It Doesn't Happen in a Week - Brandie Hines (good book club books .TXT) 📗

A letter

Dear Me,

You can no longer hide. I am pushing you from your nest of comfort. This is your moment to organize yourself. Like a good friend has told you, treat yourself like the person you want to be, not as something you are trying to be. At this moment. You are married to yourself, you are your husband (or wife, however you like to view it). You are your romance. You are your best friend. You are your own hype man. You will give yourself respect. Love. Understanding. You will confide in yourself and stop yearning for others. And you will achieve the attention you want. In the end, your love for yourself will find love from others. Work hard!

Love,

Winnie

 

Preface: My Truth

Romance novels I've read make it seem like love is found in a week, no less. But I have come to realize; a relationship, a bond, these things don't happen in a week. It takes years and months to even make a step. 

Look at me: a 19 year old college student with no sexual experience, no romantic experience, no experience at all but experiences of study. I yearned to experience this novel romance, yet here I am at square one. 

I am not curvy, and I am not breathtakingly beautiful. I am average. I am small. I am tall. That is who I am. 

I'm more likely to criticize myself, and talk down on myself before anyone else. I am my hardest critic. I am vain. I am self sufficient to an extent. I am erratic. I am lost physically, mentally, and emotionally. My thoughts are scattered like leaves in autumn. I am never stable.

I won't exaggerate myself. I want to accept myself. I want to forgive myself. And to accept and forgive myself I must first learn to not exaggerate myself.  

At this moment I am fixing myself. I am recreating a broken vessel. I am becoming a leaf after winter. 

What do I want from myself?

I want a more understanding mind. Filled with less clutter. 

I want to be extremely self sufficient.

Independent.

I want to be wise.

I want to be smart. 

I want to embrace sexuality within me

 

The list can go on for years. But all these things I want. I must in fact do something to get it. This here is my recreation....

Preface: A character

Allow me to introduce you to the people that revolve around me.

 

My sisters:

Nadetta-Older/Taurus/ My partner in crime

Iman-Oldest/Aries/My laughing box

 

My lifelines:

Monica/ Virgo/ My muse

Tamara /Virgo/ My Voice

Peaches/Taurus/ My Reasoning

Keeley/ Virgo/ My other me

Valentine/Taurus/ My Understanding

Natalia /Cancer/My helper/My enabler

 

My "Romances" 

Sam/Pices/Trash really/My friend

 

No specific category:

Ella/Cancer/Fuel 

 

My Brain:

Winnie

Week 1: Goal Two.

 

It's 11:54 pm. And I'm counting down the minutes before I message him back. I don't want to open the text too quick, also I don't want to reply too late. 

I seem pathetic. I feel pathetic. What am I doing messaging somebody who didn't want me, who doesn't want me? Do I want him? Maybe? But I want the attention more. Wanting attention will be my downfall. Wanting him will be a greater mistake

 

 

It started the early morning of my birthday. Sam had called my phone drunk. At first I was scared then I was excited. The simple words "Hey, what are you up to."

Worst decision to make in the first hours of my 19 birthday. I was hit like a bus as he cried about a friend of mine. Not me. Not even remotely me. But instead Ella. 

I was crushed honestly. Beyond repaired. Just the week before Peaches ex had hit my line about lets get together. It had finally dawned on me.

Am. Never. Anybody's. First. Choice.

He cried about her for a good hour. Drunk off honesty and fueled by Hennessy. His deepest thoughts brought to the light. I understood. For a good three seconds. Ella was a force to be reckoned with, never hesitating for anything. Who wouldn't like, her? She deserved love just like the rest of us.

Then I was angry. Not because he chose her, subconsciously I knew this. Listen I knew this, I just ignored it. For he texted her and they talked for way longer than we had.

I deserved better so I did what was best. I ranted all that night. My sisters watched me in pity. I didn't want it. I wanted to get back at all these people who had me as the next best. 

Silently at night I stewed, how can I be better. How can I be first choice? How can I finally feel comfortable being me? 

At first I thought: 

"I was in fact t h a t bitch. I did my own hair, self taught in makeup, clearing skin, beautifully arched eyebrows (maybe not as thick as I hoped but it was still arched), full lips, no glasses. I was going through the glo. That was me. I wasn't ugly!!!!"

But then I started to humble myself: 

"But I am not pretty. I am not curvy. I don't have long eyelashes, I don't rock long hair naturally, or long nails. I was average in my grades (below average if you took in my college GPA), I am not wise beyond my age, and I couldn't in fact catch the attention of anybody with a single glance."

So there was that. 

The high self esteem I had built for myself had shattered in a matter of seconds over a boy. 

But I woke up later that morning and acted as if I wasn't such a mess. I enjoyed and celebrated my birthday. 

 

 

We didn't talk again until before Halloween night.  That was the first time he called me pretty. That was the first night I wasn't in my right mind. And how much I wished I regretted it, because I don't. I enjoy it. I enjoy it very much. 

So here I am, well into November sitting talking to Sam about traveling. He doesn't want to travel as much as I do. It's weird. He's weird.  We have some things in common, like music. We haven't had deep conversations yet. Im scared, he might have different views than me.

Monica shifts on my bed as I finish my biology homework and pick up my phone. I sighed as I placed down the phone. Tamara leaned her head back stretching it after hours of scrolling on instagram. 

"You still talking to him?" Monica asked. I just nodded, and even though her back was facing me, she knew what my answer was. She told me that night on my birthday to block him. I couldn't, no I wouldn't. I had preached most of my adult life that the block feature is in fact free, but I didn't dare to move my hand to the block button when he messaged me. Monica, bless her, never called me out on my hypocrisy. I love her for that.

Tamara stays silent because we are both floating in same boat. Monica and Tamara and I are all messing around with the same zodiac people. Pisces. It is honestly the only true comedy to my life right now. We are a true dream team.  

Peaches head pops out from the floor, "I'm going to tell you this one time. Don't fuck that guy. You definitely on his rebound list." She sighed,Peaches is not talking to anybody, she is taking a break to find herself. She is what I should be doing. My reasoning. "He not even that cute anyways."

Which is true. He is in fact below average. How'd I play myself this way? In novels it was the tall, dark, and lovely men. My shoulders slump.

"Well...I think I'm doing it for the attention. And free food." I say.

"You can find free food by somebody else. And same with attention." She rolls her eyes, her bubble gum pink bob waving with her as she shook her head. Except Peaches didn't struggle with things like me, how could she understand? She was in fact way fiercer than Ella. She was an epitome of a free spirit. She never had the problems that I did. So she wouldn't understand.

"No, you can get free food from somebody else. I can't." I answered. I answered it with humor in my voice but, the way Monica was looking at me, I knew she knew I wasn't joking. "No matter what, Sam and I are still friends. I will not stop talking to him because he's low key trying to “fuck”. Let's be real for a minute." I said my tone getting more serious with every sentence.

"Let's." Tamara said looking back at me. Her curls were rolled up in a neat bun.

"There is no possible way we gonna fuck. It will never happen. I am aware of where I stand. I am just somebody to take his mind off of Ella." I answered. Because truthfully no matter how many times I had imagined it. It didn't seem possible. I was never his type.

 

That night, while suffering from lack of sleep, I had recreated my list of top ten things I can change. 

 

 

 

A Letter