Say Yes (Something More) (10 page)

Being with Christina has given me more joy than I’ve ever known. Loving her means everything.

I heave a sigh as I absently rub my empty pocket. The pocket that once held the engagement ring. I’d decided to leave it in my old room before I left Tio’s house. I fear I won’t need the ring for a while. Maybe ever.

As much as it would kill me to walk away, I refuse to let her use me.

Chapter Nine

Christina

Ugh, what a week, and it’s only half-finished. I got a C-minus on my psychology exam. A freaking C-minus. This class is totally killing my GPA, which is sitting at 3.8 right now. Not for long.

My art classes are in the bag. In fact, I could probably ditch them the rest of the semester and my professors would still feel obligated to give me As. My bonehead freshman psychology class; however… I guess I’ve got to be Sigmund Freud to pass that one.

I hate everything about that class, including my teacher, Doctor Robert, who insists we call her by the French pronunciation, Ro
bair
. If any of us accidentally uses the American version, or God forbid, adds a little bit of Texas twang to it, she comes unglued. And heaven help us if we call her Mrs. Robair instead of Doctor Robair. As if we’re all supposed to be impressed she studied personality disorders and mommy complexes for eight years and then got stuck teaching freshmen psychology.

 The irony is I’m making more than her painting cars. I try to remind myself as I stare down at my big glaring C-minus. Apparently, answering “Hitler was an asshole” was inappropriate. So what else am I supposed to call a guy who murdered six million Jews?

What’s even worse about the class is Doctor Robair’s incredibly boring lectures. I’m always zoning out and thinking about other things, namely Mrs. Peterson. I’m constantly analyzing what went wrong in her life. I can’t help myself. I remember a picture of her and her husband that sat atop their fireplace mantle. They looked so young and happy, so healthy. And then as you look at the photos of them after they had kids, and as the years progressed, their vitality seems to drain away with each passing year.

I couldn’t believe Jackson’s face when I’d seen him at the hospital. He looked as if he’d aged five years in the span of six months.

Is this what happens to people after they have kids?

I mean, look at all the stress Mrs. Peterson had gone through with Karri’s drug addiction and then fussing over Tyler. It’s as if all those years of worrying over her children finally killed her.

One more reason for me to not want kids. That’s what I keep telling myself, anyway. Andrés has it in his head our lives will be different. I wonder if Mrs. Peterson expected her life to turn out as it did, or if she and her husband envisioned a picture-perfect marriage.

For the past three days, I’ve alternated between crying over Mrs. Peterson and obsessing over her life. I know this isn’t healthy. I bet my psychology professor would love to analyze my screwed-up brain, although I’m sure I’d get a bad grade on that test, too.   

Rather than sit around and think about Mrs. Peterson and my stupid test grade, I decide to go to work early. I send my other professors a text that I can’t make it to class, and they give me passes like they always do.

I can’t wait to put my current project behind me. I’m painting a van for a magician who does kids’ parties. He asked me to replicate a picture of himself pulling a rabbit out of a hat. How freaking cheesy. He also wants me to find a way to incorporate animal-shaped balloons and a trio of creepy-looking puppets, as if his van isn’t going to look stupid enough. But I get paid to make my clients happy, so I’m going to spend the day painting Chucky and pals.

That being said, I’d gladly prefer painting magic vans to sitting through another class where I am forced to analyze peoples’ feelings.

I’m so looking forward to tonight. It’s Andrés’s night to cook dinner and he said he’s making Fettuccini Alfredo. Mmmmmm. We haven’t had sex since Sunday night at his uncle’s house, and I’m hoping he’ll be in the mood after a glass of sangria and a soak in the tub… as long as I can unwrap my mind from all of my issues long enough to enjoy it.

* * *  

I keep wondering why Andrés has been distant these past few days. At first I thought he was giving me time to grieve, but now I’m not so sure. As I sit across from him at dinner, it’s hard to tell what he’s thinking; he’s mostly looking down at either his laptop or his plate.

Andrés’s cooking is amazing, as usual. The Alfredo sauce is so creamy, and the shrimp and clams are cooked to perfection.

Honestly, I’m proud of Andrés for taking over his uncle’s automotive businesses, but there are days when I think he’s missing out on his true calling. Every meal he makes is a masterpiece, a delicious masterpiece. His cooking should be showcased in restaurants, and I feel so selfish for hogging his food all to myself. Sometimes we invite Grace and Violet to eat with us, but usually it’s just the two of us.

 Andrés makes enough to feed a large family, which is why on my nights to cook, I reheat his leftovers. Lazy, I know, but my creativity doesn’t extend to the culinary arts. Besides, I hate wasting his cooking. And if there are no leftovers, I get even lazier and order a pizza. Like I said, I’m not a cook, so why bother pretending?

I’ve put on four pounds since Andrés moved in with me. At this rate, I won’t be able to fit through the front door by next year. Andrés always says I could use a bit more meat on my bones. As long as he keeps cooking like this, he’d better like big women.

I twirl noodles onto my fork, swish them around in the creamy cheese sauce, then groan as I shovel the bite into my mouth. My groan doesn’t get a response. He’s still eating and checking something on his computer, so I have to resort to desperate measures. I kick him under the table.

“Ouch!” Andrés looks up at me with a scowl.

I bat my lashes and flash my most innocent smile. “What happened?” I coo. I know I didn’t kick him
that
hard.

Andrés gives me this exasperated look, like I’m annoying him. This unnerves me. Andrés isn’t like this. Ever.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he mumbles as he turns back to his laptop.

Okay, now I’m pissed, and it takes me a moment to realize I’m clenching my fork so tightly, the metal is digging into my skin. So I set my fork down, lean forward, and snap my fingers in his line of vision.

“Hey! It’s me, your girlfriend.”

“Not now, Christina.” Andrés waves me off with a groan. “I’ve got to go through these time sheets.”

Did he really just shoo me away like I’m a stray dog?

I’ve lost my appetite, so I put my dish in the sink and stomp over to him. He’s too busy staring mindlessly at the computer to look up. “You could have told me.”

“Told you what?” He looks up with a scowl. “That running a business by myself isn’t all fun and games? You knew this was going to happen.”

The irritation in his voice is so unnerving, I feel as if I’ve been wounded by a verbal knife. “So you can’t smile at me during dinner?”

I mean, sure, I should be used to this kind of treatment after the way my parents and my former fiancé treated me, but that doesn’t mean I’m supposed to put up with it. Besides, Andrés isn’t like them. That’s one of the reasons why I fell in love with him.

Though I’m not a religious person, I clench my hands by my sides, trying my best to quell my trembling limbs as I send up a silent prayer.

Please, God, if you do exist, don’t let Andrés turn out to be like the others.

Andrés groans as he leans on the table and rests his forehead in his hands. “Everyone wants two weeks off for Christmas. Everyone. And I’ve got to have these time sheets ready by tomorrow. Making dinner for you put me behind.”

“Making dinner for
me
?” I snap. “You could have ordered a pizza.”

Andrés rolls his eyes. “I’m getting a little sick of pizza.”

Heat floods my chest and fans my face. My vision turns red, bright red. Oh, I get the jab alright, though I doubt he was trying to be subtle. “I suppose that’s
my
fault.”

Andrés’s features harden as I stare at him through slitted eyes. Finally, he waves toward his computer. “Look, I’ve got to get this done.”

“Fine,” I say. “I’ll get out of your way.” I hurry out of the kitchen because I don’t want him to see I’m on the verge of crying. I’ve learned with my mom and Jackson that crying doesn’t win arguments. If anything, it only aggravates them more. Besides, I don’t want Andrés to know how much he’s hurt me.

Once I reach our bathroom, shut the door and turn on the fan, the flood of tears breaks free. I grab a towel off the rack and use it to muffle my sobs as I sink onto the toilet.

I’m not crying because of the hurtful things Andrés has said to me tonight. I’m crying because now he’s made me cry, I know he’s capable of doing it again.

* * *

Andrés

What the hell is wrong with me?

I lean my ear against the bathroom door, but the fan muffles all sounds from the other side. I get this sinking feeling in my gut that Christina is crying, all because I acted like a total ass.

