Both Cleaving and Cleaving

Chapter 2

Chapter 2Boaz pulled my hand to his mouth and kissed my knuckles. I bit my bottom lip as my face went scarlet. Could he tell I was about to fall over? Probably.

“May I?” he questioned, holding out one hand and gesturing toward the dance floor with the other. It was getting close to showtime, and people were finding their seats. But the only man I had ever danced with like that was my daddy, and I wanted to experience it like he said one day I would. So, I nodded, and Boaz led me to the dance floor.

As we turned toward each other, Billy Joel’s song She’s Got a Way About Her came on. He placed his hand on my bare back, and I gasped. It was warm and large with just enough pressure to pull me toward him without pushing us together uncomfortably. He picked up our joined hands, and I placed my other hand on his shoulder. Slowly, he began to move, and he pulled me with him. He was a good dancer, who knew how to lead. We weren’t doing anything fancy, but I felt his presence over me. His eyes held mine, intense and full of wonder. They were a deep cyan now in the brighter light, like the deep water off a tropical shore. I tried to think of something to say.

“Thank you for coming.”

Boaz’s concentration didn’t break, nor did his eyes leave mine. “Thank you for having me.”

“It’s our pleasure.” He just kept staring, making me squirm a bit. “Where did you learn to dance?”

“My mother made me take lessons. You?” Boaz’s eyebrows raised with his question, nearly knocking me over. He was in complete control of me.

“My daddy taught me.” His face cracked a smile as if he was fond of what I was saying. I wondered if he was close to his parents as well. I knew nothing about them, other than they adopted him. We kept moving around the dance floor, wrapped up in the music, finding our own harmony with each other. He kept his piercing eyes on me, and I gazed back at him until the song wound down.

He stepped back. “Thank you,” he said. “That was . . .”

“Magic.”

The left corner of his mouth rose slightly, and he nodded. “Yeah,” he pushed out in a breath as if still enchanted.

Suddenly, his gaze lifted over my shoulder. “Luca, can you take Boaz to his seat?” Coleen asked. I looked around, and we were the last people standing on the dance floor, most of the audience looking at us. I led Boaz to his seat, which Coleen had placed next to mine, opposite of Oliver Tate.

Boaz was charming and witty throughout dinner. The meal was excellent and the conversation fluid. We were at an eight-top table, and the six other guests were very interested to hear about Boaz’s career. I sat back and enjoyed him being in the spotlight. He had well-rehearsed answers, obviously having been interviewed a million times before.

Boaz sounded a bit uncertain when they asked him about his injury and recovery. While he talked, I took him in. His posture was solid, his bicep the size of my thigh. Boaz had beautiful brown skin that complemented his blue eyes perfectly. I wondered what his parents looked like, the first ones, not his adoptive parents. He was here to speak about the group home and being adopted out of it. With any luck, he would tell the crowd that their donations would make kids’ dreams come true.

“Oh, I don’t really talk about her,” Boaz said, looking to me for help, but I wasn’t paying attention to the conversation.

“Do you know about her? Is she still alive? Do you have any contact?” Dr. Watkins, a tenured professor in the Social Work Department at the University of Oklahoma, was asking.

“There isn’t anything to say about my birth mother. My parents are my parents. I don’t think about my birth mother at all, nor do I consider her a parent.”

“You don’t feel anything for her?” Dr. Watkins pressed.

Boaz’s jaw flexed, and his neck grew pink. “No, I don’t. The term birth mother is kind of a joke anyway. It’s not like she did any mothering. She just had a child she couldn’t take care of and then left me to the State to deal with. It’s a shame, really. I don’t like the term birth mother. Mother should mean something more than that.”

My eyes were slits, piercing prince charming through the forehead. How dare he say such things? I couldn’t find my voice.

“Now, hang on,” Oliver interjected. “Some women place their children at birth because they believe their circumstances are such that it is in the best interest of the child.” Oh, dearest Oliver Tate. His chivalry gave me whiplash.

“But how could they believe that? Being put up for adoption is a big, fat rejection, no matter how you look at it.” My heart was pounding, my head splitting. I gritted my teeth hard, trying to avoid the tears threatening to pour out of my eyes.

