Returning from my semester abroad in France, I brought back with me cheap souvenirs, crinkled postcards and, ultimately, a reading slump. Maybe it was the late-night FaceTimes with my sister or my failed attempt at reading exclusively in French, but my sacred habit of reading every night before bed had crumbled to the ground. I was in need of a certain solution to this calamity that, at least for me, can only be ensured by a slightly trashy romance novel.

From the author of the New York Times bestseller Writers and Lovers, Lily King’s latest novel Heart the Lover, is a typical, yet sinfully delicious story of love, loss and literature. Our narrator, a senior in college who remains nameless until the last page of the novel, meets Sam and Yash, two well-read best friends, in her 17th-century literature class. After their professor publicly praises her for an essay, the narrator instantly becomes the pair’s latest fascination. What unfolds is the English-major-version of “Challengers” that some Kenyon students may have expected to come from their own classes in Keithley House.

The pretentious literary conversations were sometimes cringe-worthy, though at other times accurate, and felt especially pointed as an English major. Discussions of senior theses and James Joyce felt honest, while nicknaming the protagonist Daisy Buchanan and then Jordan Baker after she proved her agency (references to The Great Gatsby) was pushing it for me.  

The three friends debate literary topics and play obscure card games within the walls of the dark academia-esque house of a professor on sabbatical. These memories are significant for our protagonist, who looks up to these young men, their Holmesian pipes and unapologetic pompousness. 

That’s the first thing that bugged me. Our protagonist is smart and likable while the men in this story miss out on the latter quality. “Jordan” excels in class and moves through her relationships with these two men honestly. Yet she doesn’t seem to get much in return from sexually confused Sam. She later moves on to Yash, who is abundantly more likable as a love interest but ultimately succumbs to his fear of commitment. The obnoxious intellect of our narrator’s two suitors fails to be redeemed by any sense of vulnerability. 

This first section of the book features young-adult writing that the author so desperately attempts to disguise as adult literary fiction by throwing in as many AP Literature references as possible. It misses this mark, and reads as hollow. Still, there was amusement kneaded into this hollowness which kept me reading (alongside King’s comforting and easy prose). The messiness of the relationships made me feel better about my own Kenyon “situationships,” and our protagonist’s repeated backsliding served as inspiration for my first weekend back on campus after being abroad. 

In the second section of the book, the narrative jumps forward; our protagonist is now a successful author, mother of two and happily married. At this point in time, and another several years later in the third and final section of the book, the now middle-aged woman’s life is interrupted by a sudden visit from Yash. 

The novel transforms from an underdeