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The subway jostles and shrieks as we approach the station on 34th Avenue, so I skip down the page to read closer to the end of the chapter.
“I’m sorry, River. But we knew this wouldn’t last—that it couldn’t. Getting involved with a coworker never ends well. I knew that.”
“But you did it anyway, Clive. We both did. You can’t tell me you didn’t know my heart was involved or that yours isn’t either. Because if you do, you’re a liar.”
River’s face is streaked with tears—the wetness of hurt I fueled and caused. It’s so different from the unmarred façade of her work appearance, but so is the messiness of all the perfect imperfections of her larger-than-life personality.
She’s so much more than an anchor voice and a pretty smile, so much more than a vessel to deliver the news. She’s mustard stains and late-night I Love Lucy reruns. She’s erotic midnight swims in someone else’s pool and on-time arrivals that border on being too early. She’s the cream and the cookie, and I’ll be goddamned if I didn’t take a hammer to her just to watch her crumble.
Coworkers like us aren’t supposed to be together. It’s a complication that doesn’t mix. But when I hear her laugh, I hear my own. When I think of happiness, I think of her. And I don’t know a man on the planet who’d throw that away for something less than.
I don’t know a man on the planet who’d feel her heartbeat during her climax and do anything but chase a re-creation of that feeling for the rest of his existence.
My heart thumps a little louder than normal in my chest as I read over the emotion-provoking words of Clive’s innermost thoughts, and the corners of my mouth curve all the way to the tops of my cheeks.
This. This is great literature. It’s not highbrow or intellectual, but it’s an experience. It makes the reader live and breathe and cry and mourn the losses of its characters before they celebrate the victories. It touches on passion and personal poignancy. There’s a reason romance is one of the most popular genres in the world, whether snooty-falooty people want to believe it or not.
My phone buzzes with a text message. The sender? The brilliant author of this very book.
Brooke: Are you sure the book is good enough?
I can’t blame her for asking.
Hell, I’ve been asking myself since the moment I decided to see it through to the end, consequences be damned.
But I can say with absolutely certainty, sitting here now, feeling the way I feel after reading this scene again, this book is worth everything I’m putting into it and then some. It’s wreck and ruin and healing all in one.
It’s smart, it’s fresh, and it’s fucking captivating. But it’s also unlike anything I’ve ever read, which tells me it’s a new literary meta that will capture an audience. This is the kind of book Hollywood drools over. It’s power. It’s relatable. It’s the human condition and the kind of love story people will remember.
And it’s why I feel zero hesitation when I text her back.
Me: Better than. Brooke, it’s one of the best books I’ve ever read.
I put my knuckles to the posh cream door of my sister and brother-in-law’s penthouse-level apartment in the Chelsea Landmark, and it isn’t but one knock before it swings open with a whoosh.
My sister’s smile of greeting is of the creepy variety, but I don’t dare ask why. The evening is just getting started, and I’d like to cruise along without incident as long as possible.
“Chase! Hi! Hi! Come in!” She waves frantically, offering a hand for my light jacket, and, when I don’t comply quick enough, reaching out and just ripping it off herself.
I turn and duck and nearly lose my balance as she snatches it from my back and smooths it onto a hanger in the hall closet.
“Jeez, Mo.”
“Come on in! I’ve got some apps in the living room, and Vinny’s finishing up dinner in the kitchen.”
I pass her slowly, keeping my eyes on the strange, chaotic line of her face with suspicion. The thing is, my older sister isn’t normally manic and pushy and edging toward psychotic. I know it’s hard to believe in the face of her behavior now, but being the eldest Dawson sibling by four years, she’s usually the more even-tempered of the two of us.
When she blows past me at the mouth of the hallway and starts patting the seat of the sofa and calling me like a dog, I’ve had just about enough.
“What’s the deal, Mo?”
“The deal? What deal? There’s no deal!”
“No deal, huh? You’re honestly scaring me. Did you take a hit of speed or something?”
“Nooo,” she practically growls, waving a hand in front of her face and grabbing the plate of apps from the coffee table to shove them into my chest. “Take a popper.”
