Unlucky In Love (11 page)

The day after my watershed moment, I got to
work. No way was I going to be afraid of being alone. I would learn
to love myself and enjoy life
by myself
— without a man.

I didn’t need a man. I had
Seth
. Yes,
it was odd that I’d named my
toy
after a man that I’d never
gone out with, let alone slept with. But even though Seth hadn’t
made a play for me, he was one hot man, so who better to think
about? I had my toys in the garage too, and I planned to use
them.

Angela needed my help
too,
if only to give her one day a week when she didn’t
have to change diapers, clean up spit-up, or listen to the
ABC
song a hundred and one times. She’d been there for me
when I was at my worst, so I owed it to her to be there for her
while she was trying to take care of two babies while her husband
was out of town on business.

Surfing the web, I found several kayak
clubs. The pictures on the site indicated that they took trips all
around the globe, and I planned to join them. Obviously, I couldn’t
go for long periods, only day trips for now. But Eric had his
driver’s license — as well as a new truck, courtesy of Dick Embers
— so I had plenty of time during the day.

At least once a week, I made sure I took a
day to go do something worth writing about, and it showed in my
writing.

But I wanted more … I wanted a rush.

After every great adventure, I wrote about
it in my journal, determined to share it somewhere.

But it still wasn’t enough. I’d been held
back for so long that I felt like all the adrenaline inside of me
would explode if I didn’t get it out.

***

I stared up at the “Extreme Motorsports”
sign and smiled. That’s what I wanted, something extreme, exciting,
maybe even a tad dangerous.

As I walked through the store, my hand
grazed the motorcycles, dirt bikes, Jet Skis, and mountain bikes. I
glanced around at the individual salesmen, either sitting behind
their desks, typing on the computer, or just staring out the
window.

I sighed. Every time I went shopping, it was
the same old thing. If Dick walked into a furniture store, the
salesmen dropped their donuts to assist him. Of course, Dick looked
like he had money. Even when we hadn’t, he still managed to have a
certain air about him, which I now viewed as pompous.

Me
, I was dressed in my
standard jeans and a T-shirt, my hair pulled back in a ponytail.
Yeah, after a quick glance at my left hand, men had no problem
asking me out, but getting waited on was another story
altogether.

I rested my hands on my hips and just stared
at one guy until he had to acknowledge me.

Reluctantly, he pocketed his phone and
dragged his feet across the floor. “Looking for something?”

“Yes, please,” I said, pointing to a sleek
red-and-white WaveRunner. “What type of financing do you have on
that?”

The salesman turned to the Yamaha brand
watercraft and flipped the placard over repeatedly in his hands, as
though whatever was written on it might change. He sucked on his
teeth. “I think it might have 5.9% financing.”

I resisted rolling my eyes. “When I looked
on the Internet, I read something about 2.9%. Could you check, and
also let me know the best price out the door, including tax and any
registration fees?”

The man sniffed. “Yeah, I think you’re right
about the 2.9%. You wanna bring your husband in and we can get
y’all
a deal?”

I sighed. “Boy, did you just lose the
fastest deal ever.” I turned and walked out the door. There were
several other stores in Pinellas County. I’d keep looking until I
found one that knew how to treat a woman.

Twenty minutes later, I was standing in
front of another salesman, a salesman who approached me as soon as
I walked in the door, telling me to wave when I was ready for help.
I walked right over to the exact same WaveRunner I’d seen in the
other store and made the same request.

One hour later, I had a new WaveRunner
hooked to the back of my truck. A couple miles down the road, I
headed into the outdoor store where Dick had bought the sea
kayak.

I wanted more …

I signed Eric and myself up for a whitewater
rafting trip, something I’d wanted to do my entire life. If he
didn’t want to go, I’d go by myself.

***

Which I ended up doing just that …

Mark, the whitewater guide assigned to our
group, held my hand as I lowered myself into the
Ducky
, as
he’d called it. I’d paid to go on the whitewater raft, but as soon
as I saw the individual whitewater kayak rafts, I knew this was my
chance to release some more adrenaline. A chance to hit the rapids
on my own, without relying on someone else to paddle.

