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It’s a modern tale of Frankenstein, the original story repackaged in a sleek pink cover that looks almost absurdly pretty among the battered classics surrounding it.
“Yes.”
His gaze returns to mine.
“You’re reading Frankenstein?”
I lift an eyebrow.
“Is that surprising?”
“A little.”
“Why? Do I not look like someone who reads?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You were thinking it.”
“I was thinking it doesn’t seem like your kind of book.”
Huh.
I wasn’t expecting that answer.
He steps farther into the library.
“You know that’s not exactly a love story.”
“I’m aware.”
“Most people see the modern versions and think it’s supposed to be sweet and romantic.”
I understand why.
Between the movie adaptations, the monster imagery, and all the versions that turn the story into something more sentimental, it’s easy enough for someone who hasn’t read the original to misunderstand it.
My mother, Aunt Fallon, and Stevie are exactly the sort of people who would.
“And what exactly do you think I believe it is?”
His mouth twitches.
“A tragic romance.”
I stare at him.
“You think I would mistake Frankenstein for a love story?”
“I don’t know you well enough to know what kind of questionable decisions you make.”
I tighten my grip on the book.
“Questionable decisions? You threw a snowball at my head yesterday.”
“And yet you’re still here.”
I glare.
