Book Lovers

by Emily Henry

books, skin care products, and very fancy underwear. The Stephens Women Trifecta of Luxury, as passed down from Mom.

Mom’s theory was that youthful skin would make a woman more money (true in both acting and waitressing), good underwear would make her more confident (so far, so true), and good books would make her happy (universal truth),

God, I miss weed. The maternity books never prepare you for how badly you’re going to miss weed.”

“The Pothead’s Guide to Pregnancy,” Libby says. “Marijuana Mommy,” I reply. “And its companion, Doobie Daddies.”

“Straight men love bangs,” I say. “They make women approachable.”

“Nothing more intimidating than a forehead,” he says.

If I were normal, I might’ve cried. Instead I’d sit there, clutching the vase, and just fucking shake. Like there were emotions deep in me, but too many layers of ash lay over them, deadening them to nothing but a tectonic murmur.

If Mom’s smile was springtime, Libby’s is full summer.

You can’t control the passage of time, but you can soften its blow to your face.

Human beings are a mysterious species, Nora. I once watched a bike courier get hit by a car, get up, and scream I become God at the top of his lungs before riding off in the opposite direction.”

“Are you an artist?” “Definitely not. But I’m an appreciator.”

“Who made them?” I ask. Sally’s lips tighten into an apple-cheeked smile. “I did. In another life.”

She picked Turkish delight, like Edmund ate in Narnia.

Libby and I used to joke that Freeman Books was our father. It helped raise us, made us feel safe, brought us little presents when we felt down.

I make no promises but I offer many doors.

So if you’re the ‘wrong kind of woman,’ then I’m the wrong kind of man.”

“Was he rescuing a kitten from a tree, or helping an old lady across the street?” “Neither,” I say. “He was just shirtless and washing a car.” “I hope you tipped him for his trouble.”

me. He looks like a Swiss Army knife. A man with six different means to undo me.

“Your nightmare brain,” he says, “is my absolute favorite, Stephens.”

So all I can do is cry with her. Somehow, it never occurred to me that this was an option: that two people, in the same hug, could both be allowed to fall apart.

No one will ever convince me that time moves at a steady pace. Sure, your clock follows some invisible command, but it feels like it’s randomly spouting off minutes at whatever intervals suit it, because this week is a blip, and then Friday night arrives.

“Do you want to dance, Stephens?” “Do you?” I ask, surprised. “No,” he says, “but I want to touch you, and it’s a good cover.”

Maybe love shouldn’t be built on a foundation of compromises, but maybe it can’t exist without them either. Not the kind that forces two people into shapes they don’t fit in, but the kind that loosens their grips, always leaves room to grow. Compromises that say, there will be a you-shaped space in my heart, and if your shape changes, I will adapt.