After each rapid, I rejoiced. The fear of
death actually made me feel alive. Not that the Nantahala River was
dangerous in comparison to other rivers I’d researched, but I’d
heard there’d been a couple of deaths caused by paddlers getting
their feet pinned beneath rocks after their boats had capsized.

Well, I just wouldn’t tip over, that was all
there was to it.

The crisp fall day was sunny, so even though
the water was freezing, it felt good. I inhaled the sweet rotting
smell of the fallen leaves as I soared down the crystal clear
whitewater. The guide had told me to slow down, but I was on a
high. After each rapid, I couldn’t wait to get to the next one. I’d
spent my life staring at the flat waters in Florida … I wanted the
rapids. I also wanted a boat like the bright green one that Mark
was paddling.

Several times after we’d rolled over the
rapids, he’d moved into a “hole” as he’d called it, and surfed the
waves. He’d actually been able to paddle upstream without moving
forward or backward. Instead, it looked as though he were
surfing.

Once when his boat had flipped, I’d gasped,
but in
seconds
he’d popped upright.

My wetsuit folded down over my shorts, I ran
to catch up with the whitewater guide. “How did you learn to do
that?”

Mark cocked his head and smiled. “Learn how
to do what?”

“Turn the kayak over like you did.”

“Oh, rolling it? My boss. He taught me how
to kayak years ago. I’d started in sales at the outdoor store, but
I wanted to be a guide. He made me roll a kayak over and over until
I had it down, said he wouldn’t take me into whitewater until I
learned. We spent hours on Lake Nantahala.”

“Is that something most rafting stores offer
lessons on?”

“Usually … if they have a pool or lake
nearby.”

I smiled. “Thanks, Mark!” I trotted off
toward my car.

“Hey,” he called, and I turned back to
listen to him, “we’re all going to Cherokee tonight. You’re welcome
to come.”

“Sounds like fun,” I said, and then darted
off again. It did sound like fun, but I had some writing to do. One
adventure at a time.

While on the water today, I’d realized what
I really
had
to write.
My writing
wasn’t about money anymore … although it was nice to be able to pay
the bills.

***

Eighteen months to the day after I’d kicked
out my husband, I had an epiphany: I didn’t need a man.

Sure, I might want to date and fall in love
again someday, but I didn’t need to. And it was nothing short of
amazing how much more attractive I was to the opposite sex after I
wasn’t interested in them anymore. Just like Mark the whitewater
guide. The man was friendly and cute, and must see a hundred
good-looking college girls a week, and yet, he’d asked me to join
him and his friends in Cherokee. I hadn’t heard him invite anyone
else.

But I didn’t have time to date. Dating was
messy. I needed time to write.

Once again, every minute of my life, other
than the time I set aside to spend with Eric, was dedicated to
writing a new book. Eric would head off to college in a few months,
so I had to force that time. But every other minute of the day and
night, even while I was sleeping, I concentrated on my story.

All of a sudden, I felt as though I were
writing a self-help book. Me, the woman who’d been unlucky in love.
Me
, the woman who’d finally made it on her
own, but then fell into a bout of depression.

That was okay, though … I’d learned that
luck
was relative. What I originally thought was bad luck
had been an eye-opener. In the last eighteen
months,
I’d learned to really live. And more importantly,
I’d learned to love myself. The woman who’d been unlucky in love
had finally found someone to love her who’d never leave her:
herself
.

I’d learned what I needed to learn, so even
if no other person felt the way I did, at least writing out my
thoughts had been therapeutic. And who knew, maybe I’d touch
someone with my words, and that was all that mattered.

Once again, my same tattered folder bound
together close to four hundred pages of my ramblings. Only this
time, it wasn’t a romantic-suspense novel where the hero rode off
with the heroine; it was a collection of stupid mistakes made by
the female protagonist … and all the other characters who’d been a
part of her life.

