Why can’t I become a jaded cynic like my sister was prior to meeting and falling for a literal prince who is priming to become the next king of Korsa? Why do I still hold out hope for true love and a lifetime of swoony kisses, soulful conversations, playful antics, constant pursuit, and the consistent giving of one another when I’ve been shut down time after time by different men?
Is it too much to ask for? Does God even hear my prayers? Does He have any inclination to honor my deep-seated desires to be a wife and a mom?
Why can’t I do what everyone tells me to do and stop looking? Don’t they understand that it’s IMPOSSIBLE for a woman who has grown up with romance at the center of her world to stop looking? I write romantic comedies for crying out loud, and I want to do it full-time. Romance is my Roman Empire. How do I simply stop looking?
So many questions with no answers in sight… Just me sitting here bawling to Taylor Swift while I wait until the last possible second to leave the comfort of my car and start another day that I desperately wish didn’t exist.
Hadley, my best friend, gathered me, my twin who is across the world, and our friend Karoline, who resides in Nashville, on a group video call yesterday to announce that she was pregnant. And while she expressed her fears of becoming a mother (her mom was once a narcissistic raging alcohol and drug abuser), I quietly judged her for not thinking that motherhood wasn’t the greatest gift in the world. I silently thought that I would give anything to be a wife and mom, and there she was, upset and scared over getting pregnant.
I’m sometimes an awful friend in the dark recesses of my brain. It’s hard to balance feeling envious of those you love and would move mountains for and feeling utmost joy for their wins.
Even if they don’t see their wins as wins.
At least it’s Friday-eve. Though, to be honest, my weekend plans don’t look too promising at this point. Just me, Frannie, and my new work in progress. It’s the second book in my urban fantasy romance collection. I want to write them all before I begin publishing them. This book follows a vampire boss and event plannerin Alaska. I haven’t quite figured out the tropes, though I think I want to ship the two off on a fake date. Now, what reason does a male vampire need to fake date a human woman…?
I contemplate the question at hand as Taylor Swift sings about the pain of living alone (#relatable) and shoving her friends away because her brain is on dark-mode (#superrelatable). I flip the visor down and swipe the mirror cover to the left. Staring back at me is a puffy, red-faced raccoon.
There’s another question: What’s the point of dolling myself up every day when I end up crying because of loneliness stalking me viciously around every corner?
Snagging a tissue from my center console, I blot my eyes, then grab the translucent powder from my purse. As I press the pad to my face with gentle precision, I contemplate my life at twenty-six—single with no prospects, living alone in an apartment that’s meant for two while my sister still continues to pay half her rent because I can't afford the entire payment on my own, and working full-time now at a job I know is going nowhere for me. And then the deluge resumes from my eyes.
Because all I want to do is write romance books and provide for myself on that income while awaiting my knight in shining armor.
He doesn’t even have to wear armor. He can wear old jeans and flannel. He can wear a suit. He can wear a cooking apron. He can wear scrubs. He can wear sweatpants and a t-shirt. He can wear noth—Don’t go there, Lucy girl.
Heck, he can be a shifter or a vampire or fae for all I care…
I just want a man who adores and loves me in the same way that I will adore and love him. A man who works hard and loves theLord. One who strengthens my relationship with Him instead of pulling me further away…
I’ve done a good enough job of that on my own.
I mean, really, God? Why are You withholding this from me and giving it to everyone else in my circle? It’s because I’ve sinned, isn’t it? It’s because I’ve had sex outside of marriage. A lot. And now You’re withholding love from me because I’m tainted. A big ole sinner…
No. I attempt to send the train of thought away, determined not to believe that about God. I can question and ask for a man, but I can’t hitch a ride on the Devil’s train by believing that my good God would withhold lifetime communion with a man after His own heart on the premise that I have failed to live in purity.
That doesn’t mean the thought goes away, though. No matter how much I wish it would. Some thoughts are stationed for lingering moments due to a lifetime of believing them. Toxic church culture has a way of doing that to you.
My church is great, don’t get me wrong, but they still don’t make room for women like me. I have to hide my sins behind a stained glass mask because my type of sinning isn’t the acceptable kind. It’s not the kind people want to talk about.
It’s the kind people say to “just try harder” to overcome.
I fully recognize God's design for marriage is perfect. There are so many positives of Godly marriage that I yearn for—the lifetime connection with a man who I know loves and trusts me, the spiritual leadership I'm desperately searching for, though I admit, that one desire is waning with every "Christian" man I meet who turns out to be more toxic than my non-Christian pursuits. Regardless, in my soul, I know that a man who is truly in communion withthe Lord will love and cherish me. And then I could finally thrive. No more using sex as a means to keep a man interested in me, no more lonely nights, no more doubting God.
Glancing at the clock, I realize I have five minutes left to get inside Juniper Grove Community Center to start my work day. I blow my nose using the napkin I had dried my eyes with, then I flip my visor, turn my car off, and take a steadying breath before exiting my powder blue ‘74 Mercedes-Benz (that Grandma Netty gave me years ago when she decided she’d no longer drive) and walking to stand in front of the automated double doors that will welcome me to another day of work.
Another day of being bossed around by the World’s Most Notorious Playboy.
You’ve got this, Lucy. You will make it through today.
Smoothing my pink plaid skirt down and double-checking that my white blouse is tucked in with the neck bow front-facing, I walk with soft heel clicks into my workplace with my head down as I fiddle with my silver ring on my left thumb.
Powder does wonders to soothe the redness, but the puffy eyes are still fully intact. No need to elicit questions that I don’t want to answer from my coworkers.
Especially my boss, Stone Harper, said Notorious Playboy. I swear, that man has a new girl every month.
No.
Every week.
