Searingly honest, beautiful, and full of fragile urgency, The Myth of You and Me is a celebration and portrait of a friendship that will appeal to anyone who still feels the absence of that first true friend.
When Cameron was fifteen, Sonia was her best friend—no one could come between them. Now Cameron is a twenty-nine-year-old research assistant with no meaningful ties to anyone except her aging boss, noted historian Oliver Doucet.
When an unexpected letter arrives from Sonia ten years after the incident that ended their friendship, Cameron doesn’t reply, despite Oliver’s urging. But then he passes away, and Cameron discovers that he has left her with one final task: to track down Sonia and hand-deliver a mysterious package to her. Now without a job, a home, and a purpose, Cameron decides to honor his request, setting off on the road to find this stranger who was once her inseparable other half.
The Myth of You and Me, the story of Cameron and Sonia’s friendship—as intense as any love affair—and its dramatic demise, captures the universal sense of loss and nostalgia that often lingers after the end of an important relationship.
|Product dimensions:||5.10(w) x 8.00(h) x 0.70(d)|
About the Author
Leah Stewart is the critically acclaimed author of The New Neighbor, The History of Us, Husband and Wife, The Myth of You and Me, and Body of a Girl. She received her BA from Vanderbilt University, and her MFA from the University of Michigan. The recipient of a Sachs Fund prize and an NEA Literature Fellowship, she teaches in the creative writing program at the University of Cincinnati and lives in Cincinnati with her husband and two children. Visit her at leahstewart.com.
Read an Excerpt
What if you had never met me?" Sonia says. "What would your life be like?"
Sonia has been my best friend for only a few months, but already life without her is difficult to imagine. All I can muster is an image of myself alone in a room. "Boring," I say, and Sonia laughs.
We are lying on her four-poster bed, staring up at the pink canopy, our feet propped on the wall above her headboard. We are fourteen. When I turn my head to look at Sonia, her hair brushes against the side of my face.
"If you hadn't been standing in the right place in the parking lot," she says, "we might never have spoken."
"We have three classes together," I say.
"If you hadn't come into the gym that day, we might never have become friends."
"Maybe we were destined to be friends," I say. "Maybe we would've been assigned a group project."
She waves her hand in the air above us, dismissing this. "Every decision we make," she says, "affects the rest of our lives."
"Yeah, yeah," I say, because I've heard this from her a million times.
"For example," she says, "what if you had to choose between being my best friend forever and having the boy of your dreams?"
"I can't have both?"
"That's the game."
"Maybe you'd marry his brother and live next door."
She shakes her head, and the movement shakes the mattress. "You have to choose," she says.
Eight years from now I will abandon Sonia. I'll drive away from a gas station in West Texas, my eyes on the rearview mirror, where I'll see her running after my car, a shocked, desperate expression on her face. Here in Sonia's bedroom it's all still there before us, every decision between that moment and this.
Sonia rolls over onto her elbows so she can look me in the face. "Choose," she demands. "Choose."
In February of my thirtieth year, a letter came to the house where I was living, addressed to me in my own handwriting. I didn't notice it when it arrived. Though I was the one who went to the mailbox every morning at ten-thirty-five, five minutes after the mailman came, I'd stopped flipping through the mail a long time ago, as there was never anything in it for me. That morning I just dropped the stack on the kitchen table as usual and went to the counter to make bologna-and-American cheese sandwiches on white bread, favorite lunch of my employer, the historian Oliver Doucet.
Oliver liked to declare that all times exist simultaneously, and when he did I'd say, teasing, that he thought that only because all our days were exactly the same. I'd been living with him in this house, just outside the town square in Oxford, Mississippi, for nearly three years, and I'd long since adapted to his schedule—we ate lunch between ten-forty-five and eleven, dinner between four-thirty and five. Then we watched a black-and-white movie, and Oliver went to bed before nine. Most nights I stayed up with the television or a book, even though he exhorted me to go out. What he didn't know was that every so often I crept into his bedroom to make sure he was still breathing. When I went out I worried that his heart had stopped, as though by my presence alone I kept it going. In the mornings I was always relieved to find him sitting at the kitchen table, wearing the ridiculous velvet robe his daughter, Ruth, had given him, and drinking cup after cup of coffee, each with three dollops—he always called them dollops—of heavy whipping cream. Oliver was ninety-two to my twenty-nine. He was the one who liked to say, sometimes teasing, more often with solemn portent, that this was my thirtieth year.
