He doesn't know how to bake a pie. His mother always did it and she died of the plague nearly a year ago. But it's his little sister's birthday and their mother always made a blueberry pie for her each year.

Conflict: He has to convince the town baker to teach him, but he's not interested in a new apprentice.

I mean we say that Evelyn is unrealistic but... Elizabeth Taylor is real. So is Marilyn Monroe. Britney Spears. Even Kim Kardashian.

If we were to fictionalize any of those lives it would feel insane.

You know, now that you say that, I realize that I'm one of those people who can visualize while I read, seeing images. It's why I've never minded dialogue heavy books.

And if you're someone whose mind doesn't work that way then it'd probably make this book a lot less enjoyable. Might've played a role in the mixed reviews.

Or accepted.

There was a ton of backlash when fertility treatments like insemination and IVF were first announced. Tons of people, mostly religious types, saying "that's not how children should be conceived," calling them "test tube babies" etc.

Three of the author's other books have been picked up for series and movies: Daisy Jones and the Six, also One True Loves and Malibu Rising.

So I do wonder if that writing style is intentional. No hate at all if it is. Say what you want about the "beach read" but they sell really well, readers talk about them a lot and studios do take notice. Making money off your writing is hard and it looks like she's making more than a living so I give her all the props.

Have you ever read a book and thought "this was written to be made into a tv show?"

That's how I feel about this book. I loved reading it, blew through it in like three days. But the way it was written... it felt like a book was not the intended medium.

But maybe I'm reading too much into it. If you're looking for an easy, enjoyable beach read then I give it an A+.

And you're right, I think I would've liked to see a little more of Harry's side.

I liked it but I think the real love story is between Tish and her family. Or at least that's what hit me the hardest.

Yeah, there's nothing like reading a book and coming across a quote or passage that makes you feel understood.

Never read that book but I have heard a lot of people say that quote helped them.

Yeah, to me if you want to have an affair that's your business I guess.

But if you're too dumb to properly hide it, that I can't tolerate.

These two were anchors on a national morning show and yet they ran around like nobody would know who they were. That's too stupid to remain employed.

Now I'm finished!

The pregnancy went off without a hitch. Mom says I was a freak of nature. Barely any morning sickness, only a little back pain, some fatigue but nothing that really slowed me down. Every morning, I looked in the mirror, turned to the side and saw my belly grow just a little bit bigger. And of course, I ran my fingers through my hair, checking again, for that wily grey strand. It disappeared just as suddenly as it had appeared. Most days I tried to convince myself that it was just a trick of the light. My husband loved me and I loved me and I loved him. How could I not?

He was the most attentive pregnancy partner a girl could ask for. Daily foot rubs, midnight runs for cravings, by my side at every Lamaze class. Even built the crib without me having to ask him. I have never loved him more than in the moments late at night, when he'd bring his face inches from my belly to tell our baby bedtime stories so they would recognize his voice.

In the end, I gave birth to a perfectly healthy baby girl. We named her Anne, after his favorite aunt.

She was the light of our lives and like moths we centered everything around her. Schedules, sleep, food, everything. For the next few years, it was like we were on autopilot. Sleep, work, Anne. That's all that existed. Sleep, work, Anne.

I finally finished my residency and got hired by a nearby, sleepy hospital. I was grateful for the light workload but just when things eased up for me, the revved up for my husband. His father suffered a heart attack. He lived, thank god, but took a much-needed step back from work leaving the business in my husband's hand. He worked overtime almost daily. 55 hour weeks when things were good.

I tried not to be resentful. He'd wanted the business for a long time. He deserved to put his dreams first for a while, just like I had. I reminded myself of this every time he stood me up for a lunch date, every time I handled Anne's bedtime and breakfast alone, every time I counted the days since we'd had sex and realized it'd been quite a while. Relationships ebb and flow. That was natural. We still loved each other.

At least that's what I told myself when I was trying to ignore the crow's feet that was popping up around his eyes.

More and more little signs of aging popped back up.

An argument over him leaving dishes in the sink, gave me three gray hairs.

