Sherry Thomas

“But she’s still marrying an idiot,” Livia flopped back down on the bed. “Though I suppose it’s better to marry an idiot than someone who thinks you’re an idiot.”

But romantic love is . . . I don’t wish to say that romantic love itself is a fraud—I’m sure the feelings it inspires are genuine enough, however temporary. But the way it’s held up as this pristine, everlasting joy every woman ought to strive for—when in fact love is more like beef brought over from Argentina on refrigerated ships: It might stay fresh for a while under carefully controlled conditions, but sooner or later its qualities will begin to degrade. Love is by and large a perishable good and it is lamentable that young people are asked to make irrevocable, till-death-do-we-part decisions in the midst of a short-lived euphoria.

“By your standards it isn’t rational, I know. But you can’t expect to be treated rationally when you are a woman, Charlotte. I can’t explain why—that’s just how it is. And you must learn to accept it.”

Charlotte was quiet. Livia thought that perhaps for once, she’d put some sense into her little sister’s head. But as they walked back into the house, Charlotte turned to her and said, “I will try to understand why. But I will not learn to accept it. Never.”

“I’m going to smash something into Roger Shrewsbury’s face the next time I see him.”
“Oh, I can’t condone that,” said Charlotte. “Mr. Shrewsbury’s face is his only contribution to humanity. I recommend you instead smash something into his derriere, which is rather ordinary and not as worthy of preservation.”