The kitchen had been remodeled several times since the house was built—the last time in the eighties—but each time, Oliver had insisted that certain aspects of the previous versions be allowed to remain. With its dinette set, inoperable dumbwaiter, early-model microwave, and stone fireplace with a spit, the kitchen lent credence to Oliver's notion about the simultaneity of time. I was singing "They Can't Take That Away from Me"—we had watched Shall We Dance the night before—as I spread mayonnaise on slices of white bread. Standing at the counter, I had a view out the window of Oliver's lush flower garden. I felt pleased about the brightness in the room, as if my own happiness were the source of the light. There was no particular reason for me to be so happy. I was just grateful for my ordinary life. Lined up on the windowsill were figurines of chickens, awkward bodies and spindly feet rendered in wood, glass, cloisonne. Even the beautiful ones were ugly. But now I stopped what I was doing to study them, and felt a surge of awe at how intricate they were—the ruffled feathers, the grooves in the feet, the devotion that must have gone into the task of their making.
"Cameron, my dear," Oliver said, and I jumped. I turned to see him standing in the doorway of the kitchen, one hand on his cane, one braced against the doorframe. He looked as though he'd been watching me for some time. Today seemed to be a dress-up day. He wore a crisp white shirt tucked into black pants. Unlike most old men, he wore his pants low, cinched tight with a belt that had a rodeo buckle.
"Happy Valentine's Day." I smiled at him. Minutes before, I'd noted the date on the kitchen calendar. In Oliver's house we tended to lose track of the days.
"Is it?" he said. "I had forgotten." He pushed off the doorframe and came into the room. He started to ease into his usual chair, then checked himself and withdrew a small hand mirror from the back of his waistband before he sat. He pulled a comb from his shirt pocket and held it out for me to take. His damp hair was tufted to one side of his head. Oliver was vain about these wisps of white hair, which he insisted be slicked back in an approximation of the pompadour he had worn in his youth. He could have combed it himself, but he liked for me to do it. Every morning after he showered and dressed he came into the kitchen for his styling.
While I worked, smoothing hair with the comb and my fingers, Oliver studied his features in the hand mirror. He liked to say that he had the face of a bird of prey, and though this made him sound more menacing than he really was, it was true—he had an eagle nose and bright, watchful eyes. As a young man he had been very handsome. Though his nose was aristocratic, almost haughty, his lips were full and soft. In old pictures he seemed to be thinking of a private joke.
Oliver inspected his hair with approval as I held the mirror. He grabbed my free hand and pressed it to his cheek. "Ah, youth," he said. "Am I not handsome?"
"You're terribly handsome," I said.
"The most handsome of all your beaux?"
"Of course." I kissed him on the forehead, his skin soft as well-worn cotton.
"In that case," he said, and slipped a ring onto the third finger of my left hand, "Happy Valentine's Day." He laughed at my surprise.
The ring was beautiful—gold, obviously antique, set with five small opals. He'd given me books before, some of them rare, but never a gift like this one. "Oliver—" I started, but he cut me off.
"It belonged to my aunt," he said. "Now we're engaged. Call off your other beaux."
"I love it," I said. "Thank you."
"You've been good to me." He held my gaze, his expression serious. He was rarely this earnest, and I felt a flush of gratitude mingled with embarrassment. Before I could speak again, he waved me away. "Don't get spoiled," he said. "Finish that lunch."
I went back to the counter, but instead of picking up the knife I stood there looking down at my hand, admiring the way the sunlight caught the opals in the ring.