Him having to bail on a loan meeting at the bank to pick up Anne when I was trapped at the ER, resulted in liver spots on the back of his hand.

Our ten-day "discussion" over whether or not I should turn down a chance to be an attending physician at a prestigious hospital two states away, left us both with back aches, dull skin and permanent frown lines.

We've been married 10 years now. And looking in the mirror, I can't lie to myself anymore. My shiny black hair is growing more pepper and salt colored by the day. The crow's feet around my eyes are deepening by the minute. When I brushed my teeth I noticed that my gums are starting to recede, I wouldn't be surprised if I lost a tooth soon.

I look twice as old as I should be... and I am not the only one.

I walk into the kitchen and find my husband reading the newspaper. His hair is stark white now and his gut falls over the belt of his pants. He leans forward at he reads, his back hunched over like a man in his 80s, even though he's barely 35 now.

I sit across from him with tears in my eyes. "I don't think this is working anymore."

He sadly nods, in agreement. "I know."

Hang on, not done yet!

I never thought we'd grow old together.

Everyone knows how the story goes. Boy meets girl, girl meets boy, they fall in love and spend the rest of their lives as they are, free to enjoy each other as their prime selves, unchanged.

When I met my husband we were both young, practically children. He was a local boy, working as a bartender across the street from the university I attended. I remember he had this affable glow around him, friends with everyone who walked through the door, never let a bad night get him down. I thought it was a ploy to get better tips. Then he talked to me.

It was a slow night. A day or so before spring break, most of my friends had already bailed after their last final. I was one of two people in the bar. He served me a whiskey sour, on the house, and we got to talking. I'd never loved the sound of someone's voice so much. We talked about everything. Our friends, our childhoods, our plans for the future. I wanted to be a doctor, he wanted to take over and possibly expand the family bar. Before we knew it, it was 3am and he was closing up the bar before following me back to my dorm room for the night.

I was supposed to spring break at a beach house owned my roommate's uncle. Instead, I spent the next two weeks in his apartment, more naked than clothed.

Two years later, we were married.

It was a small ceremony, only ten people came. We celebrated by drinking and dancing in the very bar we met in. I'd never been happier.

Those first few years of marriage were mostly bliss. Medical school wasn't easy, he was butting heads with his father at the bar but we had each other. We had our own place and we were completely in love. Neither of us aged a bit.

Things got a little tough when I started my residency. He worked days, I worked days and nights. We did it our best to make time for one another but it wasn't easy. Some days it felt like I was roommates with a ghost that liked to leave sweet post-it notes on the walls. I love you. Have a good day at work. Those nurses are bitches. Seems stupid now but those little notes were all that got me through the day sometimes. And of course, I put in effort too. Stopping by the bar after work even when I was exhausted. Perking myself up for date nights even when my feet were killing me. It was worth it to make him happy. It was hard but we loved each other, you could tell by the lack of wrinkles.

The pregnancy was where things really went awry. I remember the two of us pacing around each other in the apartment, waiting for the timer in the bathroom to ring. I was floored when I saw the plus sign. What kind of a doctor gets pregnant on accident? He couldn't keep the smile off his face though. "Would it really be so bad?" he asked. "Having a little person around this place, with a little of me and a little of you in them?" Then I couldn't keep the smile off my face.

Well at least for a little while. Then he said those eight fatal words...

"When do you think you'll quit your job?"

We had the biggest fight of our entire relationship. Tears shed, accusations thrown, doors slammed (by me). He was insistent. I couldn't be a resident and pregnant mother. It was too much work, too much stress. He was worried that it would be too much for me and the baby. I was worried that he was being a complete asshole, trying to keep me literally barefoot and pregnant in the apartment while all my dreams for the future flew out the window.

I spent two days at my mother's house. She told me not to be stubborn and pigheaded. He begged my forgiveness so I decided to come home. After a long, much calmer talk, he agreed that my working was for the best, someone had to pay off my student loans after all. I suppose you could say I won that fight.

But it was hard to feel that way when later that night, as I ran a comb over my scalp, I noticed one single strand of gray hair.

I should've taken those archery lessons.

