Gregory A. J. - I said yes : my story of heartbreak, redemption, and true love

2016 by Emily Maynard

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Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Nelson Books, an imprint of Thomas Nelson. Nelson Books and Thomas Nelson are registered trademarks of HarperCollins Christian Publishing, Inc.

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Scripture quotations marked NIV are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version, NIV. Copyright 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc. Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com

Scripture quotations marked MSG are taken from The Message by Eugene H. Peterson. 1993, 1994, 1995, 1996, 2000. Used by permission of NavPress Publishing Group. All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-0-7180-3844-1 (e-book)

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Maynard, Emily, 1986

Title: I said yes : my story of heartbreak, redemption, and true love / Emily Maynard.

Description: Nashville : Thomas Nelson, 2016.

Identifiers: LCCN 2015013982 | ISBN 9780718038403

Subjects: LCSH: Maynard, Emily, 1986- | Converts--United States--Biography. | Bachelor (Television program) | Bachelorette (Television program)

Classification: LCC BV4935.M365 A3 2016 | DDC 277.3/083092--dc23 LC record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2015013982

16 17 18 19 20 RRD 6 5 4 3 2 1

To Tyler, Ricki, and Jennings, The three of you are my greatest gifts, and I thank God for you every day. Thank you for showing me what His unconditional love truly means.

Contents

M y shoulders shook violently. In between heaving sobs I tried, unsuccessfully, to sputter out something semi-coherent to one of my producers on The Bachelorette who had fast become a close friend. Her hand gently clasping mine, she reassured me through sympathetic nods and a lot of Oh, Emilys that everything was going to be okay.

I knew better.

When my gasps slowed and I could finally control what felt like an inevitable panic attack, the words finally managed to slide out.

I did it again, I told her, sniffing as mascara ran down my cheeks, a telltale sign of the infamous ugly cry.

I was devastated. But I had to pull myself together for another round of press interviews and media appearances. I held on to the edge of the New York hotel bathroom counter-top, pots of eye shadow and lip glosses strewn messily about. Stomach churning, I whispered, this time to myself.

I did it again.

I was devastated because I said yes to something I knew I should never have agreed to the very second the tiny three-letter word tumbled out of my mouth in front of my soon-to-be fianc, the dedicated cameramen angling for the best shot, and, when the episode finally aired, millions of Americans. Yes to something I wasnt quite ready for.

Yes.

Three letters. One syllable. A super-short word in the English language. For many, one filled with hopes and dreams and wishes on twinkling stars. And for others, well, regret. Now dont get me wrong. I wanted to say yes to a relationship, to love, to a well see what happens, you know, when the microphones turn off, the set shuts down, and the crew goes home. Just not yes, I will marry you.

Before filming The Bachelorette, I was adamant to myself and to producers that I didnt want to get engaged again. I knew better. I had prematurely said yes to Brad Womack on The Bachelor a few short seasons earlier. I had wanted so badly to fall in love and live happily ever after that I hung on to the relationship for dear life. Hoping. Dreaming. Wishing.

Yes. I was beginning to hate that word and wondered if Id ever get it right. I felt like a failure. Ashamed of my mistakes on and off both shows. Though I wanted to so badly, I didnt know if I could ever say yes again.

C hurch lady, my brother, Ernie, three years my senior, spewed with disgust. I pretended I didnt hear. It was a name he had called me for years. And oddly, it had nothing to do with the fact that I went to church. Because I didnt, except on that rare occasion when it didnt seem like such an enormous chore for my parents to get everyone together and out the door on time for Catholic Mass. I was dubbed the church lady because I was more or less a Goody Two-Shoes. (Maybe just one reason I had a tendency to fall for the bad boys, some of whom shall remain nameless in my vault of shame.) As a little girl, it made sense to follow the rules. I was pretty stringent. And I wasnt shy about voicing my disapproval when the ones I loved most committed certain infractions. Like smoking.

I remember when I was around ten, bouncing up the creaky wooden staircase in our home, when I heard a familiar click-click-click from the stove. My father was lighting a cigarette the old-fashioned way. I made a beeline down the stairs and tore into the kitchen screaming bloody murder. Dad, dont do that! I pleaded, tears streaming down my face. Youre going to die.

A chill from the tiled kitchen floor shivered through my body as a scene from health class a few weeks earlier replayed in my mind. The teacher had droned on and on ad nauseam about the harmful effects of smoking. I sat at my desk, barely hearing a word she was saying, riveted by a glossy photograph that was being passed around the room. There, right before my eyes, was a high-quality image of a blackened, diseased lung. I stared in horror at the charred-looking organ. So when Dad whipped out a deadly cancer stick from his back pocket, all I could think about was what was happening to his insides. Unfortunately, he didnt appreciate my good-willed theatrics. A man who stuffed his emotions, Dad simply rolled his eyes, realizing he could avoid the drama by not smoking in front of me.

Sometimes, if he was annoyed enough at my church-lady antics, he gave me more than an eye roll. Like the time we were in Key West, where we spent a few weeks most summers, and Dad reached for his crinkly pack of smokes. On cue I started ranting and raving with high-pitched cries. My father shook his head and reached for something else in his other back pocket.

Here, he sighed, pressing a credit card into the palm of my hand. Go on now, sweetie, go shopping.

Staying true to my obedient little self, I wiped dry my tears and nodded in compliance. Okay, Dad. I will. It was his most expensive cigarette.

Planting roots near Cheat Lake in Morgantown, West Virginia, home to the states largest university, my father was an old-fashioned man who held firm to some pretty antiquated values I didnt agree with but, like a good Southern girl, rarely questioned. Dad was a hard worker; he still is. Growing up with empty pockets, he toiled in the coal mines as a teenager, spending ten grueling hours per day far below the earths surface in the presence of thick dust, heavy equipment, and noxious fumes. He worked his way up over the years and bought a handful of coal mines; today he owns two as he is beginning to retire. I loved Dad but didnt see him much as business took up most of his time.

If I was the church lady, Mom was the Southern Martha Stewart, which means, unlike the famed M. Diddy (Marthas prison name), my mother wore a lot of noisy bangles and had a slight and very charming twang in her voice. Mom poured her heart and soul into our housecooking, cleaning, and decorating with passion. With her hair elegantly pinned up in a French twist, her feet dolled up in high heels, and the light scent of Calvin Kleins Obsession emanating from her pulse points, Mom always looked as glamorous as a 1950s Hollywood starlet. She was known for her parties. Particularly the bash she threw each Christmas Eve, where she served every delectable cocktail and hors doeuvre known to mankind with her signature smile. Mom was a gracious and thoughtful host. Almost everyone in town showed up to her trademark parties, teeming our old Victorian house with throngs of people drinking, laughing, and gallivanting.