“Some people view placing their child for adoption as providing for their child,” Oliver countered.

“I hear you. I guess I’m talking about my own situation. I think it’s a little different than what you’re talking about.” Boaz’s recovery was not in time.

“Excuse me.” I abruptly got up from the table. Boaz rose to his feet, but I was not impressed by his manners. I sped out of the room and found the bathroom. Deep breathing to calm down, I racked my brain for what to do. I couldn’t just ignore him. I was supposed to schmooze him.

What did he know about it anyway? Nothing. He had one experience and was an expert. Great! Just like every other adoption blog.

Out of nowhere, June, the beloved leader of the birth mom support group I attended, was in my head. ‘We have to educate people. Birth moms are stigmatized because we stay silent and ashamed. We don’t have to live like that. Speak up!’

As I looked in the mirror, a sly grin crawled across my face. Yes, I would speak up in about ten minutes on the panel. I couldn’t wait to see the look on Boaz’s face. If I had the power in this dress, I was going to use it for good, damn it!

Head held high, I walked out of the bathroom and to my chair. Oliver looked at me, and I nodded at him. I could feel Boaz looking at me from the side, but I didn’t give him the satisfaction. He would know how much of a shame I was soon enough. Then, we would see just how long his charms would last.

The microphone gave a screech, and the audience gasped. Coleen was at center stage welcoming guests and thanking people for coming and contributing. She spoke eloquently and deliberately as she prepped the audience for the stories they were going to hear.

After a short informational video about the group home for children and our family residence, the people we served, and what we did for them, as well as our needs both short and long term, Coleen introduced the panel. The panel consisted of a set of adoptive parents, an adoptee, and a birth mom every year. This year, the adoptive parents were a couple I didn’t know, the adoptee was Boaz, and I was the birth mom.

We took our seats. Boaz was in the middle, looking at me with wary eyes. I raised my eyebrows and set a smug look on my face. His face went pale.

Because adoption begins with the birth mom, I went first.

“You may not think it from this dress I’m wearing or my master’s degree, but I grew up as poor as they come. My parents didn’t have two nickels to rub together, as the saying goes. They loved me though, fiercely, and they taught me that if I worked hard enough, I could go to college and get a good job.

“So, I worked hard all through school. I made straight A’s and got full scholarship offers to several schools. I was young and stupid, though. I was smitten with a boy from my high school, who flattered me enough for me to follow him to the University of Oklahoma. I was pregnant before my first semester was over, and I was devastated. This was not in my plan.

“I talked to my parents. They were sure I was going to be an excellent mother, but they worried about how I would live. They could not support my child and me, and I was going to lose my scholarship if I took time off. My parents told me about how hard it was to watch their kids suffer because of their choices and lack of education, and I listened.

“You see, I already loved my child. I was going to do anything for her, even live without her, if it meant it was better for her. She was all I thought about when I went into the adoption agency and had my first meeting.

“In that meeting, they told me I could maintain a relationship with her, watch her grow up. So, I made a plan, chose her parents, and waited for the inevitable. My social worker tried to prepare me. My parents talked to me a lot. I made friends with a birth mom and spoke to her. She tried to talk me out of it, but I couldn’t see any way forward but adoption.

“In early March, on a beautiful day, I gave birth to Shiloh Kate and held her close to me for as long as I could. She was perfect.”

My voice cracked, and I swallowed hard.

“She had ten fingers and ten toes, and she knew me. She stopped crying when I held her. I fed her and talked to her and sang to her and made her promises, ones that I could keep. Then, when the time came, I placed her in her adoptive mama’s arms, but I couldn’t let go. My vision was blurred by tears, and her mama was so kind to me. ‘Let’s just share her,’ she said, and so we did. We both stood there, holding this tiny life. It took me several minutes, but eventually, I told her mama I was letting her have her now, and I let go. Without looking back, I left the hospital without her. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done, still to this day.

“Shiloh Kate is five now and fearless like me. She is smart like her adoptive daddy and full of life and joy like her adoptive mama. She is a part of all of us that we share, and we do still share her. I get to see her often, and they are always inviting me to celebrate her with them. It’s special. Hard, but special.

