(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.

His ring.

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 . . .