Page 1 of Promise Not To Fall

Fill a rock glass with ice

1 part Absolut vodka

1 part Kahlua

1 splash of lemon juice

Add ingredients to glass, garnish with lemon wedge.

My life sucks.

I’m not even putting it lightly. It fucking sucks big, hairy balls. Think Andre the Giant style.

I’ve come to the conclusion that some people have perfect lives. They’re lucky, and it seems, at least in my eyes, that everything goes their way. Rylee Madison is one of them. Even her name is perfect. And if you saw her beauty in person, inside—you can totally cut right down the middle of her perfect-ass body and out would come flowers—and on the outside.

By the way, I’m not Rylee. One would be so lucky as to be the princess. I know, I’m so bitter. But I’d like to think I have reason to be.

I will say there are certain things in my life that go my way, but lucky? Nah. I won’t go that far. In fact, if you know me at all—and the mess my life is currently in—it would definitely confirm that I do not, under any circumstances, have a perfect life. I’m not one to dwell on useless information, nor will I give more detail than is needed, but there will be some information I need to hand out ahead of time.

Here, for your judging pleasure, is the short version of my life: Born and raised in Phoenix, Arizona. Full name is Kendall Marie Landon. I’m twenty-seven, only child, parents are divorced, haven’t seen my dad since I was ten, probably never will, and I love my job. Hate my life at times, but I love my fucking job because I’m in control of my career. I get shit done. Nobody messes with me, and I’m always on top of my game. You need reservations at the hottest club in town? I’m your girl. You want a flight to Bali tomorrow morning in the penthouse suite? Bitch, please, I got you.

Now is about the time when I should say that technically speaking, I lost my job too. How’s that for being on top of my game. My ex-boyfriend, and client, well, that motherfucker is to blame for this not-so-perfect life I now find myself in the middle of.

Take a listen to the argument we had five weeks ago. Also, while we’re on the subject, the reason why my life sucks.

“You’re controlling, dictating, callous, and have expectations no man could ever meet,” he said to me, like I should know what he was talking about.

I found his statement ridiculous. Absurd. And totally, unfortunately… fucking accurate.

But I wouldn’t be me if I let a man think he was a step ahead, would I?

The correct answer there would be no. I couldn’t. I’m pretty sure I’m actually incapable of it.

So I said to him, very sternly I might add, “Well, you’re indecisive, fickle, can’t decide on shit, a douchebag, and lousy in bed.” I think I even had one hand on my hip and the other one pointed in his face. That would show him for breaking up with me, and firing me, right?

Wrong.

Justin smirked, as most athletes do, playing me like he did the game. “Says the girl who scheduled where and when we would have sex.”

Well, there’s that, huh?

Stop listening to the conversation now.

But now that you’ve heard that, I can bring you up to speed with where I am at and how I got invited to the Bahamas with Rylee—that girl with the perfect life and who actually happens to be my best friend—and her boyfriend Wesley.

After Justin and I broke up, he moved his shit out of my apartment and told me I was fired. I was his personal assistant.

I thought I was a strong, independent woman with my head on straight, but after that breakup, I lostmyshit. Not only did I have an emotional breakdown, I went into full-blown depression. I don’t mean slightly depressed and indulging in ice cream and sappy movies. I mean the type of depression where you just sit and cry, barely moving, barely breathing.

This went on for five goddamn weeks. Rylee—concerned for my sanity I think—invited me on vacation to the Bahamas. I think it’s some sort of pity-party, “rescue her before she does something stupid” plan, but regardless, I was invited to paradise. Wesley’s brother was originally going with them, but bailed, and that left them with an extra ticket. I can’t figure out why they had three tickets, or why they’d take his brother, but whatever. I’m not going to dwell on the details. Nor do I really care.

Who wouldn’t take a vacation to the Bahamas? Exactly. No one. You’d be crazy to pass up an experience like that, and I’m not crazy. As Justin would say, I’m controlling, dictating, and what was the other one? Right. Callous. Crazy was never mentioned.

When I agreed to this trip, Rylee informed me they were celebrating something special. Very special.

She’s engaged. Again, why invite his brother on the trip? Am I missing something? Are they swingers? Or what would it be called if she’s engaged to both brothers? Incest? No, that can’t be right. Whatever. It doesn’t matter. Focus on the issue at hand.Me.

Just a few weeks after my boyfriend dumps me, my best friend gets engaged. Lucky me. Or just another example of why my love life sucks hairy balls.

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