The Keys to My Diary: Marina: The Keys to My Diary, #2

By Ann Omasta

Finally free from her philandering ex-husband, Marina begins keeping a diary of her life in the Florida Keys. Will a fling with a sexy stranger on a motorcycle spice up her entries — and provide the cure for her broken heart?

 

Hello. My name is Marina Carpenter, and I am divorced. 

 

I never in a bazillion years thought I would have to utter those words about myself. 

 

Fern, my BFF, thought it would be a good idea for me to work through my hurt feelings by writing in this journal. It doesn't seem to be working.

 

Maybe I need a hot, young, motorcycle-riding tourist to help me forget this overwhelming sadness for a bit. 

 

I'll just need to remember that it's a temporary fling. No problem... right?

 

Sneak a peek inside my diary today! 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ann Omasta
• Release date: Jul 29, 2016
• ISBN: 9781536555240

Ann Omasta

Ann Omasta is a USA Today bestselling author.  Ann’s Top Ten list of likes, dislikes, and oddities: I despise whipped cream. There, I admitted it in writing. Let the ridiculing begin. Even though I have lived as far south as Key Largo, Florida, and as far north as Maine, I landed in the middle. If I don't make a conscious effort not to, I will drink nothing but tea morning, noon, and night. Hot tea, sweet tea, green tea––I love it all. There doesn't seem to be much in life that is better than coming home to a couple of big dogs who are overjoyed to see me. My other family members usually show significantly less enthusiasm about my return. Singing in my bestest, loudest voice does not make my family put on their happy faces. This includes the big, loving dogs referenced above. Yes, I am aware that bestest is not a word. Dorothy was right. There's no place like home. All of the numerous bottles in my shower must be lined up with their labels facing out. It makes me feel a little like Julia Roberts' mean husband from the movie Sleeping with the Enemy, but I can't seem to control this particular quirk. I love, love, love finding a great bargain! Did I mention that I hate whipped cream? It makes my stomach churn to look at it, touch it, smell it, or even think about it. Great––now I'm thinking about it. Ick! ** I would LOVE to send you a free copy of my novella, Aloha, Baby! Visit annomasta.com for details. ** Stay up-to-date on new releases and insider info by liking / following Ann: - Facebook: facebook.com/annomasta - Goodreads: goodreads.com/annomasta - Bookbub: bookbub.com/authors/ann-omasta - Website: annomasta.com

Book preview

March 22

Iam Divorced. I gave the word a capital D because it feels ominous enough to deserve one. The D word is a description that I never in a bazillion years would have imagined would apply to me. I suppose going into marriage, no one thinks it will end this way.

My dad used to call people in my situation The Divorced as if they––actually, I guess I should say WE––comprise a special, undesirable segment of the population.

No longer married... Failed marriage... Divorcée... Single again... Unwed... Split up... Estranged... Dissolution of marriage. There just isn't a good way to say it.

It all sounds so final. Somehow, it sounds even more permanent than being married. I suppose that's because it is. A couple is much more likely to stay divorced than to stay married.

I do have a cousin who remarried his second wife after divorcing her, but I would venture to guess that their situation is more of an exception to the rule. Besides, I don't want to remarry my husband. Well, ex-husband. I just can't get used to calling him that.

After putting up with him for eight years, I guess I should be proud of myself for finally cutting the cheater loose. I can't seem to muster the energy to feel any pride or even relief, though. Instead, I just feel sad. Desperately sad. Like a blood pressure cuff is squeezing ever-tighter around my heart. The sensation is like having permanently lost my best friend, even though he wasn't my best friend by a long shot, and he hadn't been for a long time. Hey, I never claimed that my feelings are logical.

I'm not sure what I'm supposed to be writing in this silly diary. My best friend, Fern, gave it to me. Yep, Fern is her real name. It's not like I have any room to talk with my crazy moniker, Marina. Marina Carpenter. My newly reacquired maiden name is one more thing I have to get used to. I need to learn how to sign it again. It's been a while.

Fern has regularly kept journals since she was a pre-teen, so she thought I might find some solace in writing down my thoughts. She gave me this beautiful leather-bound book at my tacky divorce party (a freedom celebration clearly created by women desperate to ensure their newly divorced friends don't drown their sorrows in a giant vat of Ben & Jerry's or numerous bottles of Riesling), but now I don't know what to write in it.