Oddly enough, your first thought after finding Cupid's arrow on the sidewalk was summer cap. Almost 2 decades your parents sent you to summer camp. The counselors told you that all the campers had to sign up to learn one new activity: swimming or archery. You loved the water. You went with swimming. Big mistake. Those archery lessons really could've come in handy right now.

You lean forward on the couch with your chin in your hand, staring at the heart-showed arrow that you laid on your coffee table.

It wasn't pink surprisingly... but it was warm. Not like a stove, or a fire, or even a blanket. It warmed you from the inside out, in a way that you'd nearly forgotten.

Again you think back to summer camp, a face popping up in your head. One with thick glasses but silky black hair and a crooked smile. Janie. She was your best friend in camp. The two of you were as close as any two preteen girls could be. You think of her and you smile.

Leaning closer, you notice an inscription on its side. Philia.

"Philia..." you mumble. You know this word. That's right, you do. It's greek... greek for love. The love of friendship.

You reach out to take the arrow in your hands and suddenly your mind is flooded with thoughts of Janie in summer camp, Lucky your old childhood dog, Ben your favorite cousin. It feels like your heart could burst, remembering all the times you spent with them, how each of them used to make you laugh and smile. How long had it been since you'd had friend who could make you feel that way again?

Your smile dips a bit, trying to remember the last time you'd actually tried to make a friend. You had your excuses, of course. Work was always so busy, going out was expensive and the divorce... well, the divorce made it very easy for you to wrap yourself up in isolation.

Hmm...

Pulling out your cellphone, you search for the nearest sporting goods store.

You don't know if you can shoot a bow and arrow... but you do know it's time that you made a new friend.

It took about 80 years for the loss of privacy to become normal.

At first there was joy and excitement. Human evolution in real time. Incredible. My grandma told me that for a while a lot of people didn't believe. Telepathy? In our time? It sounded like a party trick at best, a con at worst. But as more evidence was revealed and more scientists agreed the truth became accepted. 10% of the world had been born with telepathic ability. Of course they'd always been there -- self proclaimed empaths, women's intuition, people who always seemed to know just what was bothering you -- but now there was hard evidence that they were something more. Something different. And the world has never been kind to those who are different.

Over time, normal people grew suspicious and angry at the thought of coexisting with telepaths. Your innermost thoughts out in the air for a stranger to traipse through. Or worse, a friend or family member. Stories began to pop up in the news. Wife divorces husband when neighbor warns her of his amorous thoughts toward her sister. Straight-A student reads test answers straight from teacher's brain. CEO arrested when secretary sees memory of embezzlement. People grew paranoid. Trust drained from house to house. Then the murders started.

Men, women, even children. Every day you'd hear news of a new lynching. Some with evidence, some without, all horrific. The talking heads screamed on the radio and tv stations. A blow against the telepaths was a blow for a freedom, a blow for privacy. Forsake those who seek to walk through your thoughts without permission, whether they be friend, wife or son. People -- both telepath and normal -- were afraid. The normal turned to invention and capitalism. Telepathic helmets filled the stores. Constantly playing music or static they swore the relentless incoming sound would be enough to drown out your own thoughts from the inside and the out. Telepath detectors came along as well. Meant to beep whenever a mind reader crossed your path, they were mostly crap, led to more deaths than security but still they flew off the shelves.

The telepaths lived in fear. Only 10 percent of the population yet the most vulnerable, they learned to hide their abilities. To show no reaction in the face of all manner of thoughts - vile, sexy, murderous. They became secret keepers of the highest order. To reveal the truth of someone's innermost self was to risk your own life.

It wasn't enough to keep them same. They turned to the government for protection.

100 years after the first telepath was discovered nearly all of them work for the state. Most in law enforcement, being a human lie detector comes in handy when investigating crime. A few work on the sidelines of the legislature, monitoring swearing ins making sure people actually mean that pledge they take in the country's name. It was the deal they struck for protection. Safety in exchange for servitude.

A lot of people I know hate telepaths. I don't. I pity them. What use is it to see into the hearts of man and find nothing but hatred for yourself and your kind? Yes, they're the chosen weapon of the government but what other options did they have but to swept up, labeled, followed and forced into a role they never asked for in order to survive. After so many decades it's hardly a choice anymore.

