Undercover Heartbreak (eBook)
164 Seiten
Bookbaby (Verlag)
979-8-3509-8431-6 (ISBN)
Koryeah Dwanyen grew up on the East Side of Detroit in a cross-cultural Liberian and African-American home with dreams of becoming an attorney. She quickly realized after taking an American History course that she needed to pivot and has since carved out a successful career as a Sales Executive in the software industry. When she's not closing deals, Koryeah is a devoted mom, friend, and daughter who finds joy in traveling, sipping rosé, and embracing life's adventures. A first-time nonfiction author, she writes with the same passion and honesty she brings to everything she does. Koryeah is also a recovering enabler, navigating her journey with humor and heart.
In this gripping debut memoir, Undercover Heartbreak: A Memoir of Trust and Trauma, author Koryeah Dwanyen delves into the raw and poignant reality of how even the most astute individuals can fall victim to manipulation and trust breaches in relationships. Koryeah, a successful sales executive with street smarts and a strong sense of self, shares her personal experience of being deceived by a man who seemingly had it all: a high-profile government job, a charming personality, and a life that appeared both successful and fulfilling. This is not just a story of heartbreak; it's a powerful exploration of how our deepest desires for connection can make us vulnerable to deception, even when we think we have it all figured out. With unflinching honesty, Koryeah takes readers on an emotional rollercoaster, revealing the intricate layers of trust, the devastating impact of its betrayal, and the arduous journey to self-recovery. "e;We all eat lies when our hearts are hungry,"e; she confides, offering a profound insight into the dynamics of trust and deception. "e;This book is about reclaiming your power, recognizing the red flags, and learning to trust yourself again."e;Undercover Heartbreak: A Memoir of Trust and Trauma is a must-read for anyone who has ever been blindsided by betrayal, reminding us that we are not alone and that healing is within reach. It's a story of strength, resilience, and the courage to love again.
Martha’s Vineyard
The flight from Minneapolis to JFK was uneventful, but arriving at my connecting gate, I felt a wave of peace and euphoria. I hadn’t anticipated the sea of beautiful Black faces—young, old, and everywhere in between. There were comfy-cute folks and those wearing Louis Vuitton, dressed to the nines, all standing at the same gate. As we waited to board, the gate felt like I was returning to the motherland, Africa, rather than a girls’ weekend at Martha’s Vineyard with friends from my college days. I couldn’t wipe the grin off my face.
There was an immediate sense of community while waiting at the gate. People were chatting, and it reminded me of back when we traveled without phones. We learned about the people around us; some even created friendships while waiting for the plane. I met a woman who was with her husband and daughter. When I shared that this would be my first time visiting, she and her husband told me they’d been coming to the Vineyard from Brooklyn for years and agreed that I would enjoy myself. The more we talked, the more eager I became.
Stepping off the airplane felt like stepping into an oven on warm. The sweltering heat enveloped me as I made my way to the baggage claim. The baggage claim area was a small, crowded throwback, but everyone was polite and patient as we waited for space to grab our belongings. It felt like I had taken a step back in time—the airport reminded me of a vacation house, with Adirondack chairs, a playground, and no carousel for baggage claim, just a sign in a small area inside the hall. Despite the delay, people were all smiles.
I finally retrieved my petal pink Away bag and hopped in a cab. I gave the cabbie the address to our Airbnb. Without GPS, he headed for the house and shared history about the island as he drove. He’d lived there his entire life, though as he got older, he split his time between Martha’s Vineyard and Cabo.
“Well, you know, I had dreams of buying a house for me and the missus one day. We were saving, but with the outsiders buying property here, well, and all these Airbnbs...”
There was a short silence. I felt a little awkward about contributing to the vacation rental market. But then he continued sharing, and I could feel his pride as he pointed out the historical markers as we passed them.
“Well now, do you know Oak Bluffs?”
“No, tell me.”
“Oak Bluffs is known as the welcoming spot for Black folks because, back in the day, it was the only town on the island that let us stay at the local hotels. There’s so much history, from the underground railroad to the Inkwell.” He slowed the car at a stop sign. “Inkwell, a name given by white folks, you know, but we adopted it as a badge of pride.”
“Inkwell,” I repeated, looking out the window and picturing decades past, so much changed yet so much still the same.
“Yes, and the Polar Bears was the only safe place for Black swimmers.”
At the Airbnb, I was the first of my friends to arrive. I stepped out of the car to find a beautiful white and gray Victorian-style home with a wraparound porch with light blue, pink, foam green, and lavender accents. There were six rocking chairs on the porch that looked ideal for lounging or having a quick cup of coffee, which caught my eye because the woman at the airport had told me that porch life is a cultural must on the Vineyard.
I headed inside to unpack and anxiously awaited everyone else’s arrival. I settled into a bedroom, unpacking my suitcase and toiletries into the dresser. I sank into a soft loveseat in the corner of the bedroom and put up my tired feet. It had been a while since I’d had much quiet to stop and think about my life. My brain ticked through the categories.
