True Love Stories: Someday You'll Laugh

When I heard that Astraea Press was looking for true love stories, I jumped at the chance. Traveling back to the 1970’s was a ball! Or should I say “groovy!” The more I wrote, the more I remembered. It was like being courted all over again. What fun.

Until I really got to thinking about it:

The angst of having to dump one guy for another, dealing with a jealous stand-by, recovering from a crushed heart — whoa, I think I’m glad to be in the present!

Yet, it was fun writing about it.

Here’s the blurb for Someday You’ll Laugh:

Stunned when her boyfriend announces they should be free to see others when he leaves for college, Brenda pastes a smile on her face and walks away. Far away. Only to find herself irresistibly drawn into the arms of another guy. 

Brenda’s previous boyfriend finds out, claims he made a huge mistake, and wants her back. She will receive a marriage proposal, but from which one?

Later, on her wedding day, Brenda awakens knowing something is wrong. Will she make it through the ceremony?

Buy Link:  http://tinyurl.com/c3nrzok

 

EXCERPT

 

Don’t vomit in the middle of your wedding. Good advice all around. Too bad I ignored it.

 My story didn’t start with vomiting, but it did begin with a good gut wrench…

 The low sun flamed from the sky even though the time was edging toward nine-thirty at night. I squinted into the glowing horizon and my heart squeezed. I held back the tears.

 “Just ten months,” Greg whispered to me. “It’s not so long.”

 “Only forever,” I answered. I hadn’t let go of his arm for the past thirty minutes.

 He shifted his weight and settled onto the park bench. “We need to talk.”

 “We are talking.” I joined him, stretched my legs, and dipped the toes of my shoes into the loose gravel at my feet.

 His face had gone serious, and I knew I wasn’t going to like what he had to say. He gazed over my shoulder toward the playground equipment as if observing interesting twists of fine sculpture.

 I still held his arm, but now I released my death grip. My fingers remained bent, stuck in a clutched position. “What is it?”

 “I think we should see other people.” His words dropped like bricks, gaining speed as they crashed on my ears.

 My mouth fell open and I jolted to my feet, tripping over a stone which protruded from the loose rock circling the bench. I skittered a bit, and regained my balance. “See other people? What do you mean?”

 “Sit back down.” Greg pulled on my arm and coaxed me onto the bench again. “California’s a long way from here, and I think it’d be a good idea to keep our options open.”

 I sat like a wooden toy, stiff and unmoving. I knew I was staring at him, I knew my face was revealing too much, and I knew I wanted to deck him.

 “I take it you’ve given this a lot of thought.” My voice sounded so pinched, I hardly recognized it.

 “Not a lot. Some, though.” Was it my imagination or did he look like he wanted to crawl under the rock I’d just tripped over?

 Our ten months together during my senior year of 1973 evaporated into a depressing mist. I stood. “Fine. If that’s the way you want it, sounds good to me.” I coughed to try and cover up the bitterness in my tone.

 He rose beside me and his blond hair fell over his eyes. He pushed the strands aside with an absent-minded flick of his hand. “Don’t be that way. It’s a good idea, and it’ll be much easier on us. Long distance relationships are hard.”

 “How would you know?”

 “Everyone says so.”

 “Fine,” I repeated. “Now to make sure I have it straight — we’re both free to see other people, right?”

 He nodded, but I thought I detected a kernel of doubt beginning to grow. His brows crinkled and his blue eyes narrowed.

 I went on. “Okay. I guess we’re both on the same page then. You leave in a couple hours for college in California while I stay here in Washington. And we’re both free to date other people. Are we going to communicate at all, or are we stopping that too?”

 I deserved a medal. My voice poured out words as if reciting the latest cookie recipe, not closing down a relationship that had cruised along for the better part of a year.

 Greg’s eyes stayed focused on mine. “We can write. I think it only takes a couple of days for a letter to get here from California. You’ll write me, won’t you?”

 I raised my chin. I could keep up the ruse for another few minutes. “Of course. We’ll both write. It’s a plan.”

 I leaned over and kissed him. I didn’t give him time to kiss me back.

 “Safe travels,” I said and smiled with warmth I didn’t feel. If he was dumping me, I was going out with class. I made certain the look in my eyes matched my smile, then turned and walked away, swaying my hips as if there were no tomorrow.

 Eat your heart out, Greg Johnson.

 Eat your heart out, but good.

 There was sadness inside me somewhere, but the anger and growing nausea were doing a masterful job of covering it up.

 Keep our options open, indeed.

So be it.

 The creep.

 

 

About the Author

 

 

My passion is writing! What could be more delicious than inventing new characters and seeing where they take you?

I'm a teacher so I spend most of my waking hours with young people. I love chatting with them and hearing their views on love and life. My students are magical, and I am honored to be part of their lives.

I've lived in Honduras, Grand Cayman, and Costa Rica. Presently, I live in Indiana with my husband, Paul. We have two grown children and a precious grandbaby, special delivery from Africa.

When not teaching, I love to hole up in our lake cabin and write — often with a batch of popcorn nearby. (Oh, and did I mention dark chocolate?)

I enjoy getting to know my readers, so feel free to write me at: contact@brendamaxfield.com . Visit me to learn about all my books and some good, clean teen reads:  www.brendamaxfield.com  Happy Reading!

LINKS:

Buy Someday You’ll Laugh http://tinyurl.com/c3nrzok

Website:  http://www.brendamaxfield.com

Facebook:  http://www.facebook.com/TheEdgemontCollection

Twitter:  https://twitter.com/BrendaMaxfield

Blog:  http://www.brendamaxfield.wordpress.com 

Email:  contact@brendamaxfield.com