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368 pages, Kindle Edition
First published September 19, 2017
The Characters
- now, you should be aware that this book is very character driven and so the majority of the story surrounds my babies and their preciousness
- and now imma go into detail
- benedict: my writer son whos willing to throw his silver spoon for his dreams, also hes sassy and snarky and is the loveable idiot that everyone wants to succeed in life
- beatrice: an actual queen among us peasants. She comes from this rough background as an orphan but shes fought her way to studying to become a doctor (and the book takes place in the 1920s) :’) so much sass from this one too
- prince: a boi who is a MessTM but we still love and support and give lots of hugs bc hes trying his best (even tho, he gets shot at from time to time)
- hero: an actual diva queen this girl will literally flirt her way to the top like just move out of her way and give her what she wants bc shes getting it anyways 👏 👏 👏shes everything I wanna be when I grow up
- maggie: the only saint in this disastrous family this girl needs love and support and some hot chocolate for putting up with this mess
- john: another walking disaster but give him credit hes trying his best
- claude: a basic rich boi, honestly he can take a seat
“Are you tired of me?” Beatrice asked.
“Maybe I am just at this moment, but aren’t you a little tired of me, too?”
“I lost my temper.”
“So? Everybody does some time or other. Sometimes I’ll be sick to death of you and wish you’d jump out a window, but the way this works is that even when that happens, even if I actually tell you to jump out the window, you don’t have to. You can stay. I’ll expect you to stay even after I tell you to go away.”
That was the single most baffling and perfect thing Beatrice had ever heard. “That’s nuts.”
Hero laughed. She tucked her arm into Beatrice’s. “In normal protocol, I would take up not speaking to you for at least a day, except for an underhanded gibe at your hair over breakfast, but in this one particular case we’ll skip that step and go straight back to loving each other.”
Benedick Scott was on his way to freedom or profound failure or, if the usual order of things held up, both. Two chests, strapped closed and marked for delivery to an apartment in Manhattan, sat at the end of his bed. On his person he needed only his typewriter, slung over his shoulder in a battered case. He'd stuffed the case with socks to cushion any dinging, along with his shaving kit, a worn copy of Middlemarch, and thirty-four pages of typed future.
Benedick opened his door and stood up, keeping one elbow on the doorframe, the other on the Ford's roof, shedding his exhaustion like a winter coat. His eyes brightened, and his pale, clammy skin managed to defy medicine and glow. "Have I got a story for you!"
And it was a story—in that it was not quite the truth.
But it wasn't a lie either.
Listening to him, Beatrice experienced the afternoon all over again, but this time there was no real danger. There was a boy who'd had a terrific idea that went a little off the rails and a girl who was a good sport and just the kind of sidekick you'd like to have along. Beatrice heard herself laugh when Benedick described her shooting off a man's hat, but it hadn't seemed that funny when it actually happened.
There was a sunniness in his words that somehow even disguised his appearance, erasing the boy shaking with exhaustion, flattening all his mercurial layers into one outfit of razzle-dazzle. But the razzle-dazzle was also real. That was the most baffling part of all. He was this, too.
She let him do it, not only because she came out looking all right in his story, not a clock-throwing ruin of a girl, but also because Benedick's talking about her as if she were already one of them made her one of them.
Words.
What a tricky, tangled science.



“The line between like and dislike is almost invisible when attraction is involved.”