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My Last Romance Novel
My Last Romance Novel
My Last Romance Novel
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My Last Romance Novel

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A collection of twelve autobiographical short stories that are introspective and quirky - heartbreaking, honest and real, My Last Romance Novel is about appreciating the story of love in your life. But more than that I absolutely guarantee that it will help you understand, recognize and find "true love" in your life, but only if you're up to it... And something tells me you're more than up to it.

LanguageEnglish
PublisherA.N. Huff
Release dateFeb 14, 2016
ISBN9781311440945
My Last Romance Novel
Author

A.N. Huff

I was born in Indiana and raised in Virginia, but I've lived in California, Oregon and Texas. I've driven cross-country four times and I've had the opportunity to visit, live in or drive through just about every state in America. I currently live in Cape Cod with my fiancé and our two dogs, Wrigley and Herbie. And at this point, I only have 10 more states to go before I reach my goal. After the death of my late husband, I made a pretty big career change and life change. I received a teaching certificate in San Antonio, Texas and a culinary degree in Portland, Oregon. I love that my life has taken me into so many different directions. I've met some truly wonderful and interesting people, I've learned a lot about what's important to me and I've experienced a few things that many people never get a chance to. My life has been a roller coaster, a blessing, but a roller coaster. My Last Romance Novel is my first, and hopefully not, my last opportunity to share some of what I've learned with others. And I look forward to hearing from those of you that read the book, because I still do have A LOT to learn. Life is precious and I want to ensure that I make every second count!

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  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    This book authentically shares such important life stories, and give insights to something one could only - or not at all - imagine. Once shared, others can understand, relate and learn. By sharing, we all get a little bit more wiser, and more prepared for life. A.N. Huff made be both laugh and cry. it is a very real and touching story. Thank you.

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My Last Romance Novel - A.N. Huff

My Last Romance Novel

By A.N. Huff

Copyright 2016 A.N. Huff

Smashwords Edition

Thank you for downloading this ebook. This book remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this ebook, then please encourage your friends to download their own copy from their favorite authorized retailer. Thank you for your support.

Table of Contents

Introduction - So…

Story 1 - Dad

Story 2 - Ryan

Story 3 - Charles

Story 4 - Hunter

Story 5 - Danny

Story 6 - Andrew

Story 7 - Sean and Adam

Story 8 - Justin

Story 9 - Wrigley

Story 10 - Jake (& Belle)

Story 11 - Jim

The Discovery and You

Story 12 - Tim E.

So…

Six sucks. Just six months earlier, I had gotten married. It seemed a lifetime of searching for that mature balance of Mr. Right and Prince Charming, and then, like a dream-slash-nightmare, he was gone. Six hours later, I was sure I would never get out of bed again. Six days later I was already tired of hearing all of the trite but (perhaps) true sentiments well-meaning people say at a time like that, Time heals all wounds, I know how you feel and my personal favorite, It’s better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all. 666 – It certainly is the mark of something. At that time in my life, more than any other, I was absolutely certain that my downward spiral had an inevitable and predictable end...every day of the rest of my life was sure to be a living hell, however long my life lasted. And truth be told, I contemplated taking a long drive off of a short road many more times than anyone who loves me would want to know about.

But then, six months later I was giving myself six shots a day in preparation for my first cycle of in vitro fertilization using his frozen sperm. And it occurred to me that six didn’t suck so much, it hurt a whole lot, but it didn’t suck, despite the visible and invisible bruises. Maybe it was the myriad of hormones coursing through my body during IVF, but in the midst of all this, I made a discovery – an exhilarating, mind changing discovery that revealed itself to me like a giant jigsaw puzzle. I started thinking about all of the lessons I’d learned about myself and love throughout my life. Lessons I chose or didn’t choose to apply to my relationships. But that’s not much of a discovery; in fact, that’s not the discovery at all.

Before I share my big discovery with you, I have a confession to make. This discovery, or epiphany or whatever it was had a pretty awesome side effect. It calmed my aching heart, brought me peace of mind and when I least expected it (and most needed it), it brought a genuine smile of gratitude and happiness to my face and in my heart like I had never experienced before. It truly saved me and it didn’t go away. With all of that as a result, I’m sure you can see why I felt compelled to share it. But I think in order for anyone to understand my discovery in its entire splendor (go ahead - insert doubtful snickers and laughter here), I need to start at the beginning, well not the beginning actually, but rather a beginning.

