Choose Me
Authors: Xenia Ruiz
The events and characters in this book are fictitious. Certain real locations and public figures are mentioned, but all other
characters and events described in the book are totally imaginary.
Copyright © 2005 by Xenia Ruiz
All rights reserved.
Warner Books
Hachette Book Group
237 Park Avenue
New York, NY 10017
Visit our website at
www.HachetteBookGroup.com
.
First eBook Edition: June 2009
ISBN: 978-0-446-56296-6
CONTENTS
For Elad Demivi, the Adam to my Eve
You did not choose me, but I chose you and appointed you to
go and bear fruit—fruit that will last. Then the Father
will give
you whatever you ask in my name.
—John 15:16
IN THE BEGINNING
, you think you know what love is.
With the help of the Creator, you are conceived out of love between a man and a woman, your mother and father, who planned
you—in some instances
—
and if not, you’d like to think so. You are born of your mother, who carries you for nine months, protects you in her womb,
and then gives birth to you in pain, a pain that dissipates as soon as she sees you are intact, with ten fingers, ten toes.
Love is a blessing.
As you grow, you slowly learn what love is because you are helpless and your parents are there to provide for your every need.
They love you, no matter what you do, even when you don’t deserve it. Love is unconditional.
Later, you think you really know what love is because even though your parents don’t understand you, there’s someone who does.
You hear and see love mentioned over and over in songs, books, and films. You use gifts, flowers, and cards to express love.
Love is commercialism and materialism.
As you get older, and presumably wiser, love becomes a deeper emotion that you express with feelings, words, your hands, your
lips, your body, your heart, and your soul over and over and over again. Love is desire, passion, and sex.
As the years go by, your definition of love narrows. You start to notice you are running out of time and you must find your
true love. Or you start to believe that the one you are with is your soul mate and even if you do not love him
—
or her
—
it no longer matters anymore because love is about needing and wanting. Love is about not being alone.
And then one day, you realize that the things that mattered before
—
the physical, the material, and the sexual
—
no longer apply and what really matters is that you have someone to talk to, someone to listen to you, someone who gives you
peace. Love is companionship, friendship, trust, and commitment.
Finally, in the end, you know that the true meaning of love is the biggest example of selfless love, the greatest love of
all. You know that love, real love, is about sacrifice.
In the end, as in the beginning, love is a blessing.
ONE
CHAPTER 1
EVA
LEAD US NOT
into temptation …
Most days I truly believe that prayer is a very powerful thing. I am a staunch believer that prayer has the ability to heal
wounds, grant blessings, and rescue a person from the deepest, darkest troubles in a way that defies earthly logic.
…
but deliver us from evil
…
The line from the Lord’s Prayer was running through my mind because at the moment, I could not take my eyes off an almost
perfect image of one of God’s finer creations standing a few feet away from me in the Native American book section. I was
farther down the aisle, in the Latin American section where Border’s Bookstore had decided it belonged, along with the various
“others”—African American, Asian American, and Women’s Studies.
Just then, the man looked up and I looked away to where a couple was busy groping each other as if they were in the corner
of some dark club instead of a bright bookstore chain that sold a variety of books, coffee, and biscotti. Lately it seemed
couples such as these were taunting me wherever I went.
Please Lord, lead ME not into temptation
… I prayed. A big part of me deeply believed in the power of these words. I believed that if I kept repeating them over and
over, I could cast away the temptation, will this man away from me. But another part of me wanted him to stay right where
he was. I wanted him to try to give me his best line so I could shoot him down, to prove once again how powerful was my endurance.
But what I really wanted was to have an intelligent conversation with a man, something I hadn’t had in a while.
That other part of me, the carnal side, the part that wasn’t dead, couldn’t help but steal looks at him, taking inventory—one
peek at a time. He was about five-nine, not very tall, with a pleasant chiseled face, like it had been sculpted by a surgeon’s
knife, and probably was. I’ve heard of people who have their cheek fat sucked out, or their back molars removed so they can
obtain such statuesque definition. His curly, close-cropped hair glistened in the sun that blazed through the plate-glass
windows. Even though he was dressed in blue sweatpants and a fitted T-shirt—his biceps, forearms, and back fighting for space—he
looked debonair.
Bam-Bam,
my sister, Maya, would coin him, referring to a man’s muscled physique bursting at the seams.
I have always been attracted to Black men. Perhaps because to me they resemble the
café con leche
to coffee-colored cousins and uncles in my Afro-Latin family. Or maybe because they were the first ones to notice me when
the Latin boys in high school had passed me by. And it wasn’t that I had a preference for Black men as some men and women
had accused. Back when I was in the world and it came to men, I didn’t discriminate as far as their ethnicity. But I felt
a special connection when it came to Black men that went beyond the physical—something along the lines of kinship, something
I didn’t feel instantaneously with Latinos or men of other nationalities.