Behind me Oliver was opening the mail. I heard the usual sounds of paper tearing, the skidding of envelopes across the table as he tossed them aside, and then a silence as he read. I assumed he'd gotten one of the many letters praising him or asking for a blurb or recommendation, letters he enjoyed but never answered. Sometimes I took pity on the senders and wrote them back, saying that Oliver was grateful for their kind words, that he'd be happy to comply with their request, if only he weren't so busy writing his memoirs. Oliver rolled his eyes at these carefully worded replies. "Lies, lies, all lies," he said.
Now he said, "This is interesting."
"What?" I turned to see him holding an envelope up toward the light, squinting in an attempt to make out what was inside.
"This is addressed to you," he said. "In your handwriting." He raised his eyebrows. "You seem to have written yourself a letter."
"That's odd." I crossed to the table and reached for the envelope, which he handed over with some reluctance. He was right—there were my name and his address, on the front in my own script. I thought I must have misaddressed a reply to one of his acolytes, switching the to and the from. But the return address had no name, just a street and an apartment number in Cambridge, Massachusetts.
"Why would you write yourself a letter?" Oliver asked.
"I don't think I did."
"This is delightful," he said. "You have a secret identity. Hidden even from yourself. Maybe you're another person."
I rolled my eyes at this, but it did give me a strange feeling, to see my own name in my own handwriting like that, as though somewhere out there was indeed another me. Oliver pushed out a chair. "Sit down," he said. "For God's sake, open it."
I sat down. I opened it. Of course I hadn't written the letter, but I felt no less strange when I saw who had. The letter was from Sonia Gray. In high school we practiced until our handwriting was so similar even we couldn't tell it apart. This made it easy for me to do her math homework for her, and for us to sometimes leave our names off our math tests, so that I could claim hers, and she mine, because my math grade could survive the occasional fifty, while hers could not. We called this "falling on the fifty," and every time I did it I felt flushed with an exhilarated beneficence. Because I couldn't imagine why Sonia was writing to me now, nearly eight years after we'd parted, it did seem to me that all times existed at once, that she'd mailed the letter from someplace years ago. That was why our handwriting was still identical, neither of us having altered at all the elaborate girlish loops in our Ls and Ys.
"Well?" Oliver asked.
I ignored him, holding the letter away from his curious gaze.
I had a dream about you tonight, and now I can't sleep. I can't even remember exactly what the dream was about—there was something about snow cones, though you and I never ate snow cones together, that I can recall. We did eat a lot of those Oreo shakes from the Taco Box. And remember how we used to stir syrup into milk and make those vanilla wafer sandwiches with peanut butter? It all sounds ridiculously disgusting now.
I've been thinking about you ever since I got engaged. My first impulse afterward was to call you with the news. Isn't that odd? It was like I was a kid again, and we were planning our imaginary weddings, back when I was certain you'd be my maid of honor and I'd be yours. It took me a moment to remember we weren't friends anymore. Ever since, I keep having this feeling I'm forgetting to do something. I look at my list—I've called the caterer and talked to the florist—and it takes me a while to realize, because it's not on the list, that the only thing I haven't done is talk to you.
I have that middle-of-the-night strangeness, when it feels like you've fallen out of your normal life, and maybe that's why I'm writing to you now, as if we were friends like we used to be. Somewhere somebody's playing Madonna, her first album, I think it is. Why do they have that on at three in the morning? Isn't this traditionally a more melancholy time? Maybe they're trying to counteract melancholy. Maybe "Borderline" is the only thing between them and suicide.
You and I used to make up dance routines to Madonna songs. Remember the playroom at my house? All those boxes along the wall, full of childhood discards—an old dollhouse, the Ewok village, a box of stuffed animals loved into ruin. You and I dancing in the middle, doing what we thought were sexy moves. Don't you think that's symbolic? Loved into ruin. I just invented that phrase. I like it. On occasion I've felt like that's what's happened to me. Remember the sock monkey with no mouth? I hated that thing. The bottom half of its face was just a blank. I think my mother still has it in the house, probably to spite me. Remember when we were walking across campus to take a final exam and a bird fell dead at our feet? It wasn't some small brown finch, either, but a cardinal. A red splash. You poked it with a stick. It was truly dead. We were juniors in college but we held hands the rest of the way, we were that unnerved. Remember when we drove up to Sewanee to see that boy I was dating, I can't even remember his name now, and the three of us went skinny-dipping in the reservoir? It was so black, and the stars were everywhere, and the boy was stupid and kept splashing around, but you and I floated away on our backs, and you said that floating there and looking up at the sky was like not existing in the best possible way. I said we should make up a myth about two maidens and the water, but we never did. I guess it's a myth now anyway.
