Chapter 1
The Girl With Big Dreams
“Before anyone could convince me I wasn’t enough, there was a girl who believed she could do anything.“
May 1993
St James, Jamaica
There are certain mornings that never leave you.
Not because something extraordinary happened, but because life seemed so wonderfully ordinary that you never imagined how much you would one day miss it.
Mine always began with the same sound.
“Deborah!”
My mother’s voice carried through the house before the sun had fully climbed over the hills.
“If you don’t get up now, don’t expect me to explain to your principal why you’re late again!”
I smiled before I even opened my eyes.
She said the same thing almost every morning.
And almost every morning, I answered exactly the same way.
“I’m getting up!”
I wasn’t.
Not yet.
I pulled the sheet over my head for another few precious seconds, trying to convince myself that somehow time would slow down just because I wanted it to.
It never did.
A moment later, the smell reached my bedroom.
Fried dumplings.
Saltfish.
Fresh cocoa tea.
There are people who remember childhood through photographs.
I remember mine through smells.
Breakfast wasn’t just food in our house.
It was love served on a plate before anyone left to face the world.
By the time I reached the kitchen, Mama had already packed my lunch.
She looked up briefly.
“Morning.”
“Morning.”
She slid a plate toward me without another word.
That was her love language.
Not speeches.
Not hugs every five minutes.
Service.
Sacrifice.
Showing up.
I took a bite of a dumpling while trying to button the cuff of my blouse with one hand.
She watched me for exactly three seconds before shaking her head.
“You stay up reading too much.”
“I’m studying.”
She raised one eyebrow.
“Newspapers?”
“They’re not just newspapers.”
“What are they then?”
“My future.”
She laughed.
“You and these big dreams.”
“They’re not big.”
“No?”
“No.”
I smiled.
“They’re just waiting on me.”
She stopped what she was doing.
Really looked at me.
“You still want to be on television?”
“More than anything.”
“And if that doesn’t happen?”
“It will.”
She smiled in a way only mothers can.
“Then make sure when you get there…”
She paused.
“…you remember who you are.”
At seventeen, I thought she was talking about success.
Years later, I realized she was preparing me for something much harder.
Loss.
School was my favorite place in the world.
Not because I loved exams.
Nobody loved exams.
I loved possibility.
Every classroom felt like another door opening.
Every lesson made the world feel a little bigger than it had the day before.
My best friend, Nadine, spotted me the moment I stepped through the school gate.
“You actually made it before assembly.”
“Barely.”
“I was about to tell everybody you finally overslept.”
“I almost did.”
She laughed.
“You always almost do.”
We walked toward the assembly area together, weaving through clusters of students laughing, talking, and comparing homework answers.
Teachers stood near the staff room pretending not to notice late arrivals sprinting across the compound.
Someone had smuggled in a radio, and soft reggae music drifted through the morning air until one teacher confiscated it with an exaggerated sigh.
Normal.
Beautifully normal.
If someone had handed me a photograph of that morning and told me to treasure it, I probably would have smiled politely without understanding why.
How could I?
At seventeen, forever feels guaranteed.
I wasn’t looking for love.
Honestly…
I barely had time to think about boys.
My dreams demanded too much attention.
Journalism.
Television.
Travel.
Stories.
Those things occupied my imagination far more than romance ever did.
If a conversation wasn’t about current events, career goals, or where life might take us after graduation, I probably wasn’t paying much attention.
Nadine teased me constantly.
“One day you’re going to meet somebody who completely distracts you.”
“I doubt it.”
“You say that now.”
“I don’t need distractions.”
“You need balance.”
“I need a passport.”
She burst into laughter.
“You really serious.”
“I really am.”
Neither of us knew that life has a strange sense of humor.
Sometimes…
It gives you exactly what you weren’t looking for.
That afternoon, as students flooded the courtyard after classes, I noticed him.
Only for a moment.
Tall.
Quiet.
Walking with two other boys.
Nothing remarkable happened.
He didn’t smile at me.
I didn’t smile at him.
We didn’t exchange names.
We didn’t exchange words.
We simply existed in the same moment.
If someone had stopped me right there and asked,
“What do you think of him?”
I probably would have answered,
“He seems nice.”
Then I would have continued walking.
Funny…
Sometimes destiny doesn’t announce itself.
Sometimes…
It simply walks past you in a crowded school corridor.
