Excerpt: Tasting The Rain

My dad left when I was five. I don’t remember much, just that he kissed my forehead before tucking me in, and the next day daddy wasn’t there. His stuff was gone, minus the gifts he had gotten me over the years, the stuffed animals and Barbie’s and such, and all he left my mother and I with was a note saying ‘I’m sorry’ and seven hundred dollars with a side note for my mom to get me something nice for my birthday, which had been two weeks from then.

My mom got me a locket; three weeks later I received a wooden, beautiful, polished jewelry box with a rose inscribed on the lid from my father that played music whenever it was opened.

I buried it that same day.

Ever since then I’ve never trusted men, never trusted anyone but myself with my heart, so that when it was broken I’d have only myself to blame. My friends had my trust, my companionship, my patience, my sympathy, but I never gave my various boyfriends my heart. After all, guys were known for smashing it to pieces and then giving it back to you with a ‘sorry, but we can still be friends, right?’

My heart was my own, and no man (because things with penises were not to be trusted) would ever have it.

Then again, David Walsh was no ordinary male.