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have my favorites to study and my favorites to read for fun. I have books I’d sell my soul to read again for the first time, and books that feel new each time I reread them. I have my favorite book I love to hate, and my favorite book I hate to love.” I’m talking too quickly and I’m staring, unfocused, at the pavement, so I cut myself off. “The list goes on.”
“That’s the beauty of literature. It makes us feel. Or maybe a better description is that it allows us to feel in a safe space. Since it’s fiction, it’s safe to feel an entire range of emotion we may otherwise hold ourselves back from in real life. Good writing evokes this in us, and good writers know how to make it happen.
“Someone so hot, you mean.”
I’m barely through the book and I’m already over Jenny’s character. She seems very one-dimensional and annoying.
Rebound fling is even worse. It seems that I’ve gotten very good at finding men who only want to stick around for a month or so and then get annoyed with me for working hard, and I suddenly find that I’m not really interested in that anymore, no matter how much I might want this.” I surprise myself a little at the admission, but it’s true, so I let it stand.
and I gasp a little.
Get it together Mac, you literally spend 8 hours a day with this guy. This is getting to be embarrassing - there’s got to be other ways the author could indicate that Mac is attracted to him.
His eyebrows shoot up. “You remember my coffee order?” “Isn’t that a thing friends do?” I’m trying to keep it light, but I draw back a little when I remember just how tentative our friendship is. He shakes his head slightly. “I don’t think it is.” I pause for a minute, then clear my throat. “Well, you remember mine.” “It’s black coffee. Doesn’t take a ton of brain cells for that one.” He raises an eyebrow, and then adds, “And I wasn’t really planning on staying friends for very long.”
“Did you know,” I continue, “that as books decompose, the paper releases a chemical compound similar to vanilla, and that’s why old books smell so good?”
“You’re exquisite,” he breathes, barely audible. “I couldn’t write you if I tried.”
“He doesn’t believe in happy endings.” I sniffle, and she hums, unconvinced. “That’s because he hasn’t had one yet,” she says. I huff, and we are silent for another moment. “There’s more to happiness than just the ending,” she suggests,
