When She Said Yes

Yes. A three-letter word that can carry the weight off a person's shoulders. A tiny word that can change lives and create futures. The sweetest word to the ears of lovers longing for acceptance. Yes.

Out of all the yeses I've heard from her, there are three that stand out.

The first time she said yes wasn't even a good thing for me.

"Excuse me, is this seat taken?"

We were in a fast-food store. She was alone at a table. All the other tables were full. I approached her.

It wasn't even a yes, really. She just sort of smiled and nodded.

"Sorry," she said.

I turned and spilled my Coke all over the floor. The people around started staring and moving away from the spillage.

Quick, say something cool to cover up how embarrassing this is, I thought.

"Gravity." She said it so casually, I wondered if she was mocking me or just stating an obvious fact.

"Yeah. Newton was right."

The store staff started mopping my mess. I spotted an empty table and made my way toward it.

She went back to whatever she was doing. I never saw anyone sit on the empty seat in front of her.

***

Her second special yes happened so quickly, I don't even think she realized what she just said.

She was at her friend's house. They were doing a surprise project for another friend. I just got off work and had nowhere to go. I knew she was busy and I couldn't see her that day, but I still called.

"Hello. Just got off work?" she asked. I heard her open a door, probably moving into a more quiet room.

"Yeah. How's the project going along? Did you find the rubber tacks at the bookstore?"

"No, the salesperson said they ran out. We're improvising. They're making something out of glue and something else right now."

"Hmm . . . need help?"

"Uhh . . . not really. It's a girls' activity. Plus, we wouldn't want to bore you with our girly girl issues." She was using her annoying valley girl accent. I loved it.

"Well, yeah, you've got a point. I just . . ."

"Hey, who're you talking to? We need you upstairs." I heard one of her friends on the other line. "Oh, is that your boyfriend?"

"Yes! I'm talking to my boyfriend. Now go. I'll be right up after this." I could hear the smile in her voice and the teasing of her friends. "Hello? You still there?"

It wasn't much of a yes, I admit. It was the first time I heard her say it out loud to her friends, though.

I could hardly stop smiling. The people on the street must have thought I'd gone crazy. Maybe I had.

"Hello? Are you there?"

"Yes, your boyfriend is here."

***

"Do you still love me?"

We'd just completed one year of married life, and we were experiencing the tension. The honeymoon season had gone, and everything about being a couple started feeling more like an obligation, a duty I didn't enjoy doing.

We were renting a house. There were bills to pay. Our work schedules were changing from time to time. We couldn't stay put for a moment. We never went on dates anymore. We never talked heart to heart the way we used to. There was never time. Not until now.

"Do you still love me?"

It was a Wednesday night, and everything just fell apart. It was a mess. I made a mess. "Gravity," I heard her voice in my head. Gravity that pulled us down, drowning us, drowning me.

She waited for me. She waited at the lobby like she always did, like she was supposed to. And I was driving away from her, driving with someone else in the passenger seat, driving like I wasn't supposed to.

I got home that night to a dark house and went to sleep beside a broken heart.

"Do you still love me?"

She sank to the floor in tears that day I told her. She felt helpless. She felt betrayed. Then she told me.

"I saved it for you. The seat. I saved it after that day. Because I thought it'd be nice to be your friend. Because I thought you were different. I saved it every single time."

And we were there again. At the fast-food store, Coke all over the floor. I sat a ways from her. Her own Coke now only a cup of ice, my wet food staring at me from my table.

Suddenly she was there. She introduced herself. She said sorry again for making me spill my Coke, as if it were her fault. She started talking, and though I did find it weird, I couldn't help but listen to her. I don't remember most of what she said that day, but I remember how she said it. There was life in her. There was vibrancy spilling out of her every word, every gesture. Her smile, the way she would pause and try to remember something as I guessed what she wanted to say, the ease in the conversation. That was when I said yes. Yes to this girl who blames gravity. Yes to a life committed to loving only her.

In time she would tell me she loved me too, that she'd marry me. In time she explained why she did what she did that day at the fast-food store. She said yes to my friendship, yes to my love, yes to a lifetime with me. Yes. For the first time in her life, she allowed herself to say yes---to someone who just broke her heart.

"Do you still love me?"

She sat there, watching the sunset. She sat there, alone. She was older now. There were streaks of white in her hair, caught by the sun and reflected like glitters in the air. I walked up to her. She saw me and smiled. I sat with her. We spent that moment together. And it was then, after all those years, I figured it out.

Yes to love is not a free pass. It needs to be worked on and cultivated. It needs to be taken care of and valued. It means not taking advantage. It means sticking to one's promises, one's commitments. Love means action. Love makes decisions. Love needs forgiveness.

As we sat there, her hand in mine, I felt the ring that symbolized our promise to each other. A promise that needs guarding. We sat there and I asked her.

"Do you still love me?"

And every time she says it, I know that I'm saved. I'm saved by gravity. I'm saved by her openness and her acceptance of me. I'm saved by her forgiveness. I'm saved by a three-letter word that means everything to me.

"Yes."

Yes, I will always do.