My laugh gets bigger. “The Hunger Games?”
“You think Catch-22 is a better example of war in literature?”
“Well…” I study his expression, trying to figure out how serious he is. Normal Holden level of serious. Which is mostly kidding. “They deal with the themes very differently. Catch-22 is all about the absurdity of war. How you can’t really wrap your head around what’s happening. Whereas The Hunger Games is… it’s really more like Heart of Darkness. About the horror of war. Or maybe more like The Things They Carried or All Quiet on the Western Front. You know, now that I think about it, the series belongs in any English literature class. At least when it comes to war.” Fuck, I’m rambling.
And he’s just staring back at me, smiling. “You like it?”
“The Hunger Games? Of course. Who doesn’t?”
“Just thought you’d…”
“Be too pretentious to appreciate it.”
He makes that same a little motion.
But I don’t take offense. “Is that how I come across?”
“Sometimes. It’s not a bad thing.”
“What if I don’t want to come across like that?”
“Talk more about The Hunger Games.”
“I’ve read it three times.”
“There you go.”
“Well, uh, that’s not necessarily a lot for me.”
“What is?”
“There’s this one YA romance I’ve read ten times. Once a year, since I first discovered it.” My fingers brush his as I steal his mug. “But, uh… I guess I’m still in school mode. I spent last week finishing my summer assignments.”
“You have summer assignments in college?”
“One of my classes, yeah. Summer reading.”
“What bullshit.”
“Kinda.” I take a long sip. Mmm, rich, sweet, spicy chai. And it tastes like his lips. Chai is always going to taste like his lips, now and forever.
“Be honest.”
“Okay.”
He steals the mug back. “You prefer the highbrow stuff, don’t you?”
“Not exactly. I do like reading stuff for class. I love analyzing the themes and motifs and character arcs. But I love The Hunger Games. And the movies I watch with Luna. And even some of Oliver’s thrillers. There’s gold in all fiction. It can offer so much, tell you so much about life. It doesn’t always do that. Sometimes the low-brow stuff is empty. Sometimes, it has nothing to say. But, other times… there’s something magical about when a book clicks, when I really understand it, when I see something in it… I love that.”
“All books?”
“Anything. Songs, poems, books, TV, movies, art. Though, I’m not great with visual art. More words. I, uh, I love thinking about it, figuring it out as much as I love experiencing it.”
“You’re always thinking.”
“I guess. But it’s not like I’m doing it for the brownie points. I enjoy digging into the themes of a TV show after I watch it.”
“Any recent ones?”
My cheeks flush. “It’s embarrassing.”
“Why?”
“You’ll think it’s stupid.”
“I’m sure it’s a better use of your time than the shit I do.”
“What do you do?”
He shakes his head. “You’re not distracting me.”
I motion to the tea. “I could steal that.”
“You could… only.” He swallows the last sip. Shows me the empty mug.
“Cruel.”
He nods hell yeah. “I’ll start another one.”
“Will you show me how you make it?”
“Yeah, but I’m not sure that will help.”
“Even so.”
He nods okay. “After you tell me.”
Damn.
He fills the kettle with water. Sets it on the stove. Pulls the tea from the shelf.
He turns back to me and raises a brow I can go all day.
I nod uh-huh.
He holds my gaze for a moment, then he moves to the fridge, gets out the milk, warms it in the microwave.
“It’s really not that interesting,” I say. “Now, I’ve hyped it up and it’s going to seem like a big deal. But it’s just the last thing I watched.”
“You can just say it.”
I swallow hard. “You won’t laugh?”
“Why would I laugh?”
“Dawson’s Creek.”
“What’s wrong with Dawson’s Creek?”
“It’s, well… how much time do you have?”
He laughs. “I really like you, Daisy.”
“I like you too.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
Daisy
After a short latte lesson where we discuss the merits of various teen shows—Dawson’s Creek, Degrassi, Riverdale, Gilmore Girls, Gossip Girl, Skins, 13 Reasons Why—we move on to breakfast.
Holden has seen his fair share of TV. He does have a sister, even if she’s a little older and more into sci-fi and comic book stuff.
I mostly watch with Luna.
She enjoys popcorn fare. Not that I hate it, exactly. I mean, some of those shows are really thematically rich. Some are great soaps. And some are… total garbage.
Honestly, that one show especially.
Ahem.
“I feel like I always sound so critical.” I finish my last bite of oatmeal. It’s cold—we’ve been sitting here forever—but I don’t mind. “I’m always picking apart the flaws. Thinking things aren’t good enough.”
“You don’t sound like that.”
“At all?”
“Maybe a little.” His eyes meet mine. “But why does that have to be a bad thing?”
Everyone acts like it is. Like I’m too hard to please. Or unable to see the merits of anything. Or just a critical bitch. “This guy in my creative writing class… every week, after I gave him my critique—we always swapped critiques. The whole class. He’d look at me like I cut his heart out and mutter something about how I needed to get laid.”