Unlucky In Love (12 page)

“Oh, stop being such a grouch,” I
reprimanded her. “My books pay for that fancy cat food you love so
much. We may be doing fine with my self-published books, but
imagine the cat towers and snacks we could afford if my book got
picked up by a major publisher?”

J’Austen responded with a wide yawn,
reminding me of a lion on
Animal Planet
, then rolled over on
her back, stretching her body out beneath a ray of sunlight
streaming through the screen room. Even a lizard couldn’t vie for
her attention when it was time for her mid-morning nap.

Not bothered by the rejection letter or my
cat’s lack of enthusiasm at my great shot and career goals, I
headed for my pool. I had a date with my new whitewater kayak
today. Kayaking had become my favorite pastime. Favorite pastime in
the daylight hours, that is. But I wanted to step up my paddling a
notch.

I’d taught myself to kayak on the smooth
flat waters in Florida, but I was ready for a new challenge. The
instructor at the kayak store had been clear, though: “If you can’t
master the kayak roll, you have no business in whitewater,” I
mocked his California surfer dude accent.

But it’s what I wanted to do. For me. I
wanted to feel the spray of cool water in my face. I wanted to
experience the rush of conquering the rapids. I wanted to feel
alive. I had proven to myself that I could make it on my own, that
I could get my son through high school and off to college, that I
could make it as an author.

Now, if I could conquer my fear of being
upside down in my kayak and my largest challenge: selling my new
book to an agent. Oddly enough, I experienced almost the exact same
anxiety every time I opened a letter or email from an agent as I
did when I was suspended upside down inside my kayak.

In either situation, I couldn’t breathe.

My calico stretched her neck upward as I
walked past her, so I offered her a scratch between the ears as I
muttered, “We can do it, can’t we, J’Austen?” My loyal, even if
grumpy from time to time, writing partner indulged me by meowing
her assent, then hopped up and trotted to her cotton towel on the
lounge chair, obviously assuming that my sudden eruption hadn’t
signaled that her laid-back world was coming to an end today.

The fact of the matter was I was doing well
as a self-published author. But, man, oh man, I wanted an agent.
Marketing and all the other tasks associated with actually
selling
my books monopolized so much of my day that often
there wasn’t enough time to write, let alone do the activities I
now loved, like kayaking, which fed my mind with more ideas to
write about.

Determined now, I picked up the
thirty-seven-pound river-running kayak and lowered it into the
pool, careful not to disturb J’Austen any more than I already had.
She hated when I did this, but I had to do it. I had to learn.

Today was the day!
I avowed
silently.

The trainer at the outdoor store had taught
me everything there was to know about rolling a kayak. I was just
scared. I was afraid of drowning.

Something like I’d felt the day I’d kicked
out my unfaithful husband two years ago, leaving my son and me with
barely enough money to eat and pay the utilities. Thankfully, I’d
gotten the house in the divorce, and since I hadn’t worked outside
the home during our fifteen-year marriage, he had to pay the
mortgage, and child support for a few more years, which of course
wasn’t enough to keep the lights on and feed a growing
teenager.

At that time, I’d been thirty-four with no
résumé and no idea how I would keep the house running. My son and I
had needed water to bathe and to eat something other than coffee
and English muffins so I’d had to find a way to make money.

Although wonderful lying ex-hubby had called
me a
MILF
during more than one heated roll in the sack, I
figured finding a sugar daddy was out of the question. I’d still
looked okay. I’d always kept my five-five frame in shape, and my
dark chestnut hair had very little gray. Even my hazel eyes usually
attracted a second glance from many men. Of course, those traits
were
compliments
of genetics, so I couldn’t
really take too much credit, and I couldn’t make money off the fact
that I was still in decent shape — not legally anyway — so I’d
decided to do the only things I loved: read and write.

Well, other than college, I’d never written
anything, but I’d read enough novels in my day to know what women
wanted in a book boyfriend, so I started to write sappy romance
stories. Even though my prince charming — and every other man I’d
dated since my divorce — had turned out to be a frog, I took
pleasure in writing the heroes who didn’t. And surprisingly, I was
good at it. I started making enough money that I could go out and
enjoy my life, finally be adventurous.

