“Every story has moments that define it—scenes so raw, so powerful, they linger long after the final page. Step inside the world of Tamara James and discover two unforgettable glimpses into her journey. These scenes invite you to feel her struggles, celebrate her resilience, and connect with her heart. Don’t just read about her story—experience it for yourself.”

Rated 4.7 stars by readers on Amazon!

What readers are saying about The Girl No Boy Could Love...

“Tamara’s story really hit close to home for me... What stood out was her transformation... Tamara’s story stayed with me long after I finished the book.”

- The Sweet and Addictive Librarian: (5/5 stars)

“Tamara’s struggles with her health, her past, and her search for love are written with so much honesty. Maurice's unwavering morals are inspiring... challenging norms in a powerful way.”

- Peter M. (5/5 stars)

“The Girl No Boy Could Love intricately explores love, loss, and redemption... highlights the transformative power of love and the quest for healing and self-discovery.”

- Jessie R (5/5 stars)

The Girl No Boy Could Love

Independence Day

Impatient. She sat at the bed’s edge, awaiting his return. He’s been in there for a while. In the meantime, the night continued to progress, and this brief could’ve-been-summer-romance would soon belong to yesterday. Her smile faded. Tamara played with her fingernails, exhaling despair, until the lights in the trailer blacked out...

But with the strike of a match, his figure appeared. The flickering light cast an eerie glow, but she could see that he’d changed into one of those suits that she loved. Her eyes were following him as he transferred the living flame from the match to the candles, and then as he went to flip the switch for the ceiling fan. First a soft whir, then relief came down from above...

He stepped into a closer, clearer view, revealing his dark suit, loose and lightweight, along with a partially unbuttoned white shirt beneath. His skin-tinged red by the dim flame. With the remote control, he switched the stereo from radio to CD. The music was slow, sensual, and otherworldly. He approached, hand extended. “May I?”

“Dance?”

“Am I out of style?” he smirked, visibly nervous.

Tamara was on edge. “No, not at all. I’m just not sure if this is such a good idea. I want to, I really do. It’s just that …” She rose frantically and retreated to his bathroom. Various thoughts filled her head. Lungs restless, she tried to catch her breath. I knew it, I knew it, I knew it. He wants me. But I can’t let him touch me and I for damn sure can’t touch him. Wait, Tamara you can do this. There’s nothing wrong with a little dance between friends, is there? ...

She opened the door and watched him; he patiently waited behind the dancing candle. “Follow your feelings,” Tamara mumbled to herself. Once she drew near enough that he could see her face, he motioned her to stop. The two of them, unsure of how to do this, stood face-to-face, one waiting on the other to initiate the embrace.

Finally, he came to her—taking her at arm’s length, holding her loosely. His hand lay still on her back.

Allowing her wrists to drape over his shoulders, Tamara ensured safe distance by resting her elbows and forearms on his chest.

He closed his eyes. Tamara’s, however, stayed with the revealed area of his chest. The two danced as if to different rhythms. Bodies estranged; Tamara wondered if he felt wrong. She did. Yet it felt right. Being with him felt good.

Ever After

Hell couldn’t be worse than this, she thought. And finally, Tamara James was willing to put that theory to the test.

Partly delusional from agony, partly inspired by a beautiful poet, but mostly distraught over a hopeless future, Tamara swallowed the pills—the entire handful.

With eyes shut, she quieted her mind and listened for whatever would come. The silence made it easy to relive the night before. The wet grass. The misty sky. She pinned him down and made love to him, working until part of his spirit entered her terrain—there to remain forever.

Gathering strength, Tamara wiped her tears. There was no more time to cry. Yes, despair caused her to do the unthinkable, the unforgivable, but she would not give it the added satisfaction of leaving this life somber. “You won’t win,” she whispered against the window. Against the cars on the highway. Against her past. Against her reflection.

She jotted a final entry into her diary. A private message, one that started along the lines of Grandma, sorry for everything ... I’ll miss you so much.

Time slowed. She wished it would come quickly, too quick to regret the decision. However, it delayed, and so came that inevitable two-word torture: what if? What if she had said yes to Maurice? What if she would have said no to the many men before? What if she had said hell no to the painkillers in her hand? What if? ...

She remembered running to Shanice in times of trouble, when they were but children. They’d shut their eyes and hold hands tightly, counting one-one thousand, two-one thousand, until the monsters disappeared. But somehow things changed, and they became monsters. And at the end of every good story the monster must die. Tamara closed her eyes.

… Inhale. … Heartbeat. … Exhale. … Heartbeat.

Then, came the voice.

First, his: “For every devil in our journey dragging us under, there’s an angel or two to help us get through.”

Then, Counselor Wright: “…You are a young lady, not a hoe, not a bitch, and not a slut.” And, “Give Tamara James a fighting chance.”

Then, hers: “I am going to change; I can do it. For you, I can do it.” And, “… if God lets me in. I got next. Next time you’re mine.”

Tamara opened her eyes and screeched at the top of her lungs, confessing repeatedly she had something to live for, and did not want to die. In frantic passion, other passengers turned their attention to her. She made known what she’d done. One passenger directed the bus driver to radio in for an ambulance, another offered her a few bottles of water to wash out the medicine. Yet another walked her to the washroom, helping her to forcefully vomit up some of the pills. Some prayed, others offered words of encouragement. Not a soul on the bus sat idle.