I have a St. Bernard named B.

I read mysteries like Nancy Drew and Alfred Hitchcock, and I swim and I ride my motorbike.

My parents put everything in a trust fund for me. I won't get it until I'm 18, so I'll use it for college.

I met his eyes. Unlike Callie, he wouldn't be fooled with a smile. Once you've glimpsed something's true nature, it's hard to see the veneer as anything but false, no matter how bright the shine.

Given a choice, it seems like pity would be easier to bear than mockery, but that's not true. Mockery hardens defenses; pity slips through, finds the softest places you have, and slices to the bone. Pity will break you, every time.

Relationships take up energy; letting go of them, psychiatrists theorize, entails mental work. When you lose someone you were close to, you have to reassess your picture of the world and your place in it. The more your identity was wrapped up with the deceased, the more difficult the loss.