Monday, September 22, 2008

MONET - Is Her Relationship On The Road To Disaster?

Monet: Excerpt #4 from THE TRUTH ABOUT LOVE

Monét bit her lip. “I don’t know. I’m not ready for the whole meet-the-parents ordeal.”

“You met them at Zora and Preston’s wedding already.”

"No. I spoke to them at the wedding. We had a brief conversation and that was it. Going with you to Houston is different. Besides, that’s the weekend before the fundraiser and I’m sure I’ll have plenty to do.”

“Interesting. Savon is the excuse for the second time today.”

“It’s my job.”

“You’re your own boss. Give yourself the time off. You act like I asked you to go next
week. The party is three months from now,” Jeremiah said, slowing down at the yellow traffic light.

Monét knew he was looking over at her, but she didn’t look back. Her experiences with the parents of her boyfriends had never been anything to write home about.

“I’ll think about it.”

“You’ll think about it? Is it the money? I wouldn’t ask you if I didn’t plan on taking care of everything.”

“In the past –"

“The past is the past. We need to think about our future.”

Our future?

They were the last words in Monét’s mind before she heard tires screeching. The impact jarred behind her, throwing her against the door. It was so sudden that she didn’t have time to react.

Jeremiah’s truck was rammed into the intersection. She felt it spinning and she gripped the dashboard until the truck came to a sudden stop in the middle of the intersection. Monét’s heart felt like it was beating in her throat. They were facing oncoming traffic.

“Thank you, God,” she managed to say. She looked at Jeremiah. His hands were still clenching the steering wheel.


“I didn’t really think people’s lives flashed before their eyes.” He rubbed his forearm. “You alright?”

“Yes.” She unbuckled her seatbelt. It burned across her neck. Looking in the visor mirror, she saw a small area where the skin had been rubbed raw by the friction of the seatbelt locking her against the seat.

“Don’t get out.” Jeremiah reached behind his seat for an umbrella, opened the door, then stepped out into the pelting rain.

Monét could barely see past the heavy rain cascading down the car windows. Someone with a red umbrella stood at the back of Jeremiah’s truck, probably inspecting damage to the two vehicles.

Unlike Jeremiah, her life hadn’t flashed before her eyes during the seconds they hydroplaned across the two lanes of traffic. But now she was in the car alone, mulling over her last thoughts before the accident. Our future?

Cars crept past the accident. The police came. And the only thing she could think was, “Was the future of their relationship an accident waiting to happen?”

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