End of Chapter One
Sleeping With the Enemy
Chapter Two — The Second Time I Saw Him
“Some people enter your story twice—the first time as a stranger, and the second time as a possibility.”
I had already known his face from school, but church was where I first became aware of him as a person.
Not deeply aware.
Not romantically aware.
Just aware enough to recognize him when he walked through the doors one Sunday morning.
I was seventeen then, and he was eighteen.
The church was small enough that newcomers were noticed immediately, even when they were not truly new. Everyone knew everyone—or at least knew someone who knew them. Before service began, the sanctuary filled with overlapping greetings, children being reminded to sit still, mothers adjusting collars, and ushers directing people toward seats that had somehow belonged to the same families for years.
The wooden windows were pushed open to let in the morning breeze, though the air inside still felt warm. Sunlight stretched across the tiled floor in long golden strips. A ceiling fan turned lazily overhead, moving just enough air to make us believe it was helping.
I was standing near the front with the other young people when I saw him enter.
For a moment, I couldn’t place him.
Then I remembered.
The quiet boy from school.
He looked slightly different outside his uniform. Older, perhaps. More confident. He wore a neatly pressed shirt and dark trousers, and he carried a Bible beneath one arm. He greeted one of the brothers near the entrance before slipping into a seat a few rows behind me.
I glanced at him once.
Then turned back around.
That was all.
There was no spark.
No sudden music playing somewhere in my imagination.
No whispered revelation from God that the young man behind me would someday become my husband.
Nothing inside me shifted.
If anything, I was more concerned about whether I remembered the words to the song we had been asked to lead.
Life-changing moments rarely announce themselves while they are happening.
Sometimes they look like nothing at all.
The praise leader stepped toward the microphone and raised one hand.
“Come on, church. Let us stand and give God praise.”
The musicians began playing, and the sanctuary came alive.
Hands clapped.
Tambourines shook.
Voices rose together.
I loved church—not only because of what I believed, but because of how it felt. There was comfort in the familiar order of service, in the testimonies, in the scriptures I had heard since childhood. Church gave language to things I was still too young to explain. It taught me that there was purpose beyond what I could see and that a life could be built around something greater than ambition.
Even then, I wanted both.
Purpose and achievement.
Faith and a future.
I never believed one had to cancel the other.
As the congregation sang, I forgot about the boy behind me.
That was easy to do.
He wasn’t trying to attract attention. He wasn’t one of those young men who worshipped with one eye open to see who was watching. He stood quietly, sang when everyone sang, and sat when the pastor instructed us to sit.
During the sermon, I wrote notes in the margin of my Bible.
Beside me, my friend leaned close.
“You know that boy?”
I kept my eyes forward.
“Which boy?”
“The one who came in late.”
“He didn’t come in late.”
“You noticed what time he came in?”
I turned and looked at her.
“I recognized him from school. That’s all.”
She smiled in the irritating way friends do when they believe they’ve discovered something.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“There is nothing to smile about.”
“I didn’t say there was.”
“You didn’t have to.”
She looked over my shoulder, then back at me.
“He’s handsome.”
“I suppose.”
“You suppose?”
“I have eyes. That doesn’t mean I’m interested.”
“You’re never interested.”
“That’s because I have plans.”
She released a quiet laugh and earned a sharp glance from one of the older sisters seated in front of us.
We immediately faced forward.
The pastor continued preaching about obedience, purpose, and the danger of allowing distractions to move us away from what God had called us to do.
My friend nudged me again.
I refused to look at her.
Later, I would think about the irony of that sermon.
At seventeen, I thought distractions were obvious things—parties, bad company, careless decisions.
I didn’t yet understand that some distractions arrive looking like answered prayers.
After service, the churchyard filled with conversation.
No one ever left immediately. People stood beneath the trees, discussing the message, sharing news, and deciding whose house they would visit for Sunday dinner. Children ran between adults while being warned repeatedly not to ruin their church clothes.
I was talking with two friends when he walked past us.
He nodded.
“Good afternoon.”
“Good afternoon,” we answered together.
That was our first exchange.
Two words from him.
Two words from me.
Nothing memorable.
Nothing intimate.
Nothing that suggested the future.
He continued toward a group of young men near the gate, and I returned to my conversation.
My friend watched him go.
“He speaks.”
“Most people do.”
“You’re no fun.”
“I’m plenty of fun.”
