He said he was looking for a 'partner in crime' which everyone knows is shorthand for 'a woman who isn't real'.
April is kind, pretty, and relatively normal - yet she can't seem to get past date five. Every time she thinks she's found someone to trust, they reveal themselves to be awful, leaving her heartbroken. And angry. Until she realizes that what men are really looking for is Gretel.
Gretel is perfect - beautiful but low maintenance, sweet but never clingy, sexy but not a slut. She's a Regular Everyday Manic Pixie Dream Girl Next Door With No Problems.
When April starts pretending to be Gretel, dating becomes much more fun - especially once she reels in the unsuspecting Joshua. Finally, April is the one in control, but can she control her own feelings? And as she and Joshua grow closer, how long will she be able to keep pretending?
Goodreads Link
PURCHASE LINKSAmazon US
Amazon UK
I hate men.
There, I’ve said it. I know you’re not
supposed to say it. We all pretend we don’t hate them; we all tell ourselves we
don’t hate them. But I’m calling it. I’m standing here on this soapbox, and I’m
saying it.
I. Hate. Men.
I mean, think about it. They’re just awful.
I hate how selfish they are. How they take up so much space, assuming it’s
always theirs to take. How they spread out their legs on public transport, like
their balls need regular airing to stop them developing damp. I hate how they
basically scent mark anywhere they enter to make it work for them. Putting on
the music they want to listen to the moment they arrive at any house party, and
always taking the nicest chair. How they touch your stuff instead of just
looking; even tweak the furniture arrangement to make it most comfortable for
them. All without asking first—never asking first.
I hate how they think their interests are
more important than yours—even though twice a week all most of them do is watch
a bunch of strangers kick a circle around a piece of lawn and sulk if the
circle doesn’t go in the right place. And how bored they look if you ever try
to introduce them to a film, a band, or even a freaking YouTube clip, before
you’ve even pressed Play.
I hate their endless arrogance. I hate how
they interrupt you and then apologize for it but carry on talking anyway. How
they ask you a question but then check your answer afterward. I hate how they
can never do one piece of housework without telling you about it. I hate how
they literally cannot handle being driven in a car by a woman, even if they’re
terrible drivers themselves. I hate how they all think they’re fucking
incredible at grilling meat on barbecues. The sun comes out and man must light
fire and not let woman anywhere near the meat. Dumping blackened bits of
chicken onto our plates along with the whiff of a burp from their beer breath,
acting all caveman, like we’re supposed to find it cute that we may now get
salmonella and that we’re going to have to do all the washing up.
I hate how I’m quite scared of them. I hate
the collective noise of them when they’re in a big group. The tribal wahey-ing,
like they all swap their IQs for extra testosterone when they swarm together.
How, if you’re sitting alone on an empty train, they always come and deliberately
sit next to you en masse, and talk extra loudly about macho nonsense,
apparently to impress you. I hate the way they look at you when you walk
past—automatically judging your screwability the moment they see you. Telling
you to smile if you dare look anything other than delighted about living with
stuff like this constantly fucking happening to you.
I hate how hard they are to love. How many
of them actually, truly, think the way to your heart is sending you a selfie of
them tugging themselves, hairy ball sack very much still in shot. I hate how
they have sex. How they shove their fingers into you, thinking it’s going to
achieve anything. Jabbing their unwashed hands into your dry vagina, prodding
about like they’re checking for prostate cancer, then wondering why you now
have BV and you still haven’t come. Have none of them read a sex manual?
Seriously? None of them? And I hate how they hate you a little just after
they’ve finished. How even the nice ones lie there with cold eyes, pretending
to cuddle, but clearly desperate to get as far away from you as possible.
I hate how it’s never equal. How they
expect you to do all the emotional labor and then get upset when you’re the
more stressed-out one. I hate how they never understand you, no matter how hard
they try, although, let’s be honest here, they never actually try that hard.
And I hate how you’re always exhausting yourself trying to explain even the
most basic of your rational emotional responses to their bored face.
I hate how every single last one of them
has issues with their father.
And do you know what I hate most of all?
That despite this, despite all this
disdain, I still fancy men. And I still want them to fancy me, to want me, to love
me. I hate myself for how much I want them. Why do I still fancy men so much?
What’s wrong with me? Why are they all so broken? Am I broken for still wanting
to be with one, even after everything? I should be alone. That’s the only
healthy way to be. BUT I DON’T WANT TO BE ALONE. I hate men, that’s the
problem. GOD I HATE THEM SO MUCH—they’re so entitled and broken and lazy and
wrong and…and…
Hang on…
My phone.
HE MESSAGED BACK!!!
WITH A KISS ON THE END!
Never mind.
Forget I said anything. It’s all good.
Excerpted from Pretending by Holly Bourne, Copyright © 2020 by Holly Bourne. Published by MIRA Books.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Holly Bourne is a bestselling UK-based YA and Adult Fiction author and is an Ambassador for Women’s Aid. In 2019, she was an Author of the Day at the London Book Fair, and was named by Elle Magazine’s weekly podcast as one of “Six Female Authors Changing the Conversation in 2019”. Pretending is her US debut.
No comments:
Post a Comment