This man, although not exactly cover-model fine, had an attractive quality about him. Or maybe I was getting so desperate
that any man would do it for me. After all, it had been five years since I had been with a man.
I wondered why he was in the Native American section, then I realized my hidden prejudices that came from living in America
all my life were showing their true colors. Maybe he found out he had a Native American grandparent. Or perhaps he was one
of those people obsessed with Native Americans, as if they were some kind of extinct species. As I wrestled with my carnal
nature, I knew I should take my behind straight to the Spirituality-Religion section and nourish my soul. But my feet were
not listening to reason and I could not move.
The next time I glanced up, he was looking right at me and I knew my cover was blown. Having gone directly from work to my
boxing class, I was still clad in my Lycra capris and tank shirt with my warm-up jacket tied around my waist. My hair was
pulled back and up into the usual hasty ponytail I used when exercising or when I was in between touch-ups. I felt exposed.
Losing my courage, I started to slowly inch farther away, scanning the shelves like I was searching for a specific book. When
I looked up again, he was walking away and I thought that I had never seen a back as beautiful as his. The shoulders were
slightly hunched, the blades poking out, enticing me. I wondered why God had made men’s bodies so appealing, but yet expected
women to practice restraint. I had hoped for some supernatural courage to overtake me that would allow me to engage the man
in conversation over a book, or on the topic of God, or perhaps invite him for a cup of coffee, but it was too late. He was
about to turn the corner, headed toward the exit. I felt disappointment, but at the same time, relief.
“Excuse me, sir? Can I ask you a question?”
I whipped around to find my best, and soon-to-be-dead, friend, Simone, going after Bam-Bam like she had no shame. I grabbed
her T-shirt, which was tied in a knot at the back of her waist, and tried to usher her in the opposite direction. But she
resisted and, having several inches of height and toned muscle on me, I lost the tug-of-war.
“I’m going to hurt you,” I whispered viciously, knowing eyes were upon us from all directions.
“Shut up, here he comes.”
When I turned around, Bam-Bam was sauntering toward us, so I pulled out the nearest book,
The Latina’s Bible.
“My friend and I are collecting data for our class on human sexuality,” Simone lied matter-of-factly, clutching her legal
pad and pen. “We were wondering if you could answer a few questions.” I couldn’t believe her. We were getting too old for
this stuff.
The man looked curiously at us—first at Simone, who at just under six feet with heels stood several inches taller than he,
then down at me, trying to hide my humiliated face in the thick paperback book.
“What are you, grad students?” he finally asked.
“Undergrad.”
“You don’t look like undergrads.”
“We go to night school, okay?” Simone retorted. The one thing Simone disliked was when people assumed she was older than she
was. With her svelte figure and chin-length hair in a curly natural, she looked at least fifteen years younger. No one could
wear an Afro like Simone. She was the kind of woman who could make a potato sack look good, the kind of girl others had hated
because boys were drawn to her; the kind of woman other women envied but for all the wrong, petty reasons, because she stole
the spotlight the minute she entered a room.
“Now, do you want to participate or not?” she chided him in that teasing, reprimanding way she used on men when flirting.
“Sure, why not?”
“Shall we?” She pointed toward an unoccupied table with four chairs. They sat down, but I remained standing.
“Eva, come on, this is your project, too,” Simone insisted so innocently I almost believed her myself. I debated whether to
ignore her and just walk out, pretend I didn’t know her, leave her hanging. But knowing Simone, she could always embarrass
me worse than I ever could her and she wouldn’t even care about the unwanted attention. There was no shame in her game.
“Okay, um … What’s your name?” she started.
“Don. Hey, you’re not going to use my name?”
“No, we’re using numbers. But you don’t want me to call you by a number, do you?” Simone looked up at me. “Eva. Are you going
to sit down or what?” she said in her most impatient tone, the one she would use on her child—if she had one.
“Yeah, come on, Eva,” Don said, smiling, taking me in from head to toe in one sweep. My attraction to him was slowly fading.
I smiled feebly and sat in the chair nearest to me, but at the other end of the table, browsing through my book like I was
seriously interested. I realized that
The Latina’s Bible
was not a bible at all but a resource book of love, spirituality, and family.
“I’m Simone,” she introduced herself, pronouncing her name “See-mo-NAY,” the stage name she had created for her new modeling/acting
career. I rolled my eyes and held back from saying,
Your name is “She-MOAN” from the northwest side of Chicago.
Ever since she had turned forty a couple of months ago, she had undergone a midlife crisis of sorts, getting a leopard tattoo
on the small of her back and a navel ring, in addition to legally changing the spelling of her name to “S’Monée,” including
puncutation marks. I told her I didn’t care if she had court papers, she would always be “Simone” to me.
“This is Eva,” she added.
“So I heard.”
I glanced up from my book and saw him leering at her chest, recently purchased with her last few modeling jobs.
“Okay, Don, pay attention, sweetie. I’m up here. Question number one … What do you think of celibacy?” Simone asked, reading
from a fictitious list of questions.