“Something that surprised me was that when I chose life for her, I chose life for me. I didn’t expect that. I have finished my master’s degree in social work, and I work at Hope Place because I feel like I’m making a difference. The more I see, the more passionate I am about protecting children, and the more convinced I am that children need families, and families should stay together whenever possible. I fight for family preservation because I wish I had an opportunity like Hope Place five years ago. I might have been able to see Shiloh Kate every day and not just twice a month.

“Thank you.”

As I pulled the microphone away from my lips, I glanced around the room. Women were dabbing their eyes all over the place. I took a chance and looked at Boaz, piercing him where he sat. His eyes were enigmatic, his mouth turned down.

I looked back toward the audience and listened as Coleen introduced the adoptive couple. They had a story that was filled with ups and downs, and they took the time to lavish several poignant compliments on Hope Place for our love and service of their child. Boaz seemed more comfortable with their tale than with mine. Good riddance.

Then, it was Boaz’s turn. His story began when his parents adopted him. Typical. They showed a picture of him holding one of those horrid signs about the number of days he was in foster care before he was adopted. BARF! He said things like, ‘I am much better off,’ and ‘I am so blessed.’ It irked me that he talked about being the MLB NL MVP who came from nothing, but he didn’t acknowledge his beginning. The only part of his story I liked was when he talked about his sister, who was younger than him and adopted internationally from China. He obviously adored her.

When the panel was over, I exited stage left. I returned to my seat for the remainder of the night, and when the program was done, I stood. Again, Boaz stood with me, but I wasn’t about to talk to him. I made my way around the room, chatting with guests and thanking them for coming. I answered questions about being a birth mom and about Hope Place. For half an hour, I chatted with people, feeling Boaz near me, hearing his voice in my vicinity. No matter where I moved, he followed.

“Great job up there.” Oliver Tate gave me a high five.

“Thank you, and thanks for sticking up for birth moms to Boaz Stone. He’s full of himself, isn’t he?” There was unavoidable acid in my tone.

Oliver grinned. “He’s also right behind you.”

“I know. I can’t shake him.” I rolled my eyes.

“You want me to get you out of here?” Oliver sounded hopeful, but I wasn’t that desperate. I could hold my own with an arrogant prick like Boaz MLB NL MVP Stone.

“No, I’m okay. Thanks, though.”

“Are we still on for Monday?” Oliver asked me.

My eyes lit up. “Definitely. I’m really looking forward to it! I mean, I am, but I’m not.”

“I feel the same way, Luca.” A peculiar look came over Oliver’s face. “I love spending time with you, no matter what we’re doing. It’s always good to be with you.”

I shook my head and pushed him gently. “Stop it.”

We both laughed, and I realized that Boaz was at my side. My heart beat erratically, and my palms were sweaty. Oliver didn’t seem to notice. He looked at Boaz and made a swift, cordial exit—the chicken. I had no time to make my own escape.

Boaz Stone was looking at me. “I didn’t mean to run off your boyfriend.”

I shot him a look. “He’s not my boyfriend.” I started walking.

“You could have told me,” Boaz called after me.

I spun around. “Told you what?”

“That you were a birth mom. I didn’t mean to be insensitive. That woman was just on me, and it made me nervous. I shouldn’t have said those things.”

My heart was flat in my feet. I couldn’t figure out why I was scared, but I was. And I was mad too. So, I squared up to him and gave him all I had.

“It’s not the words you said, Boaz; it’s that you think them, at all. It’s hard enough for birth moms to de-stigmatize ourselves without a famous baseball player contributing to the problem. I mean, I’ve been called a lot of things, but this is the first time I’ve been called a joke.” I spun back around to leave him with my words, but he wasn’t done.

“I wasn’t calling you a joke. I was talking about my birth mother.”

“Whatever. Go throw a ball or something.”

I tried to shake free, but his eyes held mine. His crooked smile was back, amused by my effort to insult him. “Listen, when you spoke tonight, I was . . . mesmerized. Do you know what it feels like to have people tell you that your mother loved you so much she gave you away or didn’t show up and reclaim you when she lost you or that she did the right thing by rejecting you? Why would I have a great view of women like you, Luca?

