In the end, I put my mouth to his ear.
“I still love you even if you don’t want to talk to me.”
Afterward, I turn around in the bed. A good while later, when I’m almost asleep, I feel Eric move and hug me. I smile and fall asleep.
By November, I’ve had it with Laila.
Every day I find it harder to keep her close. Since she knows I know her secret, she’s declared war on me. Of course, whenever Eric is with us, we are two great actresses.
Flyn’s on a field trip with his school, and tonight he’ll sleep elsewhere. My grumpy Smurf grows older.
“Flyn comes back tomorrow,” I say at dinner. “I’m sure he’s having a great time.”
Eric nods and smiles. Thinking about my nephew always has that effect.
“By the way, my work ends next week, and I have to leave,” says Laila.
Mother of God, that’s great news!
“Oh, what a pity!” I say, lying like a scoundrel.
Laila looks at me, and I blink.
Eric knows me and raises an eyebrow. “When are you going?” he asks her.
“I want to look at tickets for November seventh.”
“I have to go to London for a few days for work next week,” he says. “If you want to come on the jet with me, I’d be delighted.”
“Cool!” she replies.
Stop!
Eric is going to London?
How has he not even told me?
I decide to shut up and wait. When we’re alone, I’ll ask.
Once dinner’s over, we watch TV for a while. Because she’s insufferable, Laila sits right next to us. But I’m restless, and I want to talk to Eric.
“Honey, I have to talk to you,” I say.
Hearing that, Laila surprises me and quickly gets up.
“I’ll leave you two alone,” she says with an angelic tone. “Tonight I want to read anyway.”
Once he and I are alone in the living room, I can see Eric knows I’m upset about the trip, and, eager to placate me, he goes to play something on the stereo.
“You like this song a lot,” he says, giving me a wink. “C’mon, dance with me.”
Surprised he wants to dance, I get up to join him.
I don’t want to miss this!
And then “Si Nos Dejan,” that wonderful ranchera, starts to play, and I hug him.
“I love this song,” I whisper.
Eric smiles and squeezes me against his body.
“I know, sweetheart . . . I know.”
We dance in an embrace to the beautiful music and smile as we both sing along.
Being in his arms is the balm for my doubts.
Being in his arms makes me feel loved and safe.
Once the song is over, I let him guide me, and we sit very close together in the armchair. I love his kisses, and, when our mouths part, he’s looking very satisfied.
“Listen,” he says, “I wasn’t fooled by that ‘oh, what a pity’ about Laila’s departure. What’s your problem with her?”
“What’s this about you going to London?”
“Work, sweetheart.”
“How many days?”
“Three. Four at the most.”
“And when were you going to tell me?”
“Well, a few days beforehand.” He knows this is upsetting. “You know—”
“Amanda’s there. Is that it?”
Eric looks at me, and I hold his gaze.
As always when she comes up, the tension rises between us.
“When are you going to trust me?” he asks. “I think I’ve already shown you that—”
“It’s Amanda . . . ,” I say, cutting him off. “How can you expect me to trust her?”
He shakes his head and closes his eyes.
“Sweetheart, if you are so suspicious, come with me. Accompany me. I don’t have anything to hide. I’m just going to work. I’m the head of the family, and I’m expected to do these things.”
I understand. And it’s not him but Amanda . . . Laila . . . these women make me distrust them.
Eric gets up and, without taking his eyes off me, serves himself a whisky while Luis Miguel sings “Te extraño.” Then he comes back to the armchair and sits next to me.
“Sit back.”
I’m surprised.
“I’m waiting,” he says.
I do what he asks. The lust in his gaze has already hit me. When I lie back, he sneaks his hands under my comfortable cotton dress and pulls on my panties, taking them off. Luckily, he didn’t rip them this time.
Overheated, I watch the way his eyes roam all over me.
“Bend your legs and part them.”
“Eric, Laila could come in at any minute and—”
“Do as I say,” he demands.
