I Said Yes: My Story of Heartbreak, Redemption, and True Love (5 page)

As Peaches yelped beside me, her tail waving furiously,
Ricky turned and our eyes met. I smiled, heart still beating so fast I could hardly catch my breath. I let out a casual but cool, “Oh, hi there! Happy almost Thanksgiving!”

Ricky waved, returning the greeting with his Hollywood grin. “Emily! How are you?” Though he looked happy to see me, my nerves got the best of me and I stammered something like, “Great! Well, okay then. Bye!” So not cool. Mortified by how little girl–like I sounded, I turned away and walked quickly down the dock, dragging a panting Peaches behind me. I’m pretty sure my face at that point was a deep shade of tomato-red.

“Hey, wait up!” Ricky yelled as he dashed toward me, his Rainbow flip-flops beating loudly on the wooden dock. “Are you doing anything tonight?” And then, much to my delight, he asked me if I wanted to hang out.

Not wanting to appear too eager, I feigned a nonchalant, “Sure!” You know, like a fake “whatevs!”

What I didn’t know was that right after Ricky and I said our hellos and I walked away, his friend Brian, who was closer to my age, had playfully socked him in the arm and said, “Dude, if you don’t ask her out, I will!” Nothing like a little friendly competition, right? Well, that was all the motivation Ricky needed to come after me and corral me for a date. Not that I needed much corralling.

That night we ate at Shula’s, a steakhouse hot spot. One of the first things Ricky told me after we sat down was that he knew I had been lying all along. I figured as much. After all, his parents were aware of the truth, so why wouldn’t they tell him? Still, his admission brought a sense of relief. It was nice to have a conversation and really get to know each other without me trying to keep up with stupid lies.

While I had been jittery getting ready for our date, most of my anxiety disappeared the moment I took my seat at the dinner table. Ricky’s laid-back, warm personality set me at ease. He was funny, making hilarious comments as he munched on breadsticks and we sipped on Cokes. When our food came, even though it looked and smelled delicious, I didn’t want to eat. I didn’t want to entertain the embarrassing possibility of getting a sliver of beef or a strand of spinach stuck in my teeth. Then again, not eating would probably look just as dumb. So I indulged in the mouthwatering entrée without regret.

I loved that I could be myself around Ricky. I wasn’t a bit shy and welcomed being able to be silly. Though we’d had a good time at breakfast a year and a half earlier, we were more comfortable with each other this time around. Our connection was apparent. I flirted and gave off giggly smiles, and Ricky sat close to me, asking a million questions, his hand on mine during dessert. When we left the restaurant in time to make my 11:00 p.m. curfew, I noticed he grabbed a box of matches with the venue’s logo on it and shoved it in his back jeans pocket.

Ricky was home from Charlotte, visiting his parents over Thanksgiving after the final NASCAR race at the Homestead-Miami Speedway. He had only a few more days left before he had to head back home. We became an item that night and took advantage of practically every minute before he left.

For the next few days, Ricky and I took walks along the beach, sat and watched the sunset, and had romantic dinners. I know it sounds cliché, but we could talk about anything—and we did. We compared our tastes in music. We talked about our families. We shared our dreams. We opened up about things we hadn’t told anyone before. It wasn’t long after those
memorable first few days together that I told him the truth about being hospitalized twice when I was at Saint Andrew’s. He didn’t act shocked or look at me like I was a nut; he was kind and compassionate. Ricky didn’t have a judgmental bone in his body. Forgive me if this sounds cheesy, but because he was such a gentleman, respectful and sweet, he was the first person I had ever met who emulated the love of Jesus.

I was in tears when Ricky, my first real boyfriend, left for Charlotte, both of us promising to call and think about each other every day, which we faithfully did. For the rest of my senior year, he was all I could think about. I was falling in love, fast and hard. Though I had made a few friends, I didn’t spend my final months of high school partying with them or dreaming about prom or getting excited about the senior class trip. I had Ricky on the brain. While we were apart, he helped pass the time until we could see each other again by writing me long letters and brightening up many of my days with surprise bouquets of exotic flowers.

Ricky flew me to Charlotte on Super Bowl weekend 2004, when the Carolina Panthers fought against and (sadly) were defeated by the New England Patriots. Not much of a football fan—I still don’t even know what a pass rush or a blitz is—I was more excited about the fact that it was my birthday and I was turning eighteen! Not only would I celebrate becoming a legal adult, I was doing so with the love of my life.

That weekend, Ricky threw me a surprise party at his house, a spacious and relatively empty bachelor pad that resembled a Gothic castle. There was only one thing that stood out to me as odd—his choice of artwork. Smack in the middle of the living room was a large framed picture of a fish that was
purchased, as indicated by a label, at the local Bass Pro Shop. Well, I did say it was a bachelor pad.

Ricky and I enjoyed a candlelit dinner at the Palm. Afterward, as we pulled up to his place, I noticed a barrage of parked cars lined up and down the streets. “Your neighbors must be having a party,” I remarked, then he playfully nudged me in the ribs as we made our way toward the front door. “Hey, wait a minute! How come we weren’t invited?” Ricky didn’t say a word in response, offering only his trademark boyish grin.

Imagine my surprise when he threw open the door and there, within a sea of hundreds of pink streamers and balloons, stood about fifty people, drinks in hand, screaming, “Surprise!” This was classic Ricky. He always pulled out the red carpet for me, doing thoughtful and romantic things, going out of his way to make me feel special.

