About the book
Character guest post
MEET CRAZY DAISY
So I was talking to this woman who came to my nightclub on Friday
Night. She was prob too drunk to be dancing, so I took her up to VIP room #3. She’d been dumped one day into their three-week visit to Bocas del Toro. Men. I’m telling you. She asked if she could stay at my house for the night, and I had to say, “No, way, babe.” She began to cry. Whatevs. I kind of move around at this point, since my long-term-love-of-my-life mugged me off for no apparent reason. Men. Especially men on an island full of girls in bikinis drinking Dueling Dragons.
She said that a friend of hers recommended journaling. How’s what going to help? “Write it down,” she said. “You’ll figure out that you’re exactly where you are supposed to be.” When she left, she almost rolled down the stairs, so I gave her $20 and led her to the hostel next to my club, The End of the World. My personal philosophy is that I only care about the fun my partiers are having that night; the next morning is their own business. I’m not one to peel a twenty off my roll, but her broken heart smashed into mine so courtesy… See, I’m generous. I’m not all bad.
Write it down? The only writing I’d done in the last year was on orders for more booze and temporary tattoos. Paper straws and toilet paper. I could hardly read my name anymore. Daisy Dali. Thanks, Mom. My nickname on the island is Crazy Daisy. No one thinks I know, but that’s ten pounds of stupid. I know everything that goes on this island. Besides, I’m blessed with the power of ears…
Ok, true love and this journal, which is actually napkins, and I can hardly read what on cloud cuckoo I’m writing. Ah well. It felt to get it right.
True love. Isn’t there a saying, “If you love someone, set them free and then they come back?” Something like that. I had it. I lost it. I’m getting it back.
I’ll keep this quick as crackers. Hywel. Beautiful Hywel. He’s sex on wheels. No. As he owns a surf camp, I guess you’d say sex on a surfboard. Doesn’t have the same ring. Super tall, blue eyes, and chill as a frozen margarita. Like, we didn’t make sense, and that’s why we made sense. Two years, three months, and six days. Not that I’m counting. But he loved me. He said he loved me.
So ten weeks ago we’re laying out at Red Frog Beach. My hair was periwinkle for the summer. He hung out there all the time on his day off. Half-way through, he says, “I can’t do this anymore.” I sat there shocked as Sally, and before I could turn around and say, “What on god’s green earth are you talking about?” he had run halfway down the beach.
There’s someone else. I know there is. I’ll admit it, I may have threatened half the ladies on the island to tell me what they know. I do kung-fu, you know. But what do you know? You’re a pile of napkins.
He wouldn’t talk to me at all. He’d run if he saw me. If I showed up at his surf camp, he’d grab a board and paddle out until I left.
The drunk girl last night said that she had ten commandments of a relationship, and started rambling them off. Snoozaroo. I quickly faded to thoughts of what my ten commandments.
They came to this:
- Don’t lie to me.
- You can run, but you can’t hide.
- Though shall stay away from my man.
The other seven are, I guess you would say, variations on a theme.
Two years means something. Two years deserves a conversation. Two years deserves the truth.
I’ll find out who this new lady is. Just watch me.
That’s true love. I’ll wait.
And others are saying about book 1 in the series
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