Spellbound by his look and very excited by his command, I obey. He puts a cushion under my butt, and, when he has my pelvis at the height he wants, he takes his whisky and splashes some on my sex.
“Sweetheart, as the song says, I only want these moments with you. I just want to drink from you.”
Then he puts his mouth on my hot, wet sex, and I gasp. His licking makes me crazy, and, when his tongue imprisons my clit and nibbles it, a moan emerges from me.
I abandon myself to him.
Oh yes, yes!
I let his hands open my thighs while his demanding mouth sucks, licks, nibbles, and makes me vibrate. He takes me to seventh heaven, to the eighth, and to whichever one he wants. I adore him.
My hands clutch the chair, my legs tremble, and I fall apart as his tongue plays inside me. He owns me with his mouth, and I open myself like a flower.
The heat rises, and, crazed, I let go of the chair and grab him forcefully by the hair. I press him against the center of my desire, desperate for that intense pleasure to never end . . . never . . . never . . .
But before I can surrender, my love pulls away from me. With a fiery look that would singe the North Pole, he undoes the drawstrings on his sweatpants.
“Sit up. Turn around and put your hands on the back of the chair.”
Without delay, I do as he asks. But Eric is impatient, and, before I can position myself, he grabs me by the waist, and his penis is inside me.
I fall against the back of the chair.
“Sweetheart, I just want . . . I want . . . I long to possess you.”
His voice is full of desire, and the way he goes in and out of me—so hot, so possessive—drives me crazy. He’s so forceful, and, as always happens to us, our wild sides come out, and we surrender to pure pleasure.
Again and again, Eric rams me and I open myself to him.
Again and again, faster and faster, stronger and stronger.
Again and again, my gasps and his gasps fuse.
Without pause, Eric squeezes me against the back of the chair, and his thrusts are deep and precise.
“Oh yes . . . yes . . . ,” I murmur, possessed.
Our grunts increase in intensity and, together, we climax. He falls on me. I love his weight, his smell. I adore him. Only him.
For several seconds, I feel him on my back until he finally retreats.
“Sweetheart, I’m yours, and you’re mine. Don’t doubt me,” he whispers.
18
The days pass, and there’s a party at Flyn’s school. He’s made new friends this year, and he wants Eric and me to go with him. We promise we will.
Flyn brings home a flyer asking parents to prepare a dish for the event. Delighted, I accept the challenge and decide to cook Spanish-style potato omelets. I want them to eat a real potato omelet made by a Spaniard. Simona offers to make a carrot cake.
The party is held on a Saturday morning so parents can attend. Flyn has a cold, but he doesn’t want to miss the party, so we go anyway.
“I don’t like being here,” Eric murmurs after we park the car next to the school.
My man is gorgeous, with a pair of jeans matching his denim shirt. I give him a slap on his tight little ass.
<
br /> “You’re accompanying your nephew to his party! Cheer up!”
Carrying Simona’s cake, Flyn runs out in front of us. He’s spotted one of his friends and happily goes up to chat.
“Look at him,” I whisper proudly. “Don’t you love to see him getting along so well?”
Eric agrees with his typical seriousness. “Of course I’m happy for him, but I just don’t like coming here.”
“Why?”
“Because I always hated this school.”
“You went here?”
“Yes.”
“But if you studied here and hated it so much, why are you sending Flyn here?” I say, surprised by the revelation.
He shrugs.
“Because Hannah wanted it; she wanted him to study here.”
I get it.
“And in the last few years, the only time I’ve come here has been to hear about Flyn’s bad behavior.”
“Well, it’s about time you came for another reason.”
He’s not very convinced so I bump hips with him.
“C’mon, be happy. After all, Flyn’s very excited we’re both here.”
In the end, he smiles, and I do too.
It’s so nice when he smiles like that!
Inside, the noise is deafening. Flyn guides us to his class. When we enter, the other parents look at us. They don’t know us so I greet them with a smile and place the omelets next to the cake. Flyn takes me by the hand to show me some of his work. We’re appraising it when I hear Eric snort.