As fate would have it, while I was having
fun in my new career as an author, my ex-husband, Dick Embers the
car salesman, wasn’t living life as the free spirit he’d wanted to
be. Instead, he was raising a new baby with
Miss
Floozy
. Ironic that he traded me
in for a newer model, as though I were an outdated used car.

I wasn’t being crass, I swear. That’s my
ex’s name. He liked to go by Dick instead of Richard, so that he
could say that his … umm … Well, most people could come up with
plenty of racy comments, even without him saying his name as though
he were James Bond.
Embers, Dick Embers
. Ugh!

A dozen or so crummy dates later, I realized
I didn’t need a man. A perfectly sized and shaped device and
writing about the perfect hero would more than suffice. My cat
certainly didn’t need a tomcat, so why did I need a man who acted
like a wild feline? The answer was simple: I didn’t.

Not that I hadn’t been devastated by my
husband’s betrayal, I was.
At first.
Devastated, furious,
angry, repulsed, vindictive, bitter … as any woman who’d poured her
life into a marriage would be. I even went a little
Carrie
Underwood
on his truck. Thankfully, my ex hadn’t pressed
charges.

But then I realized, other than sex, we had
nothing in common. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t find
anything that we liked to do together. And he hadn’t bothered to
try to find something. My ex hadn’t been interested in anything
other than working and playing golf. Oh, and sex. Our marriage had
started after we’d had unprotected sex, then ended because of
unprotected sex.

But that was two years ago. My life was so
much better now. Now I was an author who wasn’t afraid to be
adventurous indoors — and outdoors. I ate what I wanted, when I
wanted. Took long baths, walked around in a T-shirt and ponytail
24-7. Oh, and I owned plenty of toys — all sorts — in different
shapes and sizes. From the kind stowed away in my nightstand, to
the kind I’d used to fill the second vehicle parking space in my
garage. I had a motorcycle, hybrid bike, and a Jet Ski. But my
favorite toy — umm … second favorite toy — was my kayak. Nothing
relaxed me as much as paddling away from land and finding a secret
paradise that no one other than persons operating non-motorized
crafts could find.

And now, I was going to learn how to roll
this baby so I could go on the whitewater kayak trip in North
Carolina that I’d already paid for. I’d been on plenty of large
rafts and individual kayak rafts, but I wanted more … needed
more.

Paddle in hand, I situated myself inside my
sleek new Dagger, snapped the skirt into place, then paddled until
I was in the dead-center of the pool. Thankfully, I had a large
pool. My ex-husband had always wanted the best. Even a better
woman. Well, I wanted better too — a better life — and I was
determined to find it. Without a man.

Sucking in a final breath, I slowly leaned
forward and dunked my head to the side of the kayak until it
flipped over.

As every other time, I immediately started
to panic. Squeezing my eyes shut, I worked at relaxing my mind,
willing myself not to lose it again.

Not today,
I thought.
I will never
panic again
.

I struggled to lift my head toward the
surface, flicking my hip to flip the kayak while applying force
with the paddle.

I will not pop out. Not today
.
If
I exit the boat and try to swim, I will put myself in danger
, I
reminded myself what the trainer had repeatedly warned.
I’m not
in danger. I can handle anything
.

“Mwraaawwwww … .” J’Austen’s woeful wail
came from the surface. She hated this more than I did, and I hated
putting her through the stressful situation.

Exhausted and out of breath, I popped out
and dragged the boat to the shallow end. “Dammit, Jana!” I smacked
the surface of the water with the paddle. “What would you have done
on a Class IV river? Got your foot stuck in a rock, that’s what!
And then you would have drowned for real!”

“Mwraaawwwww …” my kitty cried again,
clearly not understanding why I wanted to torture myself and, by
extension, her. She wouldn’t come to the edge where I could reach
her and convince her that I was okay. Instead, she flattened her
belly on the concrete, ears down, eyes wide. I could only imagine
what she thought the bright red beast was that held me under the
water.

