(Betrayal Part 11)
Copyright January 2001
"It's time. Time for us to talk."
Can you say . . . yes?
Can you scream . . . YES?!
Yes, I want to talk to you. Yes, I want to love you. Yes, I want you to wrap your arms around me and take me to heaven.
Yes, yes, yes.
But wait. There's something I must do.
I know I'm smiling at you like a shy virgin. I feel like one. My hands are trembling, my body quivering with that first time sensation.
It's the shaking of my fingers that catches my eye and makes me hesitate.
I can't come to you with his ring on my finger. It wouldn't be fair to your heart to see that reminder as our bodies come together.
I float down the hallway.
Float? Do guys float? Maybe levitate? Does that sound more manly?
I don't care. I'm happy and I'm walking on air.
My friend loves me. My sweet, caring, gentle . . . oh hell . . . my tall, handsome, body of steel, sex god friend loves me.
Yep. I'm floating.
My happiness diminishes a little as I look down at the ring on my finger. I wait for the emotions to overwhelm me but they don't. There's no real pain anymore. No anger. Just . . . an emptiness.
I slip the ring off and put it away.
Did you hear that?
The chains falling off my heart?
I'm free. Finally free. Of him.
I sink to my knees and offer up a small prayer of thanks to God.
Thanks for giving me a second chance at love. Thanks for giving me a friend who has stood by and supported me through all this hell.
And most important of all . . . thanks for opening my eyes and my heart to the one who has loved me forever.
I get to my feet and make my way to my closet. This ratty t-shirt I'm wearing has to go. I pull out the dark cobalt blue sweater my friend gave me for Christmas. I want to look good for him.
And besides . . . the thought of his hands sliding underneath this sweater to touch me has my jeans feeling a little too snug. And believe me . . . that's a good feeling.
I walk down the hallway, my socks sliding along the hardwood floor.
The doorbell rings.
Now who in the hell could that be at this hour?
To be continued . . .