Maybe that's the point of this letter. Is it a myth? Is all of this a myth, what it was like when we were best friends? What I'm wondering now, in the middle of the night, is did those things actually happen? Sometimes without you to confirm these memories I feel like I've invented them. It's a little like being orphaned. That sounds really dramatic, I know, but since I'm a half-orphan I think it's okay for me to say it. There are things about my life that no one else has ever understood.
I wonder about your life now. Do you think about any of this, the myth of you and me? Do you wonder why we were friends, why we aren't anymore, why we made the choices we did? Do you wonder how things might be different if we hadn't? You were never as enamored of this kind of thinking as I was, but even you must admit that parting was a turning point in both our lives. For a while we were practically the same person, you and I.
I don't know what I want from you. I can imagine you dismissing this letter—I think that would be your first impulse, to consider it ridiculous of me to contact you after all this time, no matter what the reason, especially if the reason is this strange feeling I have that you should still be my maid of honor, that if you're not, some part of my past is erased, something left unfinished. I think this even though I know if you were it would be terribly upsetting to Suzette. So I don't know if I'll even send this, though I did track down your address.
I don't know how to sign this, so I'll just put my name.
Reading Group Guide
1. How would you describe the relationship between Oliver and Cameron? Is it purely a familial one, or are there romantic undertones? What creates such a tight bond between them?
2. What do you think made Sonia write to Cameron? Can you imagine writing such a letter? What does Sonia mean when she says, “Sometimes without you to confirm these memories I feel like I’ve invented them”?
3. Oliver believes that “all times exist simultaneously,” a concept Cameron returns to several times over the course of the novel. What does Oliver mean by this? How is this notion at odds with Cameron’s statement, on page 215, that “once you know the end of the story, every part of the story contains that end, and is only a way of reaching it”? Which of these ideas strikes you as most true?
4. Why does Oliver force Cameron to seek out Sonia? What does he want for Cameron’s life?
5. On page 51, Cameron says, “To belong nowhere is a blessing and a curse, like any kind of freedom.” What do you make of this? How have her frequent moves shaped her? How have they affected her worldview? How might she be different if she’d lived her entire life in one place?
6. What connection does Cameron make between her personality and her height? How does she imagine her height causes others to see her?
7. What role does Sonia’s dyscalculia play in her life? How has it affected her idea of her herself? Her approach to the world? Why do you think she chooses to let Cameron in on this secret, and what’s the effect on Cameron when she tells her?
8. How are Cameron and Sonia shaped by their relationships with their parents?
9. Do you think that what Sonia did to end her friendship with Cameron is forgivable? Why or why not? Why do you think she did it? Why does Cameron find it so difficult to forgive? Is what Cameron did in response forgivable?
10. What draws Cameron to Will? Should Cameron be held responsible for her feelings for Will when he was Sonia’s boyfriend, even though she didn’t act on them? When she meets him again as an adult, why are her feelings so hard for her to express?
11. Sonia tells Cameron on page 205: “You’re a dreamer who doesn’t believe in the dream.” What does she mean by this? How do you see this play out in Cameron’s behavior?
12. Which of the two friends do you sympathize with more, Cameron or Sonia? At which points in the novel do you most sympathize with Sonia? With Cameron? At which points do you sympathize with them the least? Why?
13. In the prologue, Sonia tells Cameron that every decision we make affects the rest of our lives. Do you think this is true? What are the crucial decisions in Cameron’s life? Sonia’s? Oliver’s? Why did they make them?
14. Why are friendships between teenage girls so intense? What brings Cameron and Sonia together? What does each bring to the friendship? What does each get out of it?
