Nevaeh Publishing - Everything but the Ring Excerpt

Chapter 1 – Sheila

“Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud.
It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record
of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always
protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.”

--I Corinthians 13:4-7

    Whoever said love doesn’t cost a thing didn’t know what they were talking about. If my bank accounts were a reflection of my love investments, I would be worth a small fortune. Don’t get me wrong, unlike many, I can accept the fact that things haven’t exactly gone according to plan. And yes, I will be the first to admit that in some ways love has exceeded my expectations, but in the end aren’t the triumphs supposed to overshadow the disappointments? So far the disappointments are claiming the victory, and unfortunately, the only person I can find to blame is myself.
    The past five years, since turning twenty-five, have been nothing less than an adventure. Strangely enough, I was forewarned. Friends who were crossing over to thirty cautioned me that turning twenty-five was the beginning of life’s downward spiral. Thanks to my gift of endless optimism, I refused to heed that bit of pessimism and instead made a secret vow to myself that things would only get better. And sure enough they did, thanks to love.
    Being the hopeless romantic that I am, I have beckoned to the call of love on more than one occasion. Most recently I had allowed love to sweep me away from my current home in Atlanta and carry me clear across the country to live with the second man I had ever thought of spending the rest of my life with. No, he wasn’t the first, but my behavior could have fooled anyone. I put everything on hold, my career, relationships; everything, in order to assume the role of a trophy wife. I mean, who would have imagined that I, Sheila Porter, born and raised in Chickamauga, Georgia would be featured in Essence magazine as the latest love interest of NBA superstar Thomas Rose? However, despite the media hype of our courtship and later engagement, that two-year rollercoaster came to a screeching halt once I finally grew tired of playing detective. I mean, honestly, there’s only so many late night hang-ups, nude pictures (sent by certified mail might I add), and foreign lingerie discoveries a girl can stand. My justification for forgiving Thomas time and time again was simple. His indiscretions were simply my burden to bear in exchange for the world he so graciously lured me into. How foolish of me to think that the man who so gracefully swept me off to the Cayman Islands two weeks after we met, and flew me by private jet every other weekend to his members only resort, could ever be faithful? How naïve I had been to think I was the only woman to have the privilege of calling his million dollar mansion my second home? And yes, each time I slipped on my designer shades and graced the streets of Rodeo Drive in the white Bentley Coupe he purchased for me after I accepted his proposal, I knew that many women would consider his infidelities a small price to pay. It’s still amazing to me that in the midst of it all I actually fell in love, and sincerely thought that he loved me. I wanted desperately to believe that the lifestyle could somehow balance out the pain. I spent months trying to brainwash myself into believing that as long as I was wearing the ring, nothing else mattered, but I was wrong.
    I tried shopping away the pain and the emptiness of lonely days and nights while wondering which girl he was with when he wasn’t with me. With every unanswered call and unreturned text, my heart began to ache.     For the first time, I knew the meaning of a broken heart. Spending time alone and a broken heart can make one quite imaginative. I thought of millions of ways to get even. In the end, my tears only generated memories of a past love, and a time when things were simple; the days I shared with Rashad Owens, my high school sweetheart. Every tear I shed over Thomas was a reminder that I, too, had been a heartbreaker. Oh the anguish I suffered as I reflected over how I had so arrogantly boasted to my first love, Rashad. I had gone on and on about having found someone who loved me and had his act together, as he tearfully begged me to give us one last try. Sad to say it took two years with the wrong man to make me realize I had it right the first time. That’s why I’m currently trying to reunite with my first love. Lucky for me, he believes in second chances. So, for the past two months we’ve been engaging in long conversations of what went wrong before and how we can finally make love last. Being that he is a distance truck driver has made it difficult for us to see each other on a regular basis, but I’ve learned patience. I know that in time the minor details of our relationship will work themselves out.