“Not when it comes to boys.”
“That’s intentional.”
She folded her arms.
“So you don’t want to get married one day?”
“One day is not today.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
I thought about it.
Marriage was something I assumed would eventually happen, the way people assume adulthood will arrive fully formed with answers and financial stability. I imagined a husband in the vague way young women sometimes do—not a face, but a feeling.
He would be kind.
Supportive.
Faithful.
He would believe in my dreams without being threatened by them.
We would build together.
Pray together.
Raise children in a peaceful home.
I had no idea how much work the word together could demand—or how lonely a marriage could become when only one person truly believed in it.
“Yes,” I finally said. “I’ll probably get married.”
“To what kind of man?”
“One who loves God.”
“That’s it?”
“And loves me.”
She laughed. “That should help.”
“It should.”
I smiled then, innocent enough to believe that love and faith automatically produced character.
I had not yet learned that people could speak about God while avoiding accountability.
That they could know scripture and still mishandle someone’s heart.
That a person could love the idea of family more than the responsibility of nurturing one.
At seventeen, I believed the right words meant the right intentions.
Experience would eventually teach me to look at patterns instead.
Over the following months, we attended the same church often enough to become familiar without becoming close.
Sometimes he sat across the sanctuary.
Sometimes he stood with the young men after service.
Occasionally, we exchanged greetings.
Once, we were placed in the same group during a youth activity. We had been asked to discuss where we saw ourselves in ten years.
Most of the young people gave safe answers.
Married.
Employed.
Serving God.
Owning a home.
When it was my turn, I spoke without hesitation.
“I want to become a journalist.”
One of the boys laughed.
“A real journalist?”
“What is a fake journalist?”
The group laughed.
“I mean on television?”
“Television, radio, newspapers—wherever the truth needs to be told.”
Someone whistled.
“That sounds serious.”
“It is.”
The youth leader smiled. “And what makes you want to do that?”
“I like asking questions.”
My friend muttered, “That part is true.”
More laughter.
I continued.
“I like understanding why things happen. And I think people deserve to know what is happening around them, especially when decisions affect their lives.”
The youth leader nodded approvingly.
“What about marriage and children?”
“I can have those too.”
The room grew quiet for half a second.
Not because the statement was scandalous, but because I had said it with such certainty.
I didn’t believe becoming a wife should require abandoning the person I had been before marriage. I assumed a husband would want me to succeed. I imagined partnership as two lives expanding alongside each other—not one life growing while the other became smaller to make room.
Across the circle, the quiet boy from school looked at me.
Not with admiration.
Not with criticism.
Simply with an expression I couldn’t read.
Then it was his turn.
He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees.
“I want to own businesses.”
“What kind?” the leader asked.
“A few different kinds.”
“Such as?”
He paused.
“I’m still deciding.”
There was nothing wrong with that. We were young. Most of us were still deciding.
He spoke about financial freedom, creating opportunities, and never wanting to depend on anyone else for his future. His confidence changed when he discussed business. The quietness lifted, revealing ambition beneath it.
For the first time, I found him interesting.
Not attractive.
Interesting.
There is a difference.
I recognized something in him that I believed existed in me too: the desire for more.
I didn’t know then that two ambitious people could mean very different things when they talked about building a future.
I wanted to build something stable.
He wanted to keep building whatever excited him next.
I valued completion.
He was energized by beginnings.
At seventeen and eighteen, those differences looked like personality.
Years later, they would become fault lines.
After the activity, refreshments were served in the fellowship hall.
I stood near the table pouring fruit drink into plastic cups when he approached.
“You really want to be a journalist?”
It was the longest sentence he had ever spoken directly to me.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I just explained why.”
He smiled slightly.
“I heard what you told the group. I’m asking why you really want it.”
I looked at him more carefully.
It was a good question.
“I think stories matter,” I said. “People act differently when they understand what’s really happening.”
“So you want to expose people?”
“Not necessarily.”
“But journalists expose people.”
“Sometimes. They also inform people. Give voices to people who aren’t being heard.”
He nodded, considering my answer.
“You ask a lot of questions?”
“All the time.”
“I can tell.”
I couldn’t decide whether he meant it as a compliment.
“And you have a lot of business ideas?” I asked.
“All the time.”
“Do you write them down?”
“Sometimes.”
“Do you have a plan for any of them?”
He laughed.
