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Maybe I should feel lonely during these long and quiet night shifts, but I don’t. Not when I’m surrounded by books.
My roommates call me a hopeless romantic. I let them. It’s nicer than being called a lonely hermit.
When I risk another look at Vincent, he’s smiling at me like he’s found the last corner piece of an elaborate jigsaw puzzle.
Life is far too short to let my shot at feeling like I’m in a romance novel pass me by.
I shouldn’t add context that isn’t there. I shouldn’t allow myself to project the traits of all my favorite romance novel love interests on a real-life man. It’s a recipe for disappointment.
Do it for the plot.
“You can’t say you hate passive main characters and then be passive, Kendall.”
“I also ran because I was . . . confused.” “About what? Let’s talk it out.” I arch an eyebrow. “Really?” “Of course. I don’t want you to be confused about anything.” It’s so not what I expected—and it’s so validating to be treated like my overactive emotions aren’t irrational or an annoyance.
“Then for the sake of being direct,” he says, “I can’t stop thinking about you, Kendall. And I’ve read every goddamned poem Elizabeth Barrett Browning ever wrote. In three weeks. For fun.”
actions speak louder than words. And right now, I want to be loud.
I’d rather be the supporting cast in her tragedy than the main character in mine.
kissed you because I wanted to kiss you,” he says. “I memorized poems for you because I wanted to be able to talk to you about the shit you like.”
There’s no rush. No last page to turn to. We have time. All the time in the world.
“I do, by the way,” he says. “Just in case that wasn’t obvious.” “You do what?” I ask, even though my heart gives a knowing kick. Vincent smiles. “Love you.”
The thing is, I don’t read romance novels for the realism. I read them because they make me feel seen and heard as a woman.