When I was very young, and like most little girls, I was infatuated with the Prince Charming that I heard and read about in all of the fairytales. The Prince in Cinderella was my first favorite. His relentless pursuit of his one true love, and his singular goal to elevate her from a miserable and lonely existence into wealth, adoration and happily ever after, formed the early basis of what I thought love looked like. Later on, when I was about 12, I joined a well-known and popular romance book club. To be sure, the lure of many of these stories for me was their similarity to those earlier fairytales. There was a modern damsel in distress with a prince, nobleman, rancher or wealthy businessman coming to her rescue. It was all of the good stuff to be sure. Being in the book club meant that I received 7 new romance novels each month, but that wasn’t enough for me. By the time I started high school and on each and every Friday night; I would go to the library and checkout several romance novels to read for that coming week. If they were really good, I could read 2 or 3 by the end of the weekend. I was a tried and true romance novel-holic. My favorite author was Johanna Lindsay and I read every one of her books – many more than once. I couldn’t wait for May and November when a new novel of hers would be released. I still dreamt of being swept away by my version of Prince Charming, who by now looked a lot like Fabio.

As I grew up and with the depth of my years (around 15 or 16), I realized that he didn’t need to swash buckle anymore. By the time I was eighteen, I conceded that he didn’t need to have bulging muscles, wavy, jet black hair or cobalt blue eyes. By the time I entered college, I was a bit more pragmatic...I was just holding out for tall, handsome, rich and romantic, yeah, that’s all. Everyone who knew me considered me to be a hopeless romantic. Not just because of all the romance novels, but because of the movies I loved, my never-miss-an-episode of the Love Boat fanaticism and my unreasonable crush on both Cary Grant AND Telly Savalas (Don’t ask!). And I know that all of these images and messages, combined with the dissolution of my parents’ marriage and my own nature helped to solidify my early expectations of romantic love. I expected to be pursued, rescued and adored by the perfect man of my dreams by the time I reached 25. Does this sound familiar to anyone? Well, long story short, that didn’t happen to me and it’s not much of a news bulletin to say that it rarely, if ever, happens at all. In fact, most of my expectations were a recipe for disaster or at the very least, unhappiness in my love life. But let’s not forget the good news. The good news was that I was blessed to eventually love and be loved by a wonderful man.

But here’s the thing, as wonderful and rare as that love was to experience, the discovery that I want to share with you is not meant to be found in the one story here where I finally got my man. For me, the discovery took about 11 love stories to reveal, stories about my Dad, my dog, my late husband, and a few others in between. Yes, I included my dog, but for good reason, you’ll see. In this puzzle, each story is a necessary piece. I can’t deny that some pieces are bigger and weightier than others, but that doesn’t mean they’re more important. The romance novels, the crappy relationships, my Daddy issues, and becoming a widow at 37 are all equally important pieces to my discovery and it wouldn’t be complete without each and every one of them. Of course you’ll have to read the book (hmmm, or skip to the end) to find out what my discovery was, but that’s what we’re here for, right?

Before you start, here are some important notes from me, the author

All of the names, with the exception of my Dad (Dad), my dog (Wrigley) and my late husband (Jim) have been changed. This is to protect the innocent...and the not so innocent. And let’s face it, what difference do the names make anyway?

I even changed the name of the cancer drug that Jim took because the real name was not relevant to the story either. I call it KCD, which stands for Kidney Cancer Drug. Yeah I know, but hey I make no claims to be super creative.

I added what might appear to be morals at the end of each story but they are really nothing more than my honest, and perhaps, overly simplistic way of summarizing what I felt to be the bottom-line take-away message from each one. I also wrote this book originally with my hoped for daughter in mind. And I thought if she ended up anything like her Mom, then she might appreciate an Aesop fable like summary. That said, if you glean something else from these tales, then please disregard my notions in part or altogether and if you’re so inclined, fill me in on what you got out of them instead. Because I would honestly love to hear from you.

Finally, what is obviously missing here are the myriad of stories describing and illustrating how important and critical the many love stories that shaped me that are derived from the women in my life, be it my Mom or my sisters, friends, colleagues etc. But it’s always been those awesome fellas and they’re place in my life that has been a struggle for me to figure out, so that is why they are getting all of my focus here...aren’t they the lucky ones?

And that concludes the notes from the author.

Ultimately, my sincerest hope is that you too will realize some mind changing discoveries of your own and enjoy reading...

My Last Romance Novel

Dad

When I was 5, my parents separated. I have but one memory of my Dad at home, living in the house with us, and that’s of his taking linens from the linen closet to pack and take with him to his new apartment. That’s not a great memory, but since then there have definitely been more memories, precious memories of my Dad to follow. Not to replace that first one, but to build from it.