“You really do ask a lot of questions.”
“You approached a future journalist. What did you expect?”
His smile widened.
For a few moments, we talked about school, careers, and what we hoped life would become. Nothing personal. Nothing romantic. Nothing that left me thinking about him after I went home.
Still, it was the first time I saw beyond his quietness.
He was funny in a restrained way. Observant. Capable of making a statement sound confident even when it lacked details. He spoke as though his future was waiting somewhere nearby and all he had to do was reach for it.
That certainty was appealing.
Not to me as a potential partner.
Not yet.
But as one dreamer recognizing another.
When my friend approached, carrying two plates of cake, she looked between us with obvious interest.
“I thought you said you weren’t interested.”
“I’m not.”
He glanced at me.
She grinned. “You two looked very comfortable.”
“We were discussing careers.”
“At a youth fellowship.”
“That’s where we are.”
She handed me a plate and turned to him.
“You should know she’ll interview you whether you agree or not.”
He smiled.
“I noticed.”
Then someone called his name from across the hall.
He nodded toward us.
“I’ll see you around.”
“See you,” I said.
And that was it.
No lingering glance.
No private smile.
No reason to think the conversation mattered.
My friend waited until he was out of hearing range.
“You like him.”
“I do not.”
“You were smiling.”
“I smile when I speak to people.”
“Not like that.”
“Like what?”
She attempted to imitate my face, producing an expression so ridiculous that I nearly dropped my cake.
“You need help.”
“And you need to admit that he’s handsome.”
“I already said he was.”
“So?”
“So nothing.”
She studied me, then shrugged.
“All right. Nothing.”
And it truly was nothing.
At least, that was what I believed.
Our lives moved on.
School ended.
Youth activities changed.
People left for work, college, marriage, or opportunities overseas. Some friendships survived distance. Others faded without disagreement, weakened simply by the demands of growing up.
He became one of those familiar faces from an earlier chapter.
Someone I could place if his name came up.
Someone I might greet warmly if we crossed paths.
Nothing more.
I built a life far away from the churchyard where we had spoken about our dreams.
There were relationships.
Children.
Responsibilities.
Successes I had prayed for and disappointments I never saw coming.
I entered journalism and discovered that the work was both more demanding and more rewarding than I had imagined. I learned to stand before cameras without trembling, ask uncomfortable questions without apologizing, and pursue truth even when people preferred silence.
I became the woman I had told everyone I would become.
At least professionally.
Personally, life was more complicated.
The years taught me that confidence in one area did not guarantee wisdom in another. I could interview powerful people without fear and still struggle to ask difficult questions in my own relationships. I could identify contradictions in someone else’s story while overlooking them in my own.
But all of that came later.
Back then, the quiet boy from school and church slipped so completely from my thoughts that I might have believed his role in my life had ended before it ever truly began.
I was wrong.
Some people do not disappear from your story.
They wait beyond the page until life is ready to introduce them again.
And years later, when his name appeared on a screen in front of me, I remembered the school corridors.
The churchyard.
The conversation about journalism and businesses.
The young man who had once asked why I really wanted to tell stories.
I smiled at the memory.
Then I opened his message.
End of Chapter Two
Sleeping With the Enemy
Chapter Three — The Message
“Sometimes the door that changes your life does not open with a key. Sometimes it opens with a notification.”
His message was not romantic.
That is one of the details I remember most clearly.
There was no declaration that he had been thinking about me for years. No suggestion that fate had brought us back together. No attempt to charm me with compliments or remind me that we had once attended the same school and church.
It was simple.
Professional, even.
He had created an online networking group for Jamaicans living at home and abroad—people interested in business, community projects, investment opportunities, and professional connections. He was reaching out to individuals he believed could contribute to the group, and because of my work in journalism, he thought I might be interested.
At least, that was how it began.
I read the message twice.
Then I clicked his profile.
His face was older, of course, but immediately familiar. Time had sharpened some features and softened others. The quiet young man I remembered had grown into someone who appeared confident and established. His photographs showed him at events, beside business associates, with family, and occasionally behind a microphone addressing a room.
He looked like someone who had found his direction.
I had no idea how much a photograph could conceal.
I typed a brief response.
Hello. It’s good hearing from you after all these years. I remember you from school and church. Thank you for the invitation. I’ll take a look at the group.
I pressed send and returned to what I had been doing.
