Page 94 of Tame Me

“Listen to me, babe. What you did shows how strong you are.”

“You should’ve seen the look on his face, Lolly. He was a broken man.” I waited for her response and prayed her words of wisdom would lure me back from the swamp I’d fallen into.

“Most women would’ve carried on with a man like Billy for all the wrong reasons, even when they knew deep down it wasn’t right. You, though, are a smart woman; you knew that the two of you weren’t made for each other. Sure, the sex was amazing, and his company was special, but love . . . well, that needs a hell of a lot more than that. And if it didn’t feel right now, then it wasn’t going to feel right when one of you moved thousands of miles to live a completely different lifestyle.”

As I rolled her words of wisdom around my brain, I did feel a little better. Deep down I knew my decision was right, but it didn’t make me feel any less cruel.

“I feel so mean.”

“You’re not mean. You were true to your feelings. A guy like Billy will find a woman. Trust me, babe—he was pretty special.”

“Yeah, he was.”

“You feel better now?”

“Yes, thank you. I’m sorry to interrupt. Where are you anyway?”

“At home.”

“Oh, it sounded like you were at a party.”

“Nah, kids are at a sleepover. Cal and I cranked up the music, opened a bottle of wine, and we were playing naked Twister when you rang. I was winning, of course.”

I burst out laughing, and it felt so good. “Oh my god, why did you answer the phone?”

“’Cause it’s you, of course. Don’t worry. Cal will wait.”

I smiled, once again feeling the love from my best friend. “Thanks, Lolly. I love you.”

“Love you too, babe. Now go and have a hot bath and pour yourself a huge glass of wine. But remember, you did the right thing.”

We said goodbye. I clicked off the call and went to the bathroom. My face was a disaster. My eyes were bloodshot, and the tiny bit of mascara I’d worn had turned into black streaks down my face. I put the shower on, and as I waited for the water to warm up, I removed my makeup.

The shower was hot and therapeutic, and as I stood under the cascade, I replayed my decision over and over. By the time I stepped out, dried off, put on my PJs, and grabbed a bottle of wine and a glass, the decision was still boiling in my brain.

I opened my sliding glass door, stepped onto the balcony, filled my glass to the top, and placed both on the table.

It was a beautiful night.

The cool breeze drifted up from the ocean like a lover’s touch. I stepped to the railing, clutched it, closed my eyes, and inhaled the salty air. It was a cleansing potion to my soul. I breathed long and deep, over and over, performing my own form of therapy. When I finally opened my eyes, a wonderful sense of calm enveloped me.

I went inside, grabbed my diary and a pen, and returned to the table. After a couple of sips of my wine, I turned to the 7th of December, and at the top I wrote, Cowboy Billy, Room 50.

Between sips, I filled the page with details of my night. Everything from the wonderful sex on the kitchen counter where together we soared to extraordinary heights, to his Christmas gift, and finally, to my decision to let Billy go.

By setting him free, I, in turn, had set my heart free.

My soul was open, ready to be captured by the right man. With that thought, I wrote Capture my Heart at the top of the page.

I carried on writing, recalling in vivid clarity everything that had happened so I could look back and know I’d made the right decision.

I wrote about the childhood memory that’d triggered my reaction, the clarity of which was a brutal reminder of how tough living on the land was.

No tears came as I described breaking up with Billy, not even when I wrote about how shattered he’d looked as I’d said my last goodbye.

Love was meant to be easy, but if it involved a complete lifestyle change. . . how easy could that be? It wasn’t that I wasn’t willing to move. I’d do that in a heartbeat for the right man.

But if I were to move, it would need to be somewhere that made me happy because I couldn’t imagine my love sustaining if I was miserable in my own home.

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