    I’m sure to an outsider I may sound like another heartless, money-hungry woman who got what was coming to her, who doesn’t deserve a second chance. Maybe so. I was blinded by the lifestyle, jaded and persuaded by all of the things I had dreamed of that finally seemed to be coming to pass. In my defense, I have always been a hard working woman who, prior to meeting Thomas, was working as a family therapist in pursuit of my doctorate and eventually owning my own practice. I’ve never been one of those women who sat around waiting to be rescued and praying for God to send her a man who could make her dreams come true. I’m too impatient for that. No, I’ve always had a “go get it” spirit that some find irrational and intimidating. I could never quite understand how everyone I grew up with in Chickamauga, could ever be content with millwork, nine-to-five clerking, and factory work. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not some snob who doesn’t respect an honest living; the very lifestyle I grew to despise instilled some of the deep-rooted values I still treasure to this day. There’s nothing wrong with working hard and submitting to the card that’s been dealt, but I’ve always wanted more, while Rashad was content with just having me.
    For as long as I can remember, I’ve always been a dreamer. My interests and dreams have spanned from hopes of becoming the female double for Johnnie Cochran, to the possibility of joining the minority of black supermodels. I’ve always been a good student, but standing at five-foot-nine by the time I was twelve inspired me to strongly consider pursuing a modeling career or a position in the WNBA. I’ve never been particularly athletic, but with a little make-up and my high cheekbones, I figured I could pull off a modeling career. To my surprise not many agents shared my opinion, and before I could find one who did, my attention had turned elsewhere. Next, there was my phase of being dead set on becoming an actress, then no one could tell me that I wasn’t going to be the next Janet Jackson; not that I can sing, but I can dance my heels off. With the reality of rent, utilities, and the thought of one day having to pay off student loans, by the time I was a sophomore in college I soon discovered that pursuing a career as a therapist would not only be rewarding, but it could provide me with a decent living and career security. Therapist. Even the word itself seemed so final, so unexciting, so far from the glamorous lifestyle I had envisioned living only a few short years ago. Sometimes I had to retrace the events of my life to figure out exactly how I had managed to transition from hopes of being on the cover of someone’s magazine, to sitting and listening to some middle-aged woman reflect on memories of child abuse and the absence of her father. But I couldn’t help feeling a sense of reward each time a client expressed receiving a breakthrough as a result of our sessions. Every success story was a constant reminder of why I had chosen my current career and someday hoped to own my own practice. Despite the disappointments of my own life, knowing that I could make a difference in the life of another person, gave me a sense of purpose. These are just some of the thoughts I pondered, particularly while sitting at home in an overcrowded one bedroom condo, celebrating my thirtieth birthday; alone.
    Glancing at my watch, I noticed that it was fast approaching ten p.m. I was surprised one of my girls hadn’t called. Most importantly, why hadn’t I heard from Rashad? Then as if my thoughts were being answered, the phone began to ring. I held my breath, hoping it was Rashad. He had promised to call to wish me a happy birthday. With one check of the caller ID, I let out a sigh of disappointment; it was Cynthia.
    “Hello!” I was doing my best to sound chipper, it was my birthday. I had been telling my friends for weeks about all of the wonderful things I was going to do for myself, alone.
    “Happy Birthday! Girl, I’m surprised you answered! I thought maybe you were out on the town, wining and dining yourself. Did you get my happy birthday message this morning?” Cynthia was practically beaming through the phone. Though I really wasn’t in the mood to discuss the less than stellar events of my day, I had to remind myself that this was my friend of ten years and she was trying to be just that, a friend.
    “Yes, I did. That was very sweet of you. Thanks for thinking of me.”
The truth was each birthday wish was just a reminder of the reality that turning thirty didn’t resemble the life I had hoped for over the years. But what was the point in complaining? My life, just like everyone else’s, had been a result of my choices, and I didn’t want to give Cynthia any hint of how miserable I really was.
    “Well, I wanted to do more, so did Patrice, but all you’ve been talking about is spending your birthday alone. Why, I don’t know.” Cynthia’s voice was dripping with attitude, but she was right. I had made it perfectly clear that I didn’t want neither she nor Patrice to make a fuss over my birthday.
    “How many times do I have to tell you guys? Turning thirty is very emotional for me. I just wanted to have my own private, quiet celebration.” And that it had been. With the exception of a spa visit and lunch at the Sundial, the day hadn’t been much different from any other.
    “I know, I know, I know, that’s why I haven’t bothered you all day. So what all did you do today?”