There was no flutter in my stomach.
No curiosity strong enough to interrupt my evening.
He was simply someone from my past who had resurfaced through technology, as people often did. Social media had become a strange reunion hall where former classmates appeared without warning, carrying new surnames, grown children, and lives you would never have imagined for them.
A few minutes later, his reply appeared.
I wasn’t sure you would remember me.
I smiled.
Of course I remember you. We went to the same school and later attended the same church.
His response came quickly.
We barely spoke.
That’s true.
You were always serious.
I laughed aloud.
It was such a familiar accusation.
I was focused. There’s a difference.
Still asking questions?
I paused.
He remembered.
Not simply my face or my profession, but the conversation we had shared during that youth fellowship meeting years earlier.
More than ever. It became my career.
I always thought it would.
That sentence stayed with me longer than it should have.
Perhaps because it felt good to be remembered as the girl with ambition.
Life had become crowded since those churchyard days. I was a mother now, a professional, and a woman carrying responsibilities that required me to be dependable even when I was exhausted. People knew what I did for them. They knew what I could organize, solve, provide, and endure.
But he remembered what I had wanted.
There was something unexpectedly tender about that.
I did not recognize it as the first thread.
I joined his group that evening.
It was active, filled with conversations about entrepreneurship, community development, property, networking, and opportunities between Jamaica and the United States. He welcomed new members personally, often tagging them beneath introductory posts and encouraging them to share their backgrounds.
When he introduced me, he wrote:
We are pleased to welcome an accomplished journalist who has always believed in the power of information and community.
I reread the words.
Accomplished.
It was not an exaggeration, but it was not a word I often used for myself. I was usually too focused on the next assignment, the next responsibility, or the next problem requiring attention to pause and acknowledge what I had already achieved.
I thanked him publicly.
Later, he messaged privately.
I hope you don’t mind the introduction.
Not at all. It was very generous.
It was true.
I stared at the screen for a moment before answering.
Thank you.
You’re welcome.
The conversation could have ended there.
It did not.
Over the next few weeks, our exchanges remained mostly connected to the group.
He asked my opinion on articles.
I challenged some of his business ideas.
He sent voice notes explaining why I was wrong.
I sent longer voice notes explaining why I was not.
He laughed easily, and his laughter had a warmth I had forgotten.
“You haven’t changed,” he told me during one conversation.
“You don’t know that.”
“You still question everything.”
“That is not a flaw.”
“I never said it was.”
“Your tone did.”
“My tone said you would make a very difficult business partner.”
“My questions might save your business.”
“That confidence.”
“It’s called competence.”
He laughed again.
I found myself smiling after our conversations ended.
Not because I was falling in love.
I was not.
But because he was becoming familiar in a way that felt safe.
He already knew parts of my history. I did not have to explain Jamaica, church culture, school memories, or the particular restlessness of wanting more while still feeling deeply connected to home.
There was comfort in shared beginnings.
Danger can feel a lot like comfort when it arrives wearing something familiar.
He lived in the United States by then.
From the outside, his life appeared settled. He had been married before, but that relationship had ended. He spoke carefully about it at first, offering just enough information to explain his situation without sounding bitter.
“I made mistakes,” he admitted one evening.
We had begun speaking by telephone rather than only through messages. The calls started with business and somehow stretched into discussions about family, faith, disappointment, and the strange directions life had taken us.
“What kind of mistakes?” I asked.
“You really are still a journalist.”
“You brought it up.”
He became quiet.
“I worked too much. I was always thinking about the future and probably didn’t give enough attention to what was happening in the present.”
It sounded honest.
Self-aware.
Mature.
I did not know then that people sometimes confess a weakness because it makes them appear trustworthy—not because they have overcome it.
“At least you can acknowledge it,” I said.
“I’ve had time to think.”
“Thinking and changing are two different things.”
“I know.”
His voice softened.
“I’m trying to change.”
That answer mattered to me.
I believed in growth. I believed people could learn from failure, become better, and build differently the next time. My faith had taught me that no one should be permanently defined by their worst season.
His past did not frighten me.
In some ways, it made him seem safer.
A man who had lost a marriage, reflected on his role, and wanted to improve sounded more prepared for partnership than someone who believed he had never done anything wrong.
I did not yet understand that regret and transformation are not the same thing.
He had children.
So did I.
That created another layer of understanding between us.