15. On page 114, Cameron says that these intense teenage friendships can’t last. Is this true? Why or why not?
16. What kind of relationship do you imagine Sonia and Cameron having after the end of the novel? Have they begun a new phase of their friendship, or simply achieved closure?
Most Helpful Customer Reviews
I just finished this book, and didn't love it. The story rambles on and on and I kept waiting for the plot to begin. The apparent theme is finding Sonia --- but there is no ending to satisfy the reader's questions. I found this book listed in my local newspaper as new and promising -- it didn't keep its promise to me. I wouldn't recommend it.
This is a quintessential novel about relationships, whether between childhood best friends, parents & daughters, lovers, exes, colleagues or mentors. A quick & easy read, it follows the story of Cameron & her estranged best friend from high school & college, Sonia. When Cameron's boss & mentor passes away at the age of 92, he has left behind a package with instructions that she must visit and deliver the parcel to Sonia, whom Cameron hasn't seen in years. What exactly is it that has driven these former best friends apart? The story threads together theirs and many other relationships that contribute to the circumstances. This is a light, poignant and tender read for women of all ages.
An excellent story about friendship, love, forgiveness and betrayal -- all the components of life itself. Engaging the reader from the very start, this novel is hard to put down.
This was a great book, I enjoyed it so much that I didn't want to put it down. Everytime I started to read it, i got so caught up in the book that I couldn't bare to put it down!! Excellent read!
This book was great! About friendship and betrayal. Sort of, but not really, along the lines of beaches. I will be surprised if this doesnt become a movie. I cried! I actually cried! I have never cried reading a book.
An excellent fast paced book.
I really like the dynamic of good friends. To me the relationship between two friends is on the most precious of all. And this book was a real glimpse into that kind of friendship. I found it sad though that they could let so many years go by without trying to reach one another. Forgiveness is so important.Without it we waste too much time ...There were some really powerful lines and I found myself seraching for a high lighter. Overall a good book ...With familiar characters. Didnt give it five stars because it seemed to drag in some spots
The book started off quite well.It immediately drew me in, after so many months of no book holding my attention. I was ecstatic! It was refreshing and different. The subject matter was close to my heart, the vulnerability of girlfriends, especially in the teen years. The characters were not sterotypes.Sonia was well outlined including her family. We saw Cameron, her father but Cameron's mother was invisable. Still, we were able to see the family dynamics that influenced their choosing each other to be friends. The relationship between Oliver and Cameron was refreshingly different. Also, Cameron's relationship with Ruth, Oliver's daughter, was clearly defined. It helped illustrate that although the book was written from Cameron's viewpoint, it might not be the true perspective. When the story noted something, the reader still had to question whether that was what the author wanted us to think or was that just her version of Cameron's interruptation of what was happening. This gave more depth to the novel. Unfortunately,however, as the story progressed, it became more cliche. The boyfriends were boring,superfluous. The search lasted too long and the present was anticlimatic,who cares. Overall, I would say it was entertaining, insightful but not a classic.
this book was a great one. It was a page turner and I didn't want it to end.
I read this book because of Leah Stewart's appearance at the Southern Festival of Books in Nashville. I will be encouraging friends around the country who are in bookclubs to place this book on the 'must read' list for the coming year. As wonderful as it is to read the Myth of You and Me, it is a gift to women everywhere to open up an honest dialogue with others. Many copies of this book will undoubtedly be packaged and mailed across country renewing old friendships in much the same way Oliver, in the Myth of You & Me, hoped his package would be a catalyist for renewing old bonds.
This was the first book by Leah Stewart that I read and I really enjoyed it. The relationship between Cameron and Sonia was poignant and then heartbreaking. This novel depicted the beauty of best friends and how we often hurt the ones we care about the most.I liked Stewart¿s narrative construct. The story is told in the present and then in the past. I enjoyed seeing the relationship develop and then crumble in the past portions, and then how the past continued to impact the future.I would definitely recommend this novel.