“But then, I heard you speak. That was the first time I ever wondered what my birth mom might have been like before all the drugs and stuff. Dr. What’s-her-name was asking me things I didn’t know the answer to, things I never even considered. I panicked. I’m sorry if I offended you. Please, forgive me.” Boaz placed his hand over his heart.

My heart went out to him. I wanted to help him understand that birth moms are good people, that we struggle with our decision forever. Maybe his mom screwed it up royally, but maybe she didn’t mean to. And maybe he was devastated by her choices, which is something I feared Shiloh Kate may one day feel. My compassion kicked in.

I took a deep breath. “Apology accepted.”

“Thank you.”

I nodded at him. He had a boyish grin on his face like he won a prize. It irritated me that I thought it was adorable.

He tucked both of his hands into the pockets in his pants. He stood there, feet apart and relaxed, looking at me like he was trying to memorize my face. Then, he licked his bottom lip, and I took a shaky breath while I felt my hands close around my thumbs.

Somehow, I couldn’t step away from him. I was pinned there, still unable to believe how beautiful he was this close up. There was not a flaw on his brown skin. Looking at him felt like a loss somehow, as if I was reaching for something I would never be able to hold.

With my hormones making me sweat and how unattractive I must have been to him because I placed my daughter for adoption, I forced myself to make a move to leave. “Well, it was nice to meet you, and thank you for supporting Hope Place,” I offered as a conclusion to the ridiculous mess between us.

“What?” Boaz blanched.

My brow wrinkled. “I said, th—”

“No, I heard what you said, but that can’t be it. I can’t let you walk away. I have to know you.”

I stepped back, my hands flying to my chest and my eyes going wide. “Me?” How could he say that after his speech at dinner?

“Yes, you!” he charged. “You just changed my life. I came to this fundraiser feeling sure of myself, and now, I’m going to be up all night wondering about my birth mother.”

“She might suck,” I blurted out, feeling guilty that I had worked him up over something that might bring him nothing but pain.

His reply was calm, quiet. “She might, but she might inspire people to be better than they are.” As he said it, his eyes studied my face. Stunned into silence, I stared at him breathing hard, my heart now swollen and threatening to burst out of my chest. “May I take you to dinner? Maybe Sunday night?”

“I’m busy on Sunday.” I realized my voice sounded regretful.

“Monday then?” Boaz’s voice was pleading.

I couldn’t think. His grey eyes were beckoning me toward him. “Yes.” My voice was just above a whisper, making me realize how fan girlish I sounded.

“Excellent.” Boaz smiled at me. “Can I get your number?” Boaz pulled out his phone and said, “Luca Pearl,” as he typed in my name. Then, he looked up at me expectantly. I gave him my number, and he grinned as he put his phone back into his pocket.

We stood there just looking at each other for an awkward moment. Boaz Stone was polished like a Michelangelo statue and dressed like a Hollywood star.

“You wouldn’t happen to want to get a drink now, would you?” Boaz asked, his eyebrows raised slightly.

“No, thank you.”

Even if I wasn’t dead tired, I needed time to get used to the idea that he asked me to dinner, and I said yes. My mind ricocheted like a pinball with the embarrassment of succumbing to this man’s charms, doubting his intentions for dinner, wanting him to be a good guy, and losing track of why I agreed to dinner in the first place. And now, he had my phone number.

I cleared my throat. “Um . . . just use that number to . . . you know. . . . I mean, in case you change your mind or something.”

His crooked smile was back, hypnotizing me again. “Luca?”

“Yes.” My voice was an octave higher than usual.

Boaz bent his head toward me for effect. “I’m not going to change my mind.”

I couldn’t breathe. It must have been a hundred degrees in the room. I needed to get out of there, fast. “Okay, well, great. I’ll see you on Monday then,” I said awkwardly as I backed up.

I gave him a frantic wave and continued to walk backward. When I turned around, I nearly smacked into the wall, and I had to stop for a couple of seconds to recover. I didn’t dare look back. I bolted through the door, trying to maintain the only ounce of dignity I had left.