Our lives could not revolve around ourselves. Every decision involved young people who had already experienced enough change. We spoke about parenting, responsibility, and the difficulty of building a future while protecting children from adult disappointments.
His eldest child lived with him.
Whenever he spoke about the child, his voice carried concern.
“She needs stability,” he said.
“Children do.”
“She needs a woman she can trust.”
I noticed the wording but did not question it.
Not then.
I heard a father worried about his child.
I did not hear a man describing a vacancy.
He told me about school issues, emotional struggles, and the challenges of raising a child while managing work and business ideas. I listened. I offered suggestions. I encouraged him to be patient.
“You’re good at this,” he told me.
“At what?”
“Understanding children.”
“I’m a mother.”
“No. It’s more than that. You listen.”
Again, the compliment reached a place in me that was accustomed to being useful but not always appreciated.
He made my care feel visible.
That mattered more than I realized.
Our conversations became part of my routine.
Sometimes he called early in the morning before my day became hectic. Other times we spoke late at night, after the children were settled and responsibilities loosened their grip.
He asked about my work.
Not simply whether I had a good day, but what stories I was covering, what interviews had challenged me, and what issues mattered most to me.
He remembered details.
If I mentioned an upcoming assignment, he asked how it went.
If I said one of the children was unwell, he followed up.
If I expressed frustration about something, he did not immediately change the subject.
He listened.
Or, at least, he gave the appearance of listening.
There is a form of attention that feels so nourishing when you have gone without it that you rarely stop to ask whether it is sustainable.
I began looking forward to his calls.
Then I began expecting them.
The first evening he did not call, I noticed.
I told myself I was only concerned because it was unusual. I checked the group and saw that he had posted earlier. He was fine.
Still, I felt disappointed.
The next morning, a message arrived.
Sorry I missed you last night. Long day.
I answered more casually than I felt.
No problem. I was busy too.
It was a small lie.
Not a harmful one.
Just the kind we tell when we are trying to hide from ourselves how much something has begun to matter.
My best friend noticed before I admitted anything.
“Who keeps you smiling at that phone?”
“No one.”
“No one has a name?”
“It’s just somebody I knew years ago.”
“A man?”
“Yes, but it’s not like that.”
She gave me a look.
“What does ‘not like that’ mean?”
“It means we talk.”
“How often?”
I hesitated.
Her eyebrows rose.
“That often?”
“He runs a networking group. We discuss business and community projects.”
“At night?”
“Sometimes.”
“For hours?”
“Not always.”
She folded her arms.
“Do you like him?”
I considered the question.
“I enjoy talking to him.”
“That was not what I asked.”
“I don’t know.”
It was the truth.
I did not know what I felt because I had not permitted myself to name it. Friendship seemed safe. Curiosity seemed harmless. Anything more would require questions neither of us had asked directly.
She softened.
“Just take your time.”
“I am.”
“People know how to present the best parts of themselves from a distance.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
I looked at her.
She reached across the table and touched my hand.
“You’re smart. But smart women still have hearts.”
I laughed lightly, but her words followed me home.
Distance created its own kind of intimacy.
There were no awkward meetings or ordinary errands to interrupt the image we were building of each other. We spoke when we had time to be attentive. We shared selected stories. We appeared through photographs taken during our best moments and conversations chosen when we were prepared to communicate.
He did not see me rushing through mornings, frustrated after work, or exhausted by parenting.
I did not see him abandoning unfinished projects, withdrawing into silence, or moving through his home as though everyone else’s needs were interruptions.
We knew each other through carefully opened windows.
Neither of us had yet walked through the other’s door.
But slowly, our conversations changed.
He began calling me beautiful.
At first, he disguised the compliments as observations.
“You look nice in that photograph.”
Then:
“You have a beautiful smile.”
Later:
“You know I always thought you were attractive.”
“That is not true.”
“It is.”
“You barely spoke to me.”
“I noticed you.”
“You remembered me as serious.”
“I noticed other things too.”
I laughed, but warmth spread across my face.
“You waited all these years to mention it?”
“We were young.”
“And now?”
“Now we’re not.”
There was a pause.
Not uncomfortable.
Charged.
That was the first moment I understood we had crossed into something neither of us could continue pretending was only friendship.
He became more intentional after that.
He spoke about what he wanted in a relationship.
Loyalty.
Faith.
Family.
Partnership.