I promised her I would try, so here I am trying, but all I can think about is that I now have to check the 'Divorced' box on government forms. And I have to take out the trash. Frank wasn't great about helping out with household chores, but he did always take the trash out. Sigh.

March 25

Still Divorced. Still sad. Not sure what else to say, but I know Fern will ask, so at least I can say I wrote in here.

March 29

Ihave been avoiding the corner of the room where this diary sits because I have no idea what I'm supposed to be recording in here. I guess I'll try, but it doesn't seem to come naturally to me like it does to Fern. Of course, she's been keeping a journal for almost thirty years, so I guess she has her fair share of practice at it. I wonder what she writes in hers? Maybe I should ask if she will let me see hers...kind of an 'I'll show you mine, if you'll show me yours' exchange. She would probably shoot that idea down in a heartbeat because her diary is bound to be much more steamy than this one. Her first diary as a pre-teen is probably juicier than this one. I really need to up my juice factor.

It should be acknowledged that successfully avoiding the journal (or anything else) in my tiny hovel is a miraculous feat. That accomplishment doesn't keep me from feeling guilty for majorly failing at journaling, though.

Calling this round-cornered living room / kitchenette / bedroom a 'room' is a bit of a stretch. Looking around the dilapidated Airstream that I now call home is a reminder of the hot mess of slimy goo my life has slithered into.

I used to be the only one of my friends who had it all together. I was married. I had an amazing job that most people would kill for, and I lived in a home––a real home, with shutters and a garage and its own washer and dryer. I miss my washer and dryer. The laundry mat smells like feet, and it costs a small fortune. I've probably already paid for a new washer––all in quarters, of course––in the weeks since I left Frank (and our house) and moved into our aging trailer. The ability to pay for the machines has little meaning, however, since I have NO room for them.

I probably should have hired a divorce attorney and insisted on keeping the house. After all, Frank was the one who broke our marriage vows, not me. He is the reason we are no longer married, not me––even though he loves pointing out that I am the one who left. Even knowing that I was getting the short end of the stick by moving to the trailer, I didn't have it in me to fight him for the house. I felt sad and betrayed and I just wanted out, by any means necessary.

Fern keeps telling me to focus on the positive, but I'm struggling with that suggestion. The overarching sadness that my failed marriage is causing suffocates my feeble attempts to be chipper. I'd rather kick something. Hard. Perhaps I am moving into the anger phase of grief? It will have to be better than the empty, desolate darkness I've been enduring. At least if I'm angry, I'll still feel alive. I have felt like a zombie lately, just marching dazedly through my life on autopilot.

My close friends became concerned about my overwhelming sadness. They even suggested that I might need to move home to lick my wounds and heal for a while. By home they meant my real home––in Arkansas––where I am originally from, NOT my home down here where I lived with Frank. (They care about me too much to ever suggest I return to having my heart trod upon by him.) The vast majority of us in this area are Florida Keys transplants from other locations that we consider our real homes. Even people who have lived here for the past twenty-five years are still not considered true 'conchs' or locals.

I wish that moving back home was really a viable option, but since my family was dead set against my marriage to Frank, it's not a possibility. I thumbed my nose at my parents and informed them that I was old enough to make my own decisions before running off and marrying Frank, at what I now realize was way too young of an age. They practically disowned me over it and my relationship with them has never been the same since. I certainly don't want to give them the satisfaction of verifying that they had been right all along.

Deep down, I know that I stayed with Frank much longer than I should have. I was aware of his cheating for longer than I care to admit, and I had strong suspicions for a long time before that. My stubborn refusal to admit that my family had been right about our marriage being a mistake kept me from leaving until it seemed I had no other choice, if I wanted to hold on to my last shred of self-respect.

At one point, while I was still with Frank, I started exchanging flirtatious messages with Brian, my ex-boyfriend from high school, via Facebook. He seemed genuinely interested in what I had to say, unlike Frank whose eyes tended to glaze over whenever I spoke. It was so tempting to run home to try to rekindle my relationship with Brian, but I finally decided that I couldn't run away from my marital problems. Besides, running home would only give my parents the opportunity to say, I told you so, about my ill-fated marriage.

