The Book of Ivy (The Book of Ivy, #1)

by Amy Engel

“We’re not in this to win a few battles. We’re in it to win the war.”

“I think,” Bishop says, “that we can love our families without trusting everything they tell us. Without championing everything they stand for.” He delivers the words matter-of-factly, but his eyes are locked on mine. “I think that sometimes things aren’t as simple as our fathers want us to believe.”

I have the fleeting thought that perhaps self-preservation isn’t my strongest character trait.

I recognize I’m right on the edge of disaster, although I can’t imagine there’s anything left of me to break. A detached, coldly curious part of me wants to push over the precipice just to see how far I fall.

You’re easy to read, Ivy, but the whole book of you is complicated.

I’ve learned the hard way, we can’t choose who we love. Love chooses us. Love doesn’t care about what’s convenient or easy or planned. Love has its own agenda and all we can do is get out of its way.

Life is one sick joke after another, I’m discovering. Because it hardly seems fair that it should hurt so much to finally get exactly what I’ve been wishing for.

But I want to be better than the lessons they taught me. I want my love to be greater than my hate, my mercy to be stronger than my vengeance.