Book Lovers

by Emily Henry

The only two ways I’ve ever managed to get out of my head are through reading and rigorous exercise.

“A good bookstore,” Charlie says, “is like an airport where you don’t have to take your shoes off.”

“My point is, being that ‘magic free spirit’ you think is this mythical perfect woman? It comes with its own problems. Just because not everyone gets you doesn’t mean you’re wrong. You’re someone people can count on. Really count on. And that doesn’t make you cold or boring.

“Until you got here,” he rasps, “all this place had ever been was a reminder of the ways I was a disappointment, and now you’re here, and—I don’t know. I feel like I’m okay. So if you’re the ‘wrong kind of woman,’ then I’m the wrong kind of man.”

Mom worked nonstop to chase something she wanted. For me, it’s running endlessly trying to escape the past. Fear of the money running out again. Of hunger. Of failure. Of wanting anything badly enough that it will destroy me when I can’t have it. Of loving someone I can’t hold on to, of watching