A few weeks later, I met Ricky’s sister, Lynne, and her husband, Marshall. Though I had already met Mr. and Mrs. Hendrick and seen them around Key West, it was my first time meeting Lynne and the first official sit-down dinner with all of us. I had been at the track with Ricky all day and was dressed casually in flip-flops and comfortable, worn jeans. The dinner was a spur-of-the-moment event, so while I balked at first, since I looked like I’d just woken up and was headed to the neighborhood convenience store for some milk, well, what was I going to do? As it turned out, my outfit was a nonissue and I passed with flying colors. Which just means that I didn’t spill anything during dinner, accidently break or stain anything in the house, or blurt out something really dumb or inappropriate at dinner. And, oh yeah, my biggest accolade was I didn’t get any part of dinner unknowingly stuck in my teeth. Go me!

Leaving Charlotte to go back to Florida was sad, but two weeks later, Ricky flew me to the Daytona 500, the Super Bowl of NASCAR, for my first race. Obviously I was stoked to see him, but I was also psyched to get an inside look at the NASCAR racing scene. As a newbie, I didn’t know what to expect. I knew I’d probably be right about one thing though. I guessed it was going to be loud. Very loud.

Ricky had retired from racing in 2002 after injuring his shoulder in an accident. He then became a spotter for driver Brian Vickers, the 2003 Nationwide Series champion and also one of Ricky’s closest friends. Because race cars are driven at astronomical speeds without side or rearview mirrors, spotters act as mirrors, making drivers aware of blind spots and keeping them up-to-date with what is happening around the track. Spotters are positioned high above the track and are in constant communication with the driver via two-way radio. While Ricky wasn’t doing his thing on the track, we spent time together in the bus.

My experience at Daytona was quite different than that of a typical fan who’d likely be one of tens of thousands of fans navigating through the maze of vendors and food stands, tailgating in ingenious ways, or watching the race in the packed stands. Because NASCAR teams are constantly on the road traveling from track to track all over the country, owners and drivers usually fly or drive to the race venue and stay in their private, and quite lavish, tour-like buses on the infield, smack in the middle of the track, or sometimes in secure and heavily guarded designated lots near the track. Ricky worked and I hung out in the bus, watching the race on a TV screen. The bus became almost like a second home.

Daytona was bigger than I had ever imagined. The place was a madhouse, not to mention celebrity filled. President George W. Bush was in attendance, as well as Ben Affleck, Whoopi Goldberg, and LeAnn Rimes. That year, Dale Earnhardt Jr. won the race, exactly six years after his father, Dale Earnhardt Sr., won his. And though I wasn’t seated with the die-hard fans in the stands on the opposite side of the tracks, their enthusiasm and energy was so palpable they gave the monstrous roars of the powerful race-car engines a run for their money.

As graduation day approached, I juggled a few options. I wanted to take a year off, to give myself a break from school and take time to think about my future. Honestly the thought of having to struggle through more years of textbooks, papers, formulas, and exams gave me headaches. Also, I didn’t know what I wanted to be or do when I grew up. And that wasn’t something I was going to magically stumble upon the second my principal slapped a diploma in my hand.

When I mentioned to Dad the idea of taking time off, he just about came unglued. “You are going to school, young lady!” For a minute, probably not longer than two, I considered enrolling in a college in Charleston, South Carolina, or attending the University of North Carolina in Charlotte so I could be closer to you-know-who. The more Ricky and I talked, however, the more it seemed the natural next step should be to move to Charlotte, minus the whole college experience. This was something I really, really, really wanted to do. My heart
belonged to Ricky. So a month or two before graduation, I told Mom and Dad about my plans to move to Charlotte. Oh, and I’m not proud to admit this, but I also threw out a “If you don’t help me get an apartment there, I guess I’ll just have to move in with my boyfriend.” Though he and my mom loved Ricky like their own son, Dad especially was horrified at the thought of his daughter shacking up. But he didn’t take me that seriously and shrugged off my plans. Poor Dad. He totally underestimated the will of a stubborn young woman in love.

Ricky was with me the day I graduated from Key West. After the pomp and circumstance, we went to my house to pack up my stuff. When I said I was moving after graduation, I meant, like, that day. When Dad saw Ricky sprinting down the stairs hauling two big boxes in his arms, Dad was flabbergasted.

“Emily!” he barked as Ricky gulped and froze on the staircase. Quite the tough guy, my dad always had a way of intimidating Ricky, though Ricky was always extra careful to be respectful and considerate toward Dad.

Glaring at the two of us, my father shook his head in disapproval. “What is going on?”

Sheepish, Ricky looked at me with questioning eyes. I knew what he was thinking.
Uh, should I take these boxes back to your room and nix our whole plan?

I stood my ground at the top of the steps. “Dad, I told you I was leaving!”

Dad stood still for a few seconds, fuming on the inside and staring at Ricky and me without saying a word. Finally he threw his hands up in surrender. “Fine,” he muttered, a twinge of self-defeat coating his voice. “We’ll get you an apartment.”

Even without crystalline beaches, mouthwatering sunsets, and white sand as pure as sugar, Charlotte has a beauty of its own—and a lot more cars than fishing boats. Dad rented an apartment for me right down the street from where Ricky lived, in the South Park neighborhood of the city. South Park is a shopping mecca, home to a variety of upscale restaurants, trendy boutiques, eclectic cafés, and the largest mall in all of North Carolina. (Not that I ever stayed in my own place. A fact I’m not proud of, but hey, it’s the truth.)