Say Forever(2)

I open the sugar container and pour in a few tablespoons. Then I add more chopped cilantro. I always end up using a whole bushel, so I don't know why I add a little at a time. I survived two tours in Afghanistan, and I'm fucking afraid of spice.

I take a swig of beer and stir the sauce. I've been too much on edge lately. Things were tense around here last week after Christina took her finals. We didn't think she'd pass psychology, but she squeaked by with a C minus.

Last weekend her family came up and we held a surprise graduation ceremony at my tio's house. I could have asked her to marry me then, in front of our family and friends. But, seriously, what guy does that? What if she said she wasn't ready? Everyone would have thought I was a total dick, and my cousins wouldn't have let me live it down.

I could wait until after Christmas. Or I could wait until next Christmas. She should be ready after a year. Maybe by then I would have done enough to deserve her.

But I don't know if I can stand the noose around my neck that long. And then there's that way I catch Christina looking at me. Every morning when we kiss each other goodbye, she's got this wistfulness in her eyes and in her voice. I keep telling myself it's her sinus infection, but I don't know. There's something off about her, especially when she talks about her baby brothers. Why do I get the feeling she's longing to have a baby of her own?

Just last month she was saying she didn't want to ever have kids. She asked me a totally unexpected question last night when she was sitting across from me at dinner. She wanted to know if my teeth were naturally straight or if I'd had braces. When I told her I'd never needed braces, her eyes lit up. She dropped her hand to her stomach, resting it there for a moment before she picked up her fork and flashed a bright smile.

What was that about?

Is she subtly trying to tell me she's ready for kids? Now?

She's been wearing those earrings I got her a few months ago almost every day now, too. The earrings look a lot like the engagement ring I had made for her, with one diamond in the center, surrounded by a circle of emeralds.

Why does she wear those earrings every day when she hardly wore them before? Actually, she never wears jewelry to her temp job airbrushing cars. At least, until now. What is she trying to tell me?

Does Christina want me to propose? If she does, why doesn't she come out and say it? Is she ready to have kids? How in the fuck am I supposed to know? I wish women came with instruction manuals. My life would be so much easier.

Now I'm debating what I should do. Do I suffer in silence and put it off until next year? Do I ask her soon, like maybe this week, knowing if she refuses, it might ruin our Christmas?

I hate how fucking confused I am right now. If I'd been this indecisive when I was deployed in Afghanistan, I wouldn't have made it back alive. Usually, when I know I want something, I set my mind to it and do it.

Just fucking do it, Andrés. Just ask her.

The sauce is starting to bubble. I turn down the burner and stir the pot real good, so the paste doesn't stick to the bottom. I add a ton of parmesan, wine, and portabella mushrooms. Then I cover the simmering pot.

A small pot of water on the other burner starts to boil, so I add the pasta. Christina sent me a text a few minutes ago telling me she's on her way home.

I pour her a glass of soda water and add some fresh oranges and stevia. For the past three weeks, Christina has refused to drink my homemade sangria. She said the doctor told her alcohol weakens her immunity. Christina is taking the advice pretty seriously. She won't even take a sip of my beer now. Too bad she's still feeling sick after three weeks. I think the stress from finals has worn her down.

After the table is set, and the pasta and sauce are almost finished cooking, I reach into my pocket and finger the drawstring on the velvet pouch—the pouch with the diamond and emerald engagement ring. I wrap my fist around it and c

Christina

lench it tight. My whole body tenses up as determination strengthens my resolve.

Goddamn. I'm proposing tonight!


***


Christina

"Mmmm. Smells delicious."

Even more delicious is the sight of Andrés, wearing nothing but a fitted T-shirt and jeans, slaving over the stovetop. I stand back for a moment and admire his physique. He's taller than most guys, about six feet, with thick wavy hair, broad shoulders, and a tight body. Very tight. Even though he's been out of the Army for eight months, and works long hours managing his uncle's businesses, he himself in prime condition, getting up at the crack of dawn at least three times a week to run and lift weights.

I don't know how he does it, but I sure do appreciate it, especially now as I continue to drool at him. Even more impressive than his backside is his front, the real reason I call him my Spanish Adonis. I close my eyes and recall the image of his face, which looks like it was chiseled out of stone, a beautiful square jaw, full, sensual lips, high cheekbones, and large dark eyes, framed by thick lashes.