I ‘liked’ it… for the most part… save for a few noxious chunks I could have done without, and the numerous times I cringed or rolled my quadragenarian eyes.

Given my moon-high expectations of the author and her previous work (although, I might have seen this coming since the Vacationing Peeps), I finished this novel in a green fog of lifting disappointment. Yes, the ending was satisfying on multiple levels, predictable (as we have come to love and expect), and all the unravelled bits get tied up in redemptive embraces (it’s what we want, I’m not spoiling anything). But it was … well, less of what I loved in Beach Read, more of what I didn’t like in Book Lovers, and a touch of what I despise about this T-Swift & Social-Media obsessed generation.

But please understand: As I’ve already mentioned, this is coming from someone distinctly not living the transition to her thirties in this era, therefore significantly less able to relate (though I oft understand the younger generations, it doesn’t mean I can always precisely connect to their current experience). So, it’s my problem as a reader, and what follows here is purely my opinion, which is what a review essentially is, to give context, in case we’re unclear…

All contemplative philosophical musings and complex depth of character have been inexorably snuffed from Henry’s writing in this newest novel, replaced by narcissistic interpersonal conflicts reminiscent of a ‘Friends’ episode (read: shallow, self-absorbed, rife with 1st-world and/or white-people problems), silenced by a generational demand for endless ‘magic’ drink binges (I say ‘magic’ as the drinkers only ever feel the temporary sting of a mild hangover and never the consequences of longer-term side-effects; when Henry writes about these same characters in 15 years, they should be battling liver cancer and kidney failure), a smattering of pop-culture references aimed at people born after 1990, and in très anti-Gus fashion (see Augustus Everett in Beach Read), the handful of male characters are written as underdeveloped Daves swathed in ‘hard’ bodies with pushover malleable personalities of damp lettuce.

The drama goes from passive aggressive ‘silent treatment’ to explosive and fiery whine-parties, and these people lean heavy into stunted incompetent communication (Henry ultimately blames all the parents, naturally). It plays at emulating the twisted complex misunderstandings of a Shakespearean comedy, but slips on a banana and breaks a baby finger instead. Apart from Cleo (MVP), the supplemental staff are a bit 2-dimensional, formulaic, and giving vibes of wannabe famous social-media personalities. The two main characters thrive in quasi-self-conscious behaviours that accumulate wasted years of people-pleasing misguidedness. Apparently, this is an appealing experience for tens of thousands of other readers.

Me: Beginning to wonder if the alternate cover for this novel should be a photo of a cellphone screen with the pic of a shirtless cowboy in a 10-gallon Cattleman with his bronzed 6-pack out for summer.

There’s no denying that Henry's writing is pleasantly easy-to-read, but the content is becoming less appealing to this reader. The banal motif of a twenty-first century me-first romance was too much this time (see my review on Book Lovers: the decline is complete), and the supporting cast didn’t do near enough to add depth and complexity to the story surrounding a relationship built on bad communication and physical fumbling.

I don’t read pure romance for romance's sake; I don't like the genre, but I’ve been pleasantly convinced by Henry’s other novels (read 5, loved most). I still liked this one enough that I was mildly entertained throughout, and I was satisfied by the ending, but in comparison to Henry's other work, this is by far my least favourite.