My job as a tech consultant was pretty good. My days were typically filled with call after call, preparing presentations, traveling to my customers, or attending conferences. I was proud of my income and what I’d accomplished professionally, climbing the ranks and achieving success at every step. I thrived with the fast-paced work, but I also traveled a lot for my job, which was a bit hard with the kids.
The kids. I tapped into my phone gallery to swipe through my gallery of favorite pictures. I smiled at the picture of my oldest daughter in a soccer game action shot, the picture of my twin boys, sweaty and grinning after flag football practice, and the video my mom had taken of me screaming at the game last Saturday, to the other parents’ annoyance.
My ex and I were finally in a pretty good place with co-parenting with minimal conflict. I’d finally found a good therapist, too. I’d been doing a bunch of hard work with her, shadow work, processing failed relationships and childhood traumas. I’d recently celebrated my fortieth birthday with a huge party. I wore a gorgeous white dress and called it my wedding to myself. Maybe it was a little extra, but it symbolized the covenant I made with and for myself. I smiled remembering how beautiful and grounded I’d felt in my flowing white gown. I was moving in a good direction, and it felt good.
My friends trickled in over the next couple hours. Phones buzzed as friends joined us, and soon, our gathering was in full swing. Our house’s location couldn’t have been better situated, right at the intersection of Narragansett and Circuit. It was a prime location for people-watching and neighborly chats.
Even though it had been years since our last reunion, gathering again felt like revisiting my college years. This time, though, we were equipped with a wealth of knowledge and wisdom, and a little more money. Our jokes and playfulness with each other felt so familiar and comfortable. My girls and I lived it up that week, going to comedy shows and the different bars along Circuit Avenue. We danced, ate, rode bikes, bowled, and ate some more, packing each day with adventures, pleasures, and novelty. We even rented a yacht and spent the day on the water. There was squawking and shrieking about the possibility of sharks being in the water, and someone sent an article about local sharks to the group text chat. After panicked vows not to get in the water, a few glasses of wine emboldened us.
The slower pace was exactly what I needed. I used the time to stay in the present. My friends were always eager to jump into conversations that wandered from memory to memory. We vented, joked, and reverted to our twenties with antics and entertainment. While relaxing on the porch, we spotted local wildlife, including skunks that frequented the streets at dusk. We named the main one that kept coming back Charlie. Thankfully, Charlie wasn’t scared enough to spray.
Martha’s Vineyard felt like an experience everyone should try at least once. Its history, beauty, and old-town charm felt novel but familiar in a healing way—especially Oak Bluffs, which felt like a Black freedom colony. I was spiritually rejuvenated. As a single mother of three children with an active career, it was so rare to have moments dictated only by desire, not obligation or responsibility, and I soaked it all in. It allowed me to sit with my thoughts or, even better, have no thoughts at all. The opportunity to be me, not a mother, sister, daughter, or ex-wife—a version of myself that I couldn’t live daily. As I fell asleep on the second-to-last night, I smiled in the dark, happy that I had chosen to take some me time before autumn set in and it was time for the kids’ first day of school.
On the last full day of my trip, there was a Florida A&M alum reception at Garde East, a restaurant on the Vineyard. We walked into the lavishly decorated reception hall and found our seats. We were laughing and joking around, continuing to have a good time, when a swarm of men in suits walked into the reception area.
As I focused my attention, I recognized them as Secret Service agents. Barack, Michelle Obama, and several celebrities soon entered the room. Monique, a friend who had been hired to photograph the reception, busily captured moment after moment. After the Obamas had settled, she approached me.
“Coco, would you do me a favor?”
“What?” I replied.
“Will you ask that Secret Service agent if I can take a picture of Barack or get a picture with him?”
Monique was shy and introverted and had a beautiful eye for stills. It was a working vacation for her while the rest of us were laughing it up, enjoying the time together. I knew exactly why she had asked me, but I wanted to hear her explanation anyway.
“Girl, why can’t you ask him?” I had already had a glass or two of rosé by that point.
“What if he says no? I’m gonna run away crying. I can’t talk to him,” she admitted. “But if he tries to say no to you, you won’t take no for an answer.”
“Okay, I’ll do it.” I finished the last drop of wine in my glass and walked over to the man.
We made quick pleasantries. I gave him a once-over as he spoke. He was a tall, handsome, lighter-skinned brother, and the way his good looks drew me in distracted me from the purpose of the conversation. My goal got muddled, and I was ready to abort the mission and just flirt. I looked back, saw Monique waiting for a response, and was brought back to my original question.
“Well, I have a job to do,” I said abruptly.
“What’s that?” he asked, flashing a beautiful white smile.
I returned a prize-winning smile of my own. “My girlfriend is taking pictures and wants to...
| Erscheint lt. Verlag | 9.11.2024 |
|---|---|
| Sprache | englisch |
| Themenwelt | Literatur ► Biografien / Erfahrungsberichte |
| ISBN-13 | 979-8-3509-8431-6 / 9798350984316 |
| Informationen gemäß Produktsicherheitsverordnung (GPSR) | |
| Haben Sie eine Frage zum Produkt? |
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