Beautiful piece of woman's lit with believable flawed characters and fabulous narrative. Cameron and Sonia were best friends throughout high school and college, but something changed along the way and now Cameron is forced to revisit her memories of Sonia and how they can possibly fit into her life now. The audio of this title is wonderful which made the many nuggets of insight sounds so true that they beg to be written on a plaque or discussed at length over coffee. (Can you really ever only tell the piece of a story even when you know the end, the bad end, was how it all ended up or does that memory essentially contain all that came after? ) Highly recommended!
story about friendship, love and loss.
I have literally been wracking my brain for a way to write this review. I loved The Myth of You and Me. I guess that's why this review has been so hard for me to write. It's easier to just rip apart a book you completely hate and words come to you so easily when you try to do that. It's also easier to write a review if you liked a book you really expected not to like. I had a feeling I was going to love The Myth of You and Me, so the element of surprise that comes from loving a book you would never have read on your own in a million years, was not really present for me. My point is is that The Myth of You and Me was a wonderful novel. In The Myth of You and Me, you're intrigued from the first page. Throwing a mystery at the beginning of the book is a sure-fire way to keep readers reading even if they hate a book because they're curious as to what the hell happened. That's what happened with me. I didn't at all hate this book, but if I'd had, I still would've kept reading because I needed to know what exactly caused the rift between Cameron and Sonia. While she's telling the story, Leah Stewart, weaves in flashback scenes of the friendship between Cameron and Sonia and we readers start getting a sense as to how strong their friendship was. That intrigues us more as we start to think "It must've been something huge that caused this". The Myth of You and Me sort of exemplifies that while strong friendships really do exist, it can take something small (or not so small) to put a kink in the armor, so to speak. Friendships are strong yet completely fragile. I really got a sense of that in this book. When it comes to the secondary characters, I found that they were also extremely interesting. Although, Sonia's mother really takes the cake for "Most mysterious/weird Character Ever". The psychology major in me really wanted to know more about her and why exactly she was the way she was. Granted I understood that while she was a major character, she wasn't really a focal point in the whole book, so I could forgive that air of mystery that particular plot point left. So, The Myth of You and Me was an amazing book. It was an extreme page-turner (I literally read it in one sitting) and I thought that it explored Cameron and Sonia's friendship extremely well. We got to know these women separately and as a whole and how their friendship and the consequent "breaking-up" shaped their futures and the way the were now in the present tense. The Myth of Me and You is highly recommended.
I'd give it 3.5 stars if I could. I was entralled while I was reading it, but now several months later I'm having a hard time remembering how great it was. A great story of the intricacies of women's friendships.
Cameron has been taking care of Oliver, an elderly writer. And she's also been estranged from her best friend Sonia for a number of years. They were as close as you could get, but an incident that occured at the end of college destroyed their friendship. Now, in the present day, Cameron recieves a letter from Sonia. Cameron is unsure of what she should do. But a series of events propels Cameron towards Sonia...Will she find her? Will she be happy if she does? This book was powerful, beautiful and refreshing. I really enjoyed it. I recommend it wholeheartedly
I am not sure what to think of this book to be honest. I know I didn't like the ending. I guess I should have thought it would be something like it was, tying in the whole "myth" theme. I did however like the whole idea that relationships with people who have ended are almost like myths. How do we know they really existed sometimes? I have often had that same feeling of people in my past, thinking, maybe I just made them up?I did however, also like the characters. Sonia's mother in particular I thought was a really fascinating character and so was the relationship between Sonia and her mother. I thought that was a fantastic part of this book. I hated however, that this book didn't focus more on the relationship more between the two main characters. Why do men always have to be involved? Does it always have to be about them? It made it feel too "chick-lit-y" for me. The plot was pretty good and the mystery of it all kept me reading. I really wanted to know what was in the package. I was sadly disappointed by what was in it, though. The ending was more of a let down than anything, I guess. But it wasn't half-bad. But it wasn't anything to write home about either.
