While I was slogging through The Last of the Mohicans and The Red Badge of Courage for my insane literature teacher, Miss Ryder,
my mother was reading books with bare-chested men and swooning women?
Miss Ryder would have an English-lit fit over these books, and for once I’d agree with her!
But for each book I put down, I picked up another. And another. And another.
Why, I don’t know. Was I looking for more soul joining? I don’t think so.
Something to hold over my mother’s head? She didn’t need any more ravaging.
I think it was more that I was still in shock over my mom being a closet romance freak.
But after ten pages out of the middle of a book called A Crimson Kiss, something weird happened:
I actually kind of cared about Delilah, the woman that the story was about.
I read some more out of the middle, but since I didn’t get why Delilah was in her predicament, I went back to the beginning to figure it out.
I have no idea where the time went. I was carried away by the story, swept into the swirl of romance, racing hearts, anticipation, and love.
They were things that were missing in my real life. After six months of watching my parents’ marriage implode, I found it hard to believe in true love.
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