Despite the separation and subsequent divorce, my Dad made sure that he was there for me and my sisters on a regular basis, and especially for all of the important moments. My Dad came to all of my and my sister’s school and extra-curricular activities. Dad came by to help us with our homework when we needed it. He came by to watch the NFL games with us on Sunday afternoons and he introduced us to the family tradition of eating a stick of pepperoni or a pack of hard salami while watching them. I was a particular fan of the pepperoni stick. Dad would cut it evenly so that everyone got a piece. I sat and hoped for the end piece, it was curled up at the end and I loved it, just loved it! And I wasn’t much a football fan back then, but even I knew at the ripe old age of 7 or 8 that you rooted for the team that your Dad rooted for, and back then (and even now) it was the Pittsburgh Steelers or the Washington Redskins (our local team at the time). The point here is that my Dad showed up in all the ways that seemed to count. He even arrived bright and early for all of the major holidays.

Relatively speaking, my Dad provided much of the support that most kids from divorced homes, or even intact homes, only wish they had. There was only one problem. I was pretty mad at him. Don’t get me wrong, I was genuinely happy to see my Dad when he came by to visit. The only reason that I know I was mad at him is because of one thing. I tried to sock it to him every chance I got. I’m pretty sure that no one could tell. Or if they could, they never confronted me about it. But I was mad nonetheless and if I had to guess for how long, I would estimate until my early twenties, until after I graduated from college and had been on my own for a few years. The truth is his efforts back then didn’t matter that much because he hadn’t done the one thing I’d wanted him to do. He hadn’t stuck around and I was certain that unless he was in the home that he couldn’t possibly love me or be genuinely trustworthy, available or supportive.

From an early age, I recognized that my Dad prized intellectual ability and knowledge above many things – considered himself to be intelligent and knowledgeable and wise. Approaching adolescence and into high school, I decided to challenge his intellect and knowledge at almost every opportunity that presented itself. My antagonism towards him was easy to miss because that’s what was expected of most teenagers and also because our family took great pride in engaging in passionate debates with one another, whether we knew anything substantive on a topic or not. But my antagonism was person specific. It was aimed at my Dad. It was fun to battle wits against him. I think my Dad and other family members really felt that these exchanges were important character building opportunities. And the truth is I think they were too, up to a point. I can accept, in part, that it was growing up exposed to that environment that helped give me confidence in my opinions. To stand up for and defend what I believe in. But I know at that time, that these exchanges, at least between me and my Dad represented something else. They represented an opportunity for me to essentially say: Dad, I know more than you and you don’t know what you’re talking about. In my mind, and perhaps in reality, that is the greatest insult you could hurl at my Dad. That was the most effective way to undermine his authority - his authority and his self-image. By behaving in this way with him, I was saying, I don’t need you. See, I’m better than you without you. Like I said, I was pretty mad. I wonder now, if he knew it or if he was ever mad or resentful of me at times. I don’t blame him if he was. I think he was doing his best and I was an arrogant, angry, know-it-all. Still, I was the product of many things including his influence and his absence, so I think we share equal responsibility for the quality of our relationship throughout our lives.

Subsequently, throughout adolescence my relationship with my Dad was bittersweet and not intimate. I still wanted his attention, if for no other reason than to show him that I didn’t need it to be successful. In my crazy world, that logic was rational. I looked forward to his visits and my sisters and I spent one weekend each month with him at his place. When I was in high school and my sisters were in college, I still went to see my Dad every month. I was more or less ambivalent about this time together. I knew it was important to have quality time or just time together, but at that age, I couldn’t see the total merit in the idea. We didn’t have that much in common. All of those Sundays that he had come by to watch football; I usually bailed out of the room well before the end of the game. I would be somewhere else in the house, maybe with Mom or outside playing with friends. He used to come and watch our softball games, but I had stopped playing softball years back. By then I was more interested in boys, ballet and chorus. I was definitely a girly girl and if there was a choice between a rock and my Dad to confide in, I would happily choose the rock. In preparing to go to my Dad’s apartment for the weekend, I would either bring several romance novels from the library or I would buy a couple when we went to the grocery store my first night there. My Dad would take us and then just me to the grocery store on our first night staying with him for the weekend. That would be Friday night. We could get virtually anything we wanted. That usually meant something fried or frozen if it didn’t mean pizza. I was a big Hostess Ho-Ho and lemon pound cake fan so I got plenty of both and I was happy as punch to have them all to myself. No sharing was required. Growing up the youngest and smallest in the house meant that everything had to be

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