“I’m okay, baby kitty. I thought you were
taking a nap.”

Evidently hearing that I was okay through my
tone, she paced around the pool, obviously not pleased that I
hadn’t given up on this crazy venture.

To me, calm-water kayaking was like my
writing. I enjoyed it and I’d done well, but I hadn’t made it.
Sure, authors and readers in the Indie world knew me, but who knew
I sat right beside Nicholas Sparks on the bestseller list? No one
other than people who looked through my images on Twitter. Of
course, I took a screenshot.

And I wanted everyone to know.

I wanted the same thrill from my books that
I got from kayaking. But I wanted more. I wanted whitewater. I
wanted the rush. I wanted an agent to represent my latest book so I
could share my love with as many readers as possible.

According to my beta readers, my new book,
You Don’t Need a Man
, was the best yet.
Why?
Because
I’d finally told the truth. I stopped writing about
Mr. Someday
Right
, and wrote about how much fun I was having being single.
Yeah, I still wanted to meet my knight in shining armor and live
happily ever after, but then I thought,
Why not have fun while
I’m looking?

My friends screamed when I didn’t publish
it, as I’d done the rest of my novels under my pseudonym. But this
book was different. This one I wanted to publish under my real
name, and I was determined to wait for an agent who wanted to
represent it. Not because I needed the money, but because I wanted
as many women as possible to read it. I wanted to show the world: I
got this! And you can too.

I was still writing my spicy
romantic-suspense
novels to pay the bills, but this book
would be my
Driving Ms. Daisy
, rather, my
Eat, Pray,
Love
. This book would launch my career and, hopefully,
encourage women everywhere.

I would show all the women in the world that
I didn’t need a man, and neither did they. I planned to make my own
happily ever after.

Ignoring the cries from my beloved cat, I
crawled back in my kayak and positioned myself in the center of the
pool again. I already wrote the book, so now I planned to live
it.

As my trainer had demonstrated a hundred
times, I leaned forward and kept my head down, then leaned to the
right. Within seconds, I was upside down again.

Only this time, something was different … I
didn’t panic. I wasn’t going to drown. I could come out whenever I
wanted. But my kayak was my safe place. I wanted to stay inside
it.

I’m just paddling upside down
, I
thought. It’s fun to be under the water. It’s peaceful and
quiet
.
I was going to do this today! Nothing would ever hold
me back from what I wanted again.
I’m just paddling upside
down
, I reminded myself. And then it hit me …

I’m just paddling upside down.

That’s it!

I swept my paddle downward while thrusting
my hip forward and upward and, all of a sudden, I was upright.

“I’m upright!” Tears burst to my eyes. “I
did it, J’Austen!”

I dunked my head to the side and rolled the
kayak again, and again, and again. I’d never be afraid of drowning
again.

The next time I came up, I lifted the paddle
high over my head in triumph and announced at the top of my lungs,
“I got this!”

Day One
, I clumsily typed with my
left hand in my new online journal. I was determined to track the
progress of my health and writing.

J’Austen stared up at me with those
disapproving golden eyes of hers. It was as though she could read
my mind sometimes. Or maybe she was just an extension of my own
subconscious since we spent so much time together.

“
Okay,”
I spoke aloud for my cat’s
benefit as I pecked out the note in the journal,
“it’s
actually
Day Thirty-One
.”

But really, it’s best that I start here as
the last month was rather pitiful. For the last thirty days, I’d
done nothing but whine and cry about how pathetic my life was, ate
anything in the house that didn’t require two hands to prepare,
gained about ten pounds, and generally just moped around, tapping
on my iPhone.

Word count on my Work in Progress:
ZERO!
I added to the journal, then decided to log out until
later in the evening, after my physical therapy appointment.

I signed into Facebook, deciding to chat a
bit before my cousin arrived, but then sighed as I read a comment
from one of my favorite aspiring author friends. I knew they were
just trying to be helpful, but I was tired of hearing how they or
someone they knew got through their injury, or how they’d write if
they didn’t have the use of their hands.