shook my head slowly, breathing deeply, without opening my eyes. The answer had not come to me yet, so I kept quiet. It would have been easy to speak without thinking, but for once I didn’t give myself permission to relinquish him the answer he was hoping for.

  “Eva … Will you look at me?”

  I didn’t allow him to interrupt my thoughts, and for the next few seconds he didn’t say anything. Slowly, the answer came to me. Let go. It was then that I realized I had been relying on the wrong person to take command. It is better to take refuge in the Lord than to trust in man. I had expected Adam to take command, take control, when I should’ve been giving that power to God. I opened my eyes and looked down at my hands. He was right; I did do that a lot.

  “Unc-Adam.” We both looked up at the same time at whom I assumed was Kia, Adam’s niece. She was a chubby little girl with a head full of long, black rumpled curls, rubbing her Asiatic eyes.

  Immediately, Adam rushed over and picked her up.

  “I heard my mommy,” she whimpered.

  “Mommy’s not here yet. That’s my … my friend, Eva. This is Kia.”

  “Hi, Kia,” I said, waving and getting up from the floor to sit on the sofa, but Kia was half asleep, her head buried in the crook of Adam’s neck.

  “Mommy should be coming soon,” he crooned in her ear. “Go back to sleep.”

  As Adam rocked Kia, I realized the sign I had asked for was right in front of me. I knew that eventually, if and when he married, he would probably want children. At thirty-six, he was at the prime age for marriage and children. I knew that having children was more than a possibility, and that further sealed our fate. I didn’t want any more children, I knew that without a doubt. I never regretted having my children in my early twenties. I loved the shock on people’s faces when they heard that I had two sons in college. I didn’t envy my coworkers who were starting families for the first time in their thirties, even their forties. Raising children was hard and doing it on my own had been even harder. When women told me they wanted a challenging job, I would joke, “Try being a single mother.” The thought of having another child, even if I had a husband to help me, was not appealing. In five or ten years, whenever my sons decided to marry, I would be a grandmother. I could see myself looking forward to being a grandmother, but not a mother. Adam had said it himself, in introducing me to Jade and even Kia. We were friends and anything more was just not going to happen. Accepting this realization gave me some consolation.

  “What?” Adam asked, noticing me watching him.

  I shook my head, not realizing I was still staring, and smiled. “She’s adorable.”

  “She takes after her uncle.”

  He carried Kia back to the bedroom, which was on an elevated platform behind a stationary glass-block partition at the end of the loft. He returned, braiding his front locks back and slumped down on the floor at my feet, as if he were tired—perhaps tired of me. I stayed on the sofa, as far away from him as possible.

  “You’re right,” the voice came quietly from within me.

  “What?”

  “I was thinking, you were right. I can’t kiss you without leading you on.”

  “I didn’t say you were leading me on. I said you can’t expect me to feel nothing. I respect your beliefs, I do. I don’t always go to bed right away with every woman I meet.”

  “But you expect it eventually.”

  “I would be lying if I said no.”

  “Fornication is a sin,” I reminded him, though I knew going a spiritual route was useless at such a physical time.

  “Adultery is condemned more in the Bible than fornication.”

  Not wanting to get into a religious debate, I changed the subject. “This is hard for me, too, you know. I haven’t been with a man … in a long time. A long time.”

  “What? A year? Two?”

  Right then and there, the words flowed from my mouth like water. I began my testimony, telling him about my relationships with Anthony and Victor, and the others. I confessed my promise to God, and told Adam how hard it was to hold on to my beliefs and yet still doubt myself. And finally, I told him that even though I had feelings for him, I was willing to risk losing him if it meant breaking my vow.

  “Five years, huh? Man.” Then he made a confession of his own. “It’s been over a year for me, almost two years. Since the radiation and chemo, I haven’t been with a woman. I tried to get back with my ex-girlfriend and …”

  I waited for him to continue but when he didn’t, I went on. “It might sound like a fantasy, but I guess you could say I’m waiting for Mr. Righteous.”

  “Mr. Who?”

  “Righteous. That’s what Maya and I call a man of God. A man who’s saved.”

  He looked away, toward the windows again. He had the potential to be a man of God, I reasoned. No, God had given me a sign. He wasn’t the one.

  “You think maybe we should just be …?”

  He groaned and leaned his head back on the sofa. “Please don’t say ‘friends.’”