A woman who would stand beside him while he built something meaningful.
The words mirrored values I already held.
“I don’t want games,” he said. “I’m too old for that.”
“Most people say that right before playing games.”
“You don’t trust anybody.”
“I trust actions.”
“Then watch mine.”
It sounded like a promise.
I treated it like one.
He began discussing visits.
At first, he suggested coming to Jamaica. Then schedules, work, finances, and family responsibilities complicated the idea. Eventually, he asked whether I would consider traveling to see him.
The request unsettled me.
Not because I did not want to go.
Because I did.
Wanting something had always felt more dangerous than refusing it.
“I would need to think about that,” I said.
“Of course.”
“And make arrangements.”
“I understand.”
“And I’m not coming there with any expectations.”
“Neither am I.”
That was not entirely true for either of us.
We had expectations.
We simply had not said them aloud.
In the weeks that followed, the possibility of traveling became real.
We discussed dates.
Flights.
Where I would stay.
What we might do.
He spoke excitedly about introducing me to his world.
“I want you to see what life could be like here,” he said.
“What does that mean?”
“It means I think there could be something between us.”
“There is already something between us.”
“You know what I mean.”
I did.
He wanted the visit to answer the question distance could not.
Were we only two familiar people who communicated well from separate countries?
Or were we the beginning of something neither of us had planned?
I prayed about it.
I asked God for clarity, though part of me had already begun interpreting my excitement as an answer.
That is one of the hardest truths to admit.
Sometimes we pray for direction after our hearts have chosen a destination.
Then we listen most closely for whatever sounds like permission.
The night before I booked the ticket, we spoke for nearly three hours.
He told me about the future he imagined.
A home filled with children and laughter.
A marriage built on faith.
Businesses we could develop together.
Travel.
Security.
Purpose.
“We could make a good team,” he said.
“You don’t know that yet.”
“I know enough.”
“That sounds confident.”
“I am confident.”
“You’re asking me to travel to another country based on telephone conversations.”
“I’m asking you to come and see for yourself.”
His tone softened.
“I’m not asking you to promise me anything. Just give us a chance to find out whether this is real.”
Real.
That word opened something in me.
Because beneath my caution, beneath the questions and the responsibilities, I wanted it to be real.
I wanted to believe that the boy I had barely known at school and church had returned as the man capable of recognizing who I had become.
I wanted to believe our shared history meant something.
I wanted to believe that two people who had already experienced disappointment could build more carefully the next time.
Most of all, I wanted to believe that God sometimes allowed people to cross paths again because the first meeting had happened before either of them was ready.
I closed my eyes.
“All right,” I said.
There was silence on the other end.
“All right what?”
“I’ll come.”
His breath released in a rush.
“You’re serious?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“I’ll check the flights tomorrow.”
His voice changed immediately—lighter, warmer, almost boyish.
“You won’t regret it.”
The words should not have frightened me.
They did not frighten me then.
I smiled.
“I hope not.”
“You won’t.”
He said it with such certainty that I borrowed some of it for myself.
The following afternoon, I sat in front of my computer with my passport beside me and the booking page open.
Departure city.
Destination.
Dates.
Passenger information.
Each field made the decision feel more real.
My hand rested on the mouse.
For one brief moment, I hesitated.
Not because of anything he had done.
There had been no obvious warning.
No cruel word.
No broken promise.
Only a quiet feeling I could not name—a small pause inside me asking whether I knew enough about the life I was preparing to enter.
My phone rang.
It was him.
“Did you book it?”
“I’m doing it now.”
“I can’t wait to see you.”
The hesitation disappeared beneath the warmth in his voice.
I clicked Confirm Purchase.
A message appeared on the screen.
Your flight has been booked.
I stared at it, my heartbeat quickening.
A journey had begun.
I believed I was traveling toward love.
Years later, I would understand that I was also traveling toward the version of myself I would one day have to fight to recover.
But that afternoon, I knew none of that.
I only knew that somewhere across the ocean, a familiar man was waiting.
And for the first time in a long time, the future felt like something I could not wait to meet.
End of Chapter Three
End of Complimentary Preview
You have only seen the beginning.
She remembered the boy he had been.
She believed in the man he claimed to have become.
But some promises sound different once you are close enough to see the life behind them.
Unlock Sleeping With the Enemy to continue with Chapter Four: “The Arrival.”
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