It was a novel, but it was more than that.
It was a journey of one woman’s survival through her unconventional
— bordering on abusive — childhood, her unloving marriage, and her
unrelenting determination to learn to love herself. The narrative
wasn’t meant to induce pity, though. Hopefully, the story prompted
laugh-out-loud moments and at other times a box-of-tissues crying
jags.

I dropped the folder on the table and
collapsed into the chair closest to the door.

Angela stared at it as if it might burst
into flames. “It’s finished?”

I blew out a breath. “It’s finished. Well,
until you attack it with your bright red pen.”

Angela bounced her youngest on her hip as
she ran her long fingers through my hair. “You look exhausted. Are
you sure you should be going kayaking?”

Even though I could barely keep my eyes
open, I looked up at her. “It’s tradition. I can’t break
tradition.”

“Who says you have to go the same day that
you drop off your manuscript with your editor?”

I attempted a smile, but it took too much
energy, so I just grunted.

“I thought you made the rules?” she
continued.

I rolled my shoulders and rested my head
against the wall. “You’re so fresh. Who raised you again?”

“Some lucky woman who was fortunate to have
me as her charge so I could take care of her once I grew up.”

“True. Very true. I am some lucky woman, all
right.” And I was. I may have been unlucky in love, but I had my
son, Angela, and now I had J’Austen.” I yawned. “Maybe just a
little nap. Because we don’t have much time. As soon as you finish
reading it, I’m sending that baby around.”

“Really, you’re going to submit it to an
agent?”

“Yep.”

“And are you still planning to submit it
with your real name?”

“Yep. I want the world to know that Jana
Embers doesn’t need a man.”

Turn the page for a sneak peek at
Some
Lucky Woman
, or just head on over to my website,
http://www.carmendesousabooks.com/
,
to find links to this and all of my books.

“Everything worth having costs something,
and the price of true love is self-knowledge.”

– Ralph Waldo Emerson

Heedless of a paper cut, I tore into the
envelope with my real name,
Jana Embers
, neatly printed
across the front. My handwriting, of course. All manuscript
submissions sent via post required that a self-addressed stamped
envelope accompany the query. After all, if I took the time to
physically send my manuscript to a literary agent, the last thing I
wanted was an email back, right?

Wrong! I’d love an email. A phone call would
be wonderful. Hell, a text would suffice.

As the neighborhood advocate for recycling,
I wasn’t even sure I was interested in an agency that didn’t accept
electronic queries, though, so I’d only sent out a handful of
submissions via snail mail.

But then I thought … What if no one sent
manuscript queries to the agency via post? How much more
professional would I look if I took the time to print off and mail
a one-page query letter, a three-page synopsis, and the first three
chapters of my manuscript?

Dedicated, I decided. I’d look like an
author who was willing to go the extra mile when it came to her
career choice, which I was.

Palms sweaty and jaw clenched, my eyes
darted across the page, which I knew immediately from the one short
paragraph would be a rejection.

“Blah! Blah! Blah!” I grumbled as I read the
few words, then crumpled up the single sheet of paper and made a
perfect bank shot of the wad, right off my writing desk into a mesh
trash can. “Two points!” I cheered, jolting my cat, Jane Austen,
whom I lovingly referred to as J’Austen, from her slumber.

The agent hadn’t even taken the time to use
my name in the salutation “Dear Author” as she wished me success.
Forget the sugarcoated rejections, I wanted someone who was willing
to give me the facts straight so I could write a better novel.

“Meh!” I grumbled, then smiled down at my
calico. “Not my first rejection, baby kitty, and I’m sure it won’t
be my last. Never give up the dream, right?”

J’Austen stared at me through one amber eye,
apparently not pleased with my outbursts and my attempt to talk to
her. Since we lived alone, she was my sounding board. But she was a
terrible conversationalist and an even worse listener than my
ex-husband when she wanted to take a nap.