“I hate that they’re looking at me like that.”
I scan the room and see what he’s talking about. The mothers are staring and smiling at him. Sigh. I get that his presence discombobulates them, and, instead of getting jealous, I take him by the arm.
“Honey, most of them have not seen a man like you in their whole life,” I say. “It’s normal for them to stare at you. You’re really hot! And if you weren’t my husband, I’d also be looking at you like that. Moreover, I think I would try to hook up with you.”
Surprised by my response, Eric goes to kiss me, but I stop him.
“No way. Behave, Mr. Zimmerman. We’re surrounded by children.”
Seeing him grin fills my soul.
“Will the parents who brought food please take it to the gym?” asks a teacher.
I take the omelets, Eric picks up the cake, and the herd of parents and I follow the teacher.
The place is busy!
This is one hell of an impressive gym. Nothing at all like the gyms in my neighborhood.
“Eric Zimmerman!”
Eric and I turn around, and he laughs.
“Joshua Kaufmann.”
Joshua is a former schoolmate of Eric’s, and he introduces us to his wife, a very well cared for German beauty. She looks me up and down while our husbands talk delightedly, and I realize this cockatoo and I are never going to be friends.
Suddenly, Flyn sidles up to us.
“Are you OK, honey?” I ask.
He nods. I caress his head, then bring my lips to his forehead, as my mother used to do and my father still does. Seeing that he doesn’t have a fever, I breathe easy.
As soon as I can, I slip away from Eric, Joshua, and the cockatoo. I can’t stand another second.
“Jude, you want a Coke?” Flyn asks and I accept.
He fills up a glass, and, as he hands it to me, a friend of his comes for him, and they run off, leaving me. But my solitude is short-lived, because soon the cockatoo and two friends of the same species find me.
“The little Chinese boy is yours?”
I’m trying to work up a poker face, like Flyn does, but I can’t really pull it off.
“Yes, he’s ours, and he’s German.”
“Is he adopted?”
Option one: I tell her to go fuck herself.
Option two: I slap her.
Option three: I explain to the cockatoos that Flyn is German and not Chinese and try to act like a lady.
I decide on option three. I think Eric would be upset by options one and two.
“Flyn isn’t adopted. And, he’s not Chinese; he’s Korean German,” I say and take a sip of my Coke.
The woman blinks.
“But is he your son or your husband’s? It’s clear he can’t be both of yours because neither of you is Chinese.”
Mother of God.
As my father would say, if she were any stupider, she wouldn’t have been born!
I give her an Iceman look, and, just when I’m going to hit her with one of my zingers, Flyn takes my hand and makes me go with him.
All right! He just saved me from a real scene.
We go back to where the food is, and a woman my age, a platinum blonde, says hello.
“I’m María.”
I respond in my perfect German. “Delighted. I’m Judith.”
“The potato omelet is yours?”
“Yes,” I say. “The ones with the black olive in the middle also have onion. The other two don’t.”
“Are you Spanish?”
Well . . . well . . . I have not heard that little question in a long time.
I tell her yes. As I sit down and wait to hear that “olé . . . torero . . . paella” crap, the stranger shouts, as excited as if I were Beyoncé herself.
“I’m Spanish too. From Salamanca!”
Now the one shouting as if she’d seen Paul Walker come back to life is me, and I give her a huge hug. A dishwater-blond man at our side smiles. When we stop hugging each other as if we were sisters, María turns to him.
“Let me introduce you to Alger, my husband.”
I’m about to give him two kisses when I stop myself. Germans are not that much into kissing or Latin-style touching, so I just hold out my hand.
“Please, give me those two Spanish kisses, which I like so much better,” he says.
I laugh and land two kisses like two suns on his cheeks.
“I love your perpetual joy.”
Suddenly, my private German appears next to me. I’m sure he’s seen me kiss the blond and he’s come quick to see who it is. Oh, my jealous guy.
“My love, let me introduce you to María, who is Spanish too, and Alger, her husband,” I say as I put my arms around his waist.
My sweetheart, who knows the Latin way, gives her two kisses and offers him his hand. The two Germans smile.
“What good choices we made,” he says to Eric as he appraises us.
“The best.”
I talk to María for a long while. She tells me she fell in love with Alger one summer in Salamanca, and that the German didn’t stop courting her until he got her to marry him.
I see people devour my omelet in a matter of minutes. That gives me great satisfaction.
Drinking so many Cokes makes me want to pee so I urgently search for the bathroom. When I return to the gym, I find the cockatoos surrounding Flyn.
What are they doing to that child?
I approach stealthily and hear Flyn say, “The omelets were made by Judith, who’s Spanish.”
Wow, they’re getting info out of him. And then I hear their next questions: Who’s your mom or dad? Are you related to him or to her?
What?
My blood boils.
I have a Latin temper that my father says I need to learn to control.
My God, give me the patience to know how to deal with this, or I’ll eat them alive!
How can they ask a child such a question?
Flyn is silent. He doesn’t know what to say, but I’m ready so I go up like a wolf in defense of her pup and lean toward Flyn, who gives me a strange look.
“What’s going on here, honey?” I ask.
The cockatoos are silent; then the queen comes out swinging.
“We asked who his biological parent is, if it’s you or your husband.”
Option one: Do I smack her, yes or yes?
Option two: I tear off her head and bury it somewhere deep and dark.
Option thr
ee: there is no option three.
Flyn, who knows me, sees my face and winces.
“Don’t worry, honey. I’ve got this,” I say. Without moving from his side, I ask, “Will you please go get me a Coke? I’m going to need it.”
I give him a gentle push, and, when he walks away, I turn to them, feeling murderous.
“Aren’t you ashamed to ask a child something like that? How would you like to have your children cornered by a gang of gossips?” They’re uncomfortable. They know I’m right. “Not that it’s your business, but I’ll tell you I’m Flyn’s mother, and my husband is his father, OK?” The women nod their heads. Before leaving, I ask, “Any more indiscreet questions?”
They don’t say a word. They don’t move.
Suddenly, I feel a hand grab mine and squeeze.
Flyn!
Oh God . . . he heard what I said. He hands me a Coke, and we walk away while I think about what to say. Poor Flyn. He drinks and looks at me with a strange expression.
C’mon, Jude . . . C’mon . . . Think . . . think!
His penetrating gaze is killing me. I put the Coke on the table and decide to face up to what I’ve done.
“You and I know Hannah is and will always be your mom for your whole life, right?”
Flyn nods.
“Well, now that that’s clear, I want you to know that, from this moment on, and especially as far as those cockatoos are concerned, especially those really rude ones whose beaks I haven’t torn out of respect for you, Eric and I are your parents, understood?”
He nods again as the newly named dad comes up.
“What’s going on?”
I snort.
“I just officially declared you Flyn’s dad and named myself as his mom.”
Eric looks at the boy and then at me.
Then at him again and at me again.
I raise my hands. “Don’t look at me like that; it feels like you’re going to tear me apart.”
“Jude,” asks Flyn, “do I have to call you Mom?”
Oh God . . . oh God . . . Why am I such a loudmouth?
The boy’s mother may be in heaven, but he has one, and I just stuck my foot in it.
Eric doesn’t react.
“Flyn, you can call me whatever you want.” Then I point to the women, who haven’t stopped staring, and I speak in perfect Spanish so Eric and Flyn understand me. “But starting today, if those witches want something from you, let them first come talk to your mom or dad, understood? Because if I find out again they’re asking you any indiscreet questions, as my sister Raquel would say, I swear by the blessed glory of my mother in heaven that I’ll go for my father’s ham knife and cut off their heads.”
Tell Me What You Want—Or Leave Me Page 18