Those desperate and pathetic emails had been the closest I ever came to cheating on Frank. On several occasions, I considered finding someone willing and able to keep my bed warm when Frank failed to come home. I just didn't have it in me, though. I'm not a cheater. I don't believe in it, and I won't do it... even though he deserves it and thought nothing of repeatedly betraying my trust by bedding anyone with a skimpy bikini top and short skirt who ventured into his line of vision.

For a while, I was angry with the women. I hated them for being more attractive to Frank than I was. I blamed them for his indiscretions. I felt like if they weren't willing to jump into his bed, then maybe he would stay in mine.

I realize now what a foolish stance this was. It took many late nights of crying and sharing entire bottles of wine with Fern to realize that I was displacing my anger. Most of the women he was with probably didn't have any idea he was married. I tried to convince myself that they should have somehow known, but the reality that he likely hid his wedding ring and led them to believe he was single, was as unavoidable of a conclusion as a migraine at a pulse-pounding laser lights club on disco night.

Honestly, I can't even bring myself to blame them for sleeping with him. His shiny black hair is just starting to show the beginning speckles of gray. His perpetual five o'clock shadow, startling blue eyes, and relaxed demeanor only serve to add to his blatant sex appeal. He drives a dive boat in paradise and no doubt presents himself as being ready, willing, and available. Who wouldn't want to hit that? I sure couldn't ever resist him. Why should I expect anyone else to?

It's probably a dream come true for most of his conquests, until they wake up the next morning only to realize he has his sights set on his next victim. All the while, I was sitting at home, pining away for him and cherishing any tiny bit of attention he decided to carelessly toss my way. Pathetic.

Not anymore, though. Wimpy Marina West is in the past. Marina Carpenter has taken her place. I am strong, and I am done being a victim! It's going to be my life, my way, from now on. I'm in charge of me, and I'm going to turn this shattered shell of a woman I've become into someone who is happy and enjoys her life. It's possible to do that, right? Happy people do exist, don't they? Even if they only exist in wishes and fairy tales, I vow to make it happen and become one. Let the happiness transformation begin now.

Hmm. Now what?

April 1

Iam proud of my progress towards happiness. Despite the date, that is no joke.

Speaking of today's date, I pulled off a hilarious April Fools' prank at work. I stopped by Fern's office a few days ago just as she was getting ready to throw out a donut box. No surprise there. Her office is always bringing in meals or special treats for random, made-up special days, like Hot Dog Day. When I asked her if I could have the box, she informed me the donuts were gone. I said that was exactly why I wanted it, so she handed it over and looked at me like I might have completely lost my marbles.

I still chuckle every time I think about what I did...When crusty old Skipper saw me bringing in that donut box this morning, his face lit up like a kid on Christmas morning. I smiled and led him and a trail of other unsuspecting victims into our tiny break room. The allure of fresh donuts being irresistible, they gathered around like vultures as I carefully placed the box on the rickety folding table. Skipper even grabbed a handful of napkins to place next to the box in an unusually helpful gesture.

Yelling, Surprise! I flipped back the lid on the box and revealed the brightly hued carrots, celery, and cucumbers I had spent the morning painstakingly slicing for my ruse. The collective groan of disappointment from my co-workers was immediate at the sight of the crudités.

I couldn't help giggling at their reactions as I dunked a carrot into the ranch veggie dip and popped it in my mouth. Skipper told me to choke on it before ambling out to the docks. His cranky reaction to my healthy offering made me laugh even harder.

They weren't really mad at me––just frustrated that I had fooled them. In fact, by the time I returned from the afternoon diving trip, the veggies had all been eaten.

Today was a good day. I made it fun. I do feel a wee bit guilty about tricking my co-workers, though. I think I'll get up early tomorrow to stop by the grocery for a real box of donuts to take to them. They deserve it, and so do I.

April 5

OMG...I saw a skank coming out of my house. Well, I guess it's not technically my house anymore, but that knowledge doesn't keep it from feeling like it is still mine. I can't block the horrid mental image that keeps popping into my mind of her (more than likely stinky) lady parts touching my bed in my room while my husband's penis grinds inside her.

Frank can be a magnificent lover when he puts effort into it, which he hadn't bothered to exert with me in a long time. In recent years, our coupling had become merely a connection of parts to satiate