Children are tested for telepathy in their first year of school now. The ones marked positive are taken away and raised in a facility where they can hone their skills. The parents are barely given the chance to say goodbye.

I don't hate the telepaths but I do steer clear of them. I live far away from the city in a cabin near a creek. I wear my helmet in public and try to keep my mind blank.

And I pray that for the sake of my family the only telepath I ever see is the one who calls me mom.

I promise you it has not lol

He pleaded with me as I packed my suitcase. "It's doesn't mean anything. It's just fiction."

"Based heavily on your actual life," I spat, tossing several shirts into my luggage. "And you and I both know that's bullshit because if it was just fiction, you would've shown me the real pages you wrote. Instead of just stroking my ego to keep me quiet."

I'd been so proud of him when he'd gotten the book deal. I knew how many years he'd spent trying to make it as a writer, all the novels he'd left unfinished, all the rejection letters he'd got. I'd comforted him after every single one. Until finally an offer letter.

When I asked to read the book, he hesitated. It went over my head then, the way his eyes flooded with fear when I asked to read a couple pages. I just thought he was heady with champagne. He e-mailed them to me a few days later. Truthfully I was impressed but surprised the publishers had gone for it. His writing was beautiful, it always was. The characters were pulled straight from life. He might've changed a few names but clear as day I recognized his mother, his friends, his brothers. Even me. He'd included bits and pieces of our story, only the good parts which I was grateful for, even though deep down I felt it left the book without much conflict.

Little did I know, I'd only gotten the friends and family version.

"Did you really think, I wouldn't find out? That no one would find out?" I yelled. "That I am so easily appeased and illiterate that I wouldn't buy my own fiance's book?"

He sighed, ashamed. "I... didn't think it would matter."

I scoffed. "You didn't think it would matter that you tore me shreds in your book?"

"I changed the names!" he desperately reminded me. "It's not like anyone knows that it's you!"

"EVERYONE KNOWS THAT IT'S ME!" I roared. "WHO ELSE IS IT SUPPOSED TO BE?!"

I'd picked up a copy of the book yesterday, practically giddy when I saw it displayed front and center at our favorite bookstore. That giddiness turned to horror when I actually started reading it. He'd written about everything. Every single detail I shared with him in confidence. My parents, my depression, my mistakes... my assault. Raw and exaggerated, it was all out there for everyone to see.

And, see they did. Suddenly all the hushed whispers and side glances I'd been getting at work and from friends made sense.

He begged me to stay but I refused. I couldn't spend another night in the apartment, looking at his face. If I could've fit the last three years in the suitcase and taken it with me, I would've. I settled for a couple of outfits, some shoes and what was left of my dignity.

As I stood in the elevator waiting for it descend to the ground floor, I ruminated on all the times he'd kissed me on the forehead and called me his muse.

I used to think it was a compliment.

I had a media collection in college on some streaming platform, I think it was fandango. Anyway, I had a dozen or so movies on there that I enjoyed. I lost my password, I couldn't recover it. Like $100 of media, gone.

And in the scheme of things, I guess I don't really care. Lesson learned... but I am not going through a repeat with my library collection. I don't want to risk losing all the stories I've read.

I'll stick to actual books. Only way to lose them is in a house fire and if that happens, I'll probably have bigger issues to deal with.

I stick to physical books.

I've considered e-books but I miss the feel too much.

On a more practical level, I want to own my books. I don't think that you can own an e-book. So much of art is digital and online now and I feel that's very dangerous. We're being conditioned to paying for art and media that can disappear at a whim.

Look at what's happening over at Warner Bros. TV shows and movies that people poured their soul into over years, just got locked in a vault because one guy at the top said it's not worth having around. When Beyonce released Renaissance, there was a track that was inspired/sampled from another artist. They got into it over credit or money. She pulled that version from all streaming apps. Unless you bought the CD you'll never hear that version again.

So I think I'll keep buying my physical books. Unaltered, safely stored in my possession. It's the last piece of media that I really feel comfortable keeping that way.