The ending of this book is pat, there is no denying that in my eyes, but I can't help but still love the book. The characters are complete and complex; the story fairly developed for chick lit. It is not a classic in the making, but neither is it fluff writing. There were sentences and paragraphs that I loved, making me cherish the book time after time.The stories of friendships between women are generally not written in a way that makes me respect both sides, but Stewart is able to make me want to comfort both Cameron and Sonia in this novel. Perhaps it is that I can relate to both women's sense of pain, perhaps it is that I have been at fault from both sides, too.I picked the book up on a $2 clearance shelf, at a used book store. It was well loved when I bought it, and it is more so now, after just a few days of being the center of my reading attention. Not sure how much reread potential it has, but it was well worth the time and money I have invested in my copy.
Not bad - a well paced story with a great central character. An excellent look into friendships and why they dissolve.
My latest favorite book! I can't tell you how people I have recommended this title to. A good, gentle, deep, and touching read, this book illustrates what it is like to have a best friend and what it is like to lose that friend after so many years. What is it like to reconnect with that friend? This book explains one possible outcome.
Total chick lit! Not badly written chick lit, except for the beginning (which I found to be incredibly cliche) and the random love interest inserted in the middle.
Quite good until the end - about two best friends who became estranged when they slept with each others' boyfriends.
"Cameron and Sonia were best friends, now they don't speak. The Myth of You and Me tells the story of the friendship, the event that caused the split, and the aftermath. If you have ever had a friendship end abruptly, badly, or sadly, you will understand the anger, the pain and the love in this book."
Explores the passion of female friendships that develop in the teenage years with a great narrative hook, a believable romance and well-rounded and very human characters. After I read this, I had to share it with my two best friends.
I've decided that this book doesn't fit my definition of chick lit, and categorized it as contemporary fiction instead. It's not intersperced with funny narration, keeping a rather serious tone throughout, and, to me, this makes it fall outside the realm of chick lit. The plot and characters, however, would have fit the chick lit mold without constraint. This is a reminiscence by Cameron, about her years being best friends with Sonia, and how that friendship came to an end. The book opens with Cameron, working as a live-in assistant to an elderly historian, receiving a letter from Sonia, after many years of mutual silence. Mutual silence that resulted from a major event that put a definite end to their friendship. That much Cameron can tell Oliver, but no more.Momentarily, when Cameron receives the letter, she thinks she's written it herself, as it appears to be in her hand-writing. Then she remembers how Sonia and she trained themselves to have matching hand-writing. In this letter, Sonia invites Cameron to her wedding. Cameron leaves the letter unanswered.Some time later, Oliver passes away. Cameron has lived with him for three years and he has become her family, in many ways. She is saddened and shaken by the death.Oliver has left her a task to accomplish after his passing. He requests, in a letter she finds, that she deliver a gift to Sonia, for her wedding.Cameron reluctantly agrees. She has no plans for what comes next. And she feels compelled to follow Oliver's instructions.The novel progresses between Cameron's present search for Sonia, as she attempts to deliver Oliver's present to her, and her memories of her friendship with Sonia.She and and Sonia became friends their first year of high school, and right from the start, Cameron has been witness to Sonia's two biggest secrets: her inability to read numbers and her mother's abuse of her, both mental and physical.And so it goes, back and forth, culminating in the events that put an end to the friendship in the past and in a reunion in the present. Finally, when Cameron has found Sonia, they open Oliver's gift and find it is a letter to Cameron, in which Oliver reveals a life-changing event of his own to Cameron. I suppose the book's main message goes to the consequences of deliberately leaving a portion of your past behind you, with the intention of never looking back.This book is pretty well done. I did find it slow for the first half or so, often finding that my mind had wandered and that I needed to re-read a page because of it.And like I said, I didn't consider this chick lit (and I wanted it to be chick lit) so I wasn't as fond of the serious tone as I am of the chick lit books that takes serious events and serious themes and include a lighter, funnier spin on them without making light of big topics.In the end, I felt like this novel was trying to convey a Big Message that I may not have entirely gotten. For example, Sonia seems to thinks that Cameron is fundamentally someone who can leave people behind rather than stick around and cope with the obstacles, based on what happened between them. I am rather of the school of thought that one incident does not create a pattern.