Book Lovers

by Emily Henry

At this point, you find yourself screaming at the book, You don’t even know her! What’s her middle name, bitch?

It’s not intentional—I’m not trying to be cutting—when I cackle out her name. It’s just that, when hilariously bad things happen, I leave my body. I watch them happen from outside myself and think, Really? This is what the universe has chosen to do? A bit on the nose, isn’t it?

That’s the thing about women. There’s no good way to be one. Wear your emotions on your sleeve and you’re hysterical. Keep them tucked away where your boyfriend doesn’t have to tend to them and you’re a heartless bitch.

I spot Charlie Lastra near the back, dressed in all black like publishing’s own metropolitan vampire.

His black clothes, dark features, and general demeanor have the approximate effect on the room of a black hole, sucking all the light out of it and swallowing it entirely.

Most people wear black as a form of lazy professionalism,

Probably, he goes everywhere in a shiny black limo, or a Gothic carriage pulled by a team of Clydesdales.

Charlie sits back, the heavy, discerning quality of his gaze sending a prickling down my backbone. It feels like he’s looking right through me, past the shiny politeness to the jagged edges underneath. His look says, Wipe that frozen smile off your face. You’re not that nice.

“We’re going to have so much fun, Sissy! And you’re going to fall in love with a lumberjack.” “If there’s one thing that makes me horny,” I say, “it’s deforestation.”

I’m a grown man, Nora. I can buy my own Bigfoot erotica, thank you very much.