  It took everything within me not to run my hand over his hair, to reach down and kiss his lips one last time. He was wearing an army shirt, buttoned down to reveal his smooth chest and his scar, ripped jeans, and Doc Martens boots. He might as well have been wearing a Brooks Brothers suit.

  “I wasn’t going to say ‘friends,’” I said. “I was going to say ‘amistades.’”

  “What’s that?”

  “‘Friends’ in Spanish.”

  “You’re a regular stand-up comedienne, you know that?” He reached for me and struggled to get to his feet at the same time, while I tried to evade his grasp. We landed on the sofa, side-by-side awkwardly, laughing, our faces just inches apart. He wrapped his arms around me but I kept my arms at my sides, my eyes lowered.

  “Eva, Eva,” he whispered with disappointment, as if I were going to regret my decision, like it was all my fault. Did he have to keep saying my name? “How do you say ‘look at me’ in Spanish?”

  “Let me up first,” I commanded, attempting to free myself.

  He held me down. “No. Tell me first.”

  “Mirame.”

  “Mee-rah-may?”

  “MEE-rrrah-meh, accent on the first syllable, roll the ‘r.’ Mirame—”

  Even before he dived in for another kiss, I anticipated him, so I turned my head just in time, glancing down at my watch. “I really got to go. I told Maya I’d drop by before I went home.”

  He sighed with resignation and finally got up, helping me to my feet. “This late?”

  “She’s still bummed out about Luciano. I told you, it’s harder for women to move on.” I walked toward the door, reaching for my calf-length leather on the coat rack.

  “You don’t look like you’re having any difficulties,” he said, helping me with my coat, “moving on.”

  “Well, I’m not like other women,” I joked.

  “No,” he said, leaning against the door as I put my Kangol on my head, “No, you’re not.” He adjusted my cap so that it was backward. “I like it better that way.”

  As I dug around my pockets for my car keys, he reached his hands into my pockets and pulled me toward him. “Do you really want to be ‘amistades’?”

  His breathless voice in my ear gave me what my mother used to call calor frio, roughly translated, a hot-cold feeling from m
y head to my feet. I shuddered. Stay strong, the voice within me encouraged.

  “Adam, don’t make this harder than it already is. Please,” I said, trying to make my voice kind, but instead it sounded like it belonged to a cold-hearted witch, a woman who didn’t need anything from anybody—Evileen.

  “Okay, Eva, my frrriend,” he said in an exaggerated Spanish accent, like Al Pacino whenever he tried to play a Hispanic. “Goo’ nigh’, my frrriend.” He took his hands out of my pockets and unlocked the door.

  “Oooh, that’s so wrong,” I said, pretending to be offended.

  He walked me to the elevator, leaving the front door open so he could keep an ear out for his niece and nephew. As we waited, we talked about ordinary things like the changing weather, the upcoming holidays—things strangers talked about when they were stuck waiting in line. When I got on the elevator, he reached in and kissed me lightly and quickly on the cheek, pulling back before I had a chance to kiss him back.

  At Maya’s house, Alex answered the door just as I knocked. He had a dismal look on his face and it was apparent he couldn’t wait to escape.

  “I don’t know what’s wrong with your sister,” he said, brushing past me as I walked in. “But I’m tired of trying to figure her out.”

  “Where is she?”

  “In her so-called sanctuary downstairs. She won’t talk to me. I’m going to pick up the boys from my brother’s. I’ll see you later.”

  I heard Sade’s “Love Is Stronger Than Pride” blasting before I reached the basement stairs. During her post-depression days, when she was trying to forgive Alex, Maya had hopped from one home-improvement project to another—tearing down walls, sandpapering, and renovating the entire house in an effort to bury her pain, hurting Alex where it mattered: his wallet.

  I found Maya in the refurbished basement, her last and most expensive project, which she had to fight Alex for, tooth and nail. I had envied the stone and brick walls, mosaic floors, and track lighting at its inauguration at their twenty-first anniversary party. But I could see Maya was discovering that no amount of renovation was going to compensate for her pain. Obscured amid the pillows on the sofa, Maya didn’t even acknowledge my presence. In her hands, she held a book, The Power of a Praying Wife, but she wasn’t reading. I turned down the music and sat next to her. As I recounted my evening with Adam, her eyes remained unfocused, as if she hadn’t heard a word I said. Ordinarily, I would’ve been angry that she wasn’t paying attention to my plight, but at that moment her mood seemed more important than my relationship with Adam.