My boyfriend is an
asshole.
A pure, one of a kind, I-
wish-I-was-making-this-up asshole.
Every year, I write "Dump
his ass" as my most important resolution, but I've never done it.
Until now.
Well, kind of...
Instead of showing up
to our "secret" engagement party, I've shown up to the airport--ready and willing to go wherever the
next flight is bound. Determined to keep and fulfill all of my resolutions, I'm proud of myself for finally
striking out on my own.
Until I never make it to
my final destination. Until the sexy stranger who sat next to me on the plane changes everything. Until
my "last resolution" is fulfilled a lot earlier than I thought...
Prologue
Eleven.
Not ten. Not twenty.
Eleven.
Ever since I was a little
girl, my mom would force me and my sister to list our resolutions at the end of the year. She’d tell us to
fold them up and carry them in our pockets as a reminder, and to make sure that the last one (“lucky
number eleven”) was the most important one of all.
I never understood the
purpose behind those resolutions, and in the early years I’d do it just to make her shut up. I’d write
things like, “Stop telling Mom that she gets on my nerves,” “Learn how to dropkick the boy who always
pops my bra straps,” “Steal better snacks from the cafeteria at lunchtime.”
Yet, as the years passed
and I entered high school, I started to take them a little more seriously: “Lose lots and lots of
weight by the summer.” “Try to work on my writing every day.” “Stop trying to fit in so much and just
be myself.” And I always looked forward to writing that number eleven. Although it was supposed to be
a goal, mine was more like a dream: “Find a real life bad boy, make him fall in love with me, and
live wild and carefree together for the rest of our lives.”
Unfortunately, I didn’t find
him in high school—that “lots and lots of weight” took way too long to lose, and the lames that
came shortly after were only interested in having sex.
Very, very bad sex.
My real life bad
boy stormed into my life during my senior year of college, in the form of a sweet-talking, former
womanizing, ultimate-alpha-male-sweetheart named Adrian Smith III. After preventing me from nearly
walking into a moving bus, he told me I was “the sexiest woman [he’d] ever seen,” and the rest was
history.
Our love affair was fast
and frantic, uncontrollable and overwhelming; it was so reckless and volatile that it almost became an
obsession.
I fell in love with him after
only a few weeks, but I knew he was the man I wanted to spend the rest of my life with.
He was my dream.
My number eleven.
After we graduated
college—when things began to slow down and settle, we decided to stay together for the long haul.
We had separate goals and aspirations, so we promised to strive for them while still hanging on to each
other.
Unfortunately, that’s
where the nice version of my story ended.
My life with Mr. Bad Boy
became more of a tragedy than a love story, and at the end of last year I did something I hadn’t done in
years…
I changed my number
eleven.
A self diagnosed candy
addict, travel junkie, and hypochondriac, Whitney Gracia Williams LOVES to write about characters
that make you laugh, cry, and want to (in the case of Selena Ross) reach through your Kindle and slap
them.
She is the "imaginary bestselling" author of the Jilted
Bride Series, Mid Life Love, Wasted Love, and Captain of My Soul.
When she's not locked inside her room, feverishly typing
away on her laptop, she can be found here:
http://www.whitneygracia.com
She also loves getting emails from her readers, so if you
want to tell her how much you loved (or hated) her stories, email her at whitgracia@gmail.com.
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