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I was 30, my High School and even some of my College friends had more than paired off to get married and have babies. I wanted that. I was ready. My career was in a good place, my finances were solid-ish, I owned a car, and my credit score was respectable. Why hadn't it been my turn yet? Why was everyone finding their HEAs while I was still working on my HFN?
One of my good friends had just gotten engaged to a guy she'd barely been dating for a year. She was giddy and falling all over herself with joy, as she asked me to be her Maid of Honor before going on and on about their plans: a home, their wedding,babies,the cribs, the nursery theme, her baby shower. She wasn't even pregnant yet, and here she was, shoving her Happily Ever Pinterest board in my fucking face.
I was happy for her, I really was, but here's the thing; you can be happy for someone, downright elated, and still be sad for yourself, which I was. Completely and utterly wrecked.
Everything crashed in on me at once. I saw my timeline slipping away before my eyes. My life, which up until then, had gone according to plan. I graduated High School with good grades. Not enough to land me Valedictorian or anything crazy, but enough to get me into a good college. I did the dorm thing, the college job thing, the good grades-make friends-gain the freshman 15(okay 20)-thing. I did it all. I graduated with my teaching degree as my plan told me to. I did my work-study, internship, the whole nine. Landed a good job andwa-la. I was a self-made, a whole-ass grown-up.
Even though my 'plan' dictated I do all those things, that was never mydream.I did those things because that’s what society told me to do. In order to succeed in life, you must follow the path. You must grow up and adult. Contribute to the world. Pay your taxes. Work your ass off until you're old enough to finally be granted a life of freedom based on minimal wages and exhaustion. By that point, your knees hurt too bad to explore. Your energy levels suck too much to travel and enjoy shit the way you want to. But, hark, that's what society deems the acceptable humany level of humaning is, so, I did it.
However, my dream, my personal timeline, and bucketlist were so,so, much simpler than all of that. It still is. Yet, I am so past every single self-imposed deadline, I've basically given up on the whole concept altogether.
Some children dream grand dreams about going to the moon or being the first doctor to cure some sort of horrific illness. Some want to be something sweet and lovely, like a veterinarian or a nurse. Some dream of wilder things full of spunk and bravery, like professional bullfighters and ninjas. And some dream of pursuing the arts, like being dancers, authors, or painters.
Me? My dreams are as basic as they come.
1. Fall in love with a good man.
2. Live in a comfortable, modest home with space for a large Christmas Tree that always feels warm, safe, and welcoming.
3. Have a double-door stainless steel refrigerator that is always packed full of fresh fruit and vegetables. (Clearly, this was before I knew what a bitch to clean stainless steel really is.)
4. Have a partnership, friendship, and genuine connection with my husband.
5. Fill my home with lots and lots of babies, and never let them know what being unloved or unwanted feels like.
6. Grow old and be happy with my family.
That's it. That's the whole damn thing. The whole shebang. The entire list of dreams for myself. I never dreamt of grandeur. I never wanted ridiculous amounts of money. Just enough to make sure that my family was content, well-cared for, and comfortable. As a kid, I didn't realize why my life goals were about safety, full fridges, and Christmas trees. When all of my friends were talking about rocket ships and ballerinas, I was dreaming of a home that never felt cold and I never questioned that. It just made sense.
Now, as an adult, I get it. I dreamt of what I lacked, and what I needed. Even as an adult, who has made sure she is safe, comfortable, and taken care of by her own self, I still want those things. I want them with a gut-wrenching, soul-deep need. I crave and ache for them to the point that it genuinely hurts.
So yeah, when Cole came along, I saw potential instead of reality. We were similar in a lot of ways. We wanted the same things, or so I thought, and things just progressed. Before I knew it, time was flying by. I was wasting away precious days, having a boyfriend instead of a husband, a 'kinda' relationship instead of a marriage. I was ready for the next step. So, fucking ready. When Cole asked me to marry him, my brain said 'finally' even as my heart said 'shit'. But, I had timelines and dreams.
I tried to squeeze him into all those boxes, making him fit into dreams he wasn't shaped for.
I never knew that uttering the word 'yes' was the same as throwing in the towel. I never knew that three tiny little letters would equate to my downfall. I never knew that by agreeing to marry him, I was giving up on allmy hopes and dreams for the future.
I never knew that I would be signing up for years of pain, longing, and heartbreak because settling for the wrong future is just as bad as not having one at all.
Chapter Two
"Woman!"Snappingfingersdirectlyin front of my face pull me back from the dark melancholy that I had fallen into. My eyes focus and connect with Dom's big honey-browns.
"Huh?" I murmur, forcing the messy ball of emotions in my throat back down to my stomach, hoping that the alcohol there will kill the pesky bastards.
The thought reminds me, once again, of why I generally avoid alcohol in public. One too many brushes with embarrassment, litter my memory. Alcohol and I are not friends. In fact, we are downright enemies since it either turns me into a blathering, sobbing wreck, or an angry raging bull. Shaking my head, I force myself to meet Dom's eyes and stay in the present.
"Welcome back," I murmur with a smile that feels as fake as I'm sure it looks.
Dom considers me in a way that would make even sober me feel uncomfortable. He's not leering at me, just studying me, which is almost worse. I can deal with gross, or random men, checking me out and devouring me with their eyes like I'm some sort of turkey dinner. It's basically a part of all women's lives that we’ve just become accustomed to.
At one point or another, we will no doubt be checked out and/or catcalled. Don't forget about the kissy lips, ass slaps, and repulsive comments. Don’tevenget me started on the unsolicited dick pics. Who in their right mind wants to stare at a random photo of your cock and balls? They aren't cute. Really and truly unattractive, and staring at them in full technicolor while they stand at attention does absolutely nothing for our lady bits. Zilch.
A word from the wise, guys…video cum shotswith soundis one hundred percent where it's at. Talk about giving lady boners. I almost have to fan myself at the thought.
I digress.
The point is, women as a whole have been unfortunately taught to expect and ignore unwanted advances and salacious perusals from creepy members of the opposite sex. That is not to say that all genders don't deal with unwanted advances from other people. I'm sure that they do. However, I can only speak as a woman who has been hit on, perused, catcalled, touched,gropedand so much more, basically since my boobs made themselves known to the world.