There was no reason for me to treat Christina like shit. No reason at all, other than my own stupid, crazy insecurities. I should have confronted her sooner rather than let all this rage build up inside me. Ever since Sunday night, when she’d gotten worked up over the thought of marriage and kids, I have been on edge. It’s as if I’m waiting for her to pack her things and run off with Jackson.

For the past three days, my common sense and fears have been at war with each other. If Christina wanted Jackson, she wouldn’t have called it off with him. Then again, she loves Tyler and treats him like her own child. Odd she dotes on that baby when she refuses to consider the possibility of having her own children.
My
children.

I would like to have a family with Christina one day, but she’s made it clear that day will never come. I feel like all this time and energy I’ve spent on this relationship has been for nothing.

I didn’t need to finish those timesheets tonight. They could have waited until morning. I don’t understand why I pushed her away. Even though I suspect the answer, I want so badly to deny it.

Why continue this relationship when we both know it won’t go anywhere?

My chest tightens when I hear a muffled sob coming from the bathroom.

Damn. She is crying.

I knock on the bathroom door, knowing what I have to do.

* * *

Christina

I’m pretty sure Andrés has fallen asleep by the time I sneak out of the bathroom and slip into bed. At least, I hope he’s asleep. After a good cry and a long soak in the tub, I think I’m finally composed enough to come out. I just want to go to sleep. I’ve got a long day at work tomorrow, and I’m not in the mood to rehash our argument.

Correction: I’m not in the mood to rehash him treating me like shit.

Just as I slip under the covers, and turn my back to my boyfriend, he rolls over and wraps his arm around me.

I stiffen and stifle a groan as he leans up and kisses me on the cheek. “I’m sorry, baby,” he says against my ear.

I tense up even more and bite down on my lip. I will not let him upset me again. I will not.

“Mija,” he says as he pulls on my shoulder and tries to roll me toward him.

“I’m tired,” I say on an exhale, afraid to say anything else before I tear up. I curl into a fetal ball while scooting closer to the edge of the bed.

I hear Andrés sigh, and I hope maybe he’s ready to give up and go to sleep. Damn him, he scoots closer and tightens his hug.

“Baby, I’m sorry I upset you,” he says as he runs his fingers through my hair. “Please talk to me.”

He knows how much I love him massaging my scalp. He knows this, and he’s using it to weaken my resolve. But talking about how he treated me will only upset me more, and I really am tired.

“I don’t want to talk,” I say through a frustrated breath. “I want to sleep.”

There’s a pause, and finally, I think he’s given up, until he clears his throat and sits up. Next thing I know, he’s turned on the lamp by our bed. I squint against the bright light and bury my face in my pillow.

“I don’t want you to go to sleep angry with me, mija.”

I respond with a groan but say nothing.

“I’ll talk then,” he answers, and thankfully turns the light back off. “I never knew my dad. My mom died when I was six. Tio told me the pharmacy made a mistake. They’d given her the wrong dose of pills. Then, when I was a little older, I overheard my aunts. They were saying my mom committed suicide. That she’d battled depression ever since my dad walked out on us.”

“You’d think after what my parents did to me, I wouldn’t want to get married and have kids, but I do. I want to love my family the way my parents should have loved me. Just because they were terrible parents, doesn’t mean I have to be.”

My heart is beating so loudly, it pounds a wild drumbeat in my ears. I know where he’s going with this. I know. And though some part of me realizes he’s making perfect sense, another part of me is terrified. What if I turn out to be a terrible parent?

“You’re afraid,” he continues, “and I’m sorry my family has been pushing us too hard to get married, but at least we know they like you. If they didn’t like you, believe me,” he says, chuckling, “they’d be trying to break us up, not marry us. I don’t want you to feel rushed. It’s just….” His voice cracks, and he pauses for a long moment. “You’ve made it clear you never want to have a family with me.” He whispers loud enough so I can feel his pain resonating in each word. “I’m hurt by it. I don’t understand, and I know it’s not an excuse for the way I acted tonight, but I keep thinking you’re going to break up with me soon anyway.”