2. Michael #2
Adam’s buddies say that I shouldn’t be so picky.
Funny, because based on what I’ve seen, they’re not picky enough.
If you’re going to take the time to go to bed with someone, explore them with your body, give them a little window of insight into your heart and soul…
shouldn't you be picky? I tell them I'm selective when it comes to the girls I take home. If I can't engage wholeheartedly, then it just cheapens the experience. I’d rather go without than settle for anything less. And that’s what they don’t understand.
I’m not willing to compromise on a quick lay that’s half-hearted. Not when the real deal is out there.
I can be patient. I will be patient.
Even though it sucks.
Loyalty, strength, honor: these are the values that my grandfather taught me. He didn’t have to say it for me to know I should put those needs ahead of my own dick. So if that means that I’m “too picky”, then so be it. It doesn’t bother me.
I've felt something for all of the girls that I've been with—and they’ve left more than satisfied—but none of them have been the one . Even as a teenager I recognized that. And as soon as I realized those relationships weren’t going to last, I ended it. What was the point?
Yeah, I’ve done things in my past I’m not proud of, but who hasn’t? I’m ready now. I’m ready for my person.
I don’t think I’m asking for too much. A lot of the girls I’ve met are focused on material things: shoes, clothes, vacations. I get that. I’ve worked hard for what I’ve got. But I want someone who is okay with doing the everyday mundane shit too.
Things like going to the farmer’s market to make five-star, home-cooked meals enjoyed over candlelight.
Lively conversations with someone whose mind enchants me along with her body.
Someone that I can chase around the house while we clean on Saturday mornings and wrap my arms around Saturday nights.
Watching movies and laughing before we go to our bedroom while I make her scream my name over and over again…
The home phone rings, and I quickly unstrap one glove to pick up the receiver from the wall.
“Miguel!” my mother shouts before I can even say a word.
“Hola, Mami,” I say, setting the gloves on the kitchen counter before sliding down the wall to rest my back against it.
Just hearing her voice gives me comfort, soothing my frustration.
Only my immediate family calls me Miguel; my dad’s German side sticks with the traditional Michael Stromberg. And don’t get me started on nicknames.
“How are you doing today, Mijo?” she continues on in a high-lilting tone. I hear the energy in her voice. Today is a good day. Heaven knows she deserves it. The levels of pain my mother feels on a daily basis varies sometimes hour to hour.
Fibromyalgia can be such a bitch. It’s taken away my mother’s ability to do most of the things she used to enjoy. I’m the only one who really remembers when Mom could still dance around the kitchen, making food for me and my friends and creating a home away from home for my crew.
Now, most days it’s a struggle for her to just get out of bed. I hate what this chronic illness has done to her. But the days when she feels well are almost magical, and I’m happy for her.
“I’m good, Mami,” I reply, the smile apparent in my voice.
“Are you coming home anytime soon?”
“You know I try to get up there every couple of weeks or so.”
“I know, but I wanted to see if you’ll come up next weekend.”
“And why is that?” Clearly she has something up her sleeve.
“There’s a new family that’s coming to our church,” she starts, and I sigh, my irritation returning. I can already tell where this conversation is headed.
“Mom, I’m not driving to Charlotte to meet some girl so you can set me up with her.”
“I didn’t even get to that part yet. How did you know?” she asks, pretending to be offended.
“Because you do this all the time.” I try to keep my tone gentle and not as irritated as I feel.
She latches onto every available young woman the minute they step through the church doors, convinced she’s met her future daughter-in-law.
The number of times she has “just so happened” to invite a single girl out to lunch with us could buy me another Swiss Army watch.
She’s convinced that the love of my life will come from our home church.
Can’t blame her motherly wishes, but that’s not a requirement for me.
I need someone with fire and passion to match my own, more than what I’ve seen in any of the girls there.
She means well, but this is the last thing I need right now, especially after being in my mental funk all morning.
“Listen, carino, I know it seems like I’m too invested in your love life,” she starts and I try to hide my snort. “But it’s because I want to see you happy. To have someone take care of you.”
“Mami, I don’t need someone to take care of me.
That’s my job.” I shush her before she can start to protest. We are not on the same wavelength when it comes to what I need.
I love her, but her ideas of care are fairly antiquated.
“Even if I meet someone at church, it doesn’t really make sense to date them.
They’d be up in Charlotte, and I’m in Atlanta, remember? ”
“If it’s the right one, that won’t matter,” she says confidently.
I bark out a laugh. “Come on now, Mom. That’s not fair to whoever it is you want me to meet.”
“If it’s the right one, she and you will do whatever it takes to be together.”
I can’t blame her for saying so. My mom and dad are a true story of love at first sight.
He’d heard about her through his friends, and those same friends were quick to inform him when her boyfriend had forgotten her birthday.
So my dad put on his best suit, bought the biggest bouquet of flowers he could find, and showed up at her doorstep to ask her to dinner that same night.
They married a mere four months later and eventually had me and my sister, Isabella.
She was forced to give up her successful career as a physical therapist after the fibromyalgia developed, and it hurt to see her once-vibrant body betray her.
But her larger-than-life personality never wavered, even when she had to give up doing the things she’d once loved.
My dad adored her, no matter how much the pain had changed what she could or could not do.
He would come home from working long shifts, and rub her neck and shoulders if it was one of the few days she could tolerate being touched.
“I just want to see you happy, mijo . You’re too good of a young man to have to go through life alone.” Like I need the reminder that I’m twenty-five and still haven’t found her yet.
“I know, Mami. And I appreciate it. But I’m okay, really. And when I come up next time, I really don’t want to make small talk with another unsuspecting girl that I can’t even commit to a date with. It’s not fair to me or her. So please, can we just have dinner and church like we normally do?”
She sighs, but seems to accept what I’m saying when she replies, “Okay, mijo . I’ll tell the Harrisons maybe another time.”
I mentally smack my head as I realize she had already set something up. Better to nip this in the bud. “Thank you, Mami. Can I tell Connor and Sebastian that they’re invited to Sunday lunch?”
“You know you always can. Paquita is cooking her famous Sunday roast.” Yes , I mentally fist pump. Paquita’s roast is the very best, and I’m eternally grateful that she taught me and Isabella all of her tricks. It saves money cooking at home, sure, but it’s also the very best food on the planet.
I tell my mother that I love her and stand, unwinding the cord from my fingers before setting the phone back in its cradle. Didn’t realize how agitated I’d become after fending off another of her blind date attempts.
Exhaling, I lean back against the counter, folding my arms. I know I’m going to find her, my girl, my wife , here in Atlanta, not Charlotte. It was part of the reason I took this transfer to a new office. Plus, after what had happened with my boss’s son…
Leaving Charlotte and all the baggage of my past in order to build a new life on my own, without any family pressures, was the best opportunity I could have asked for in that fallout.
I got to keep my job.
And my gut tells me I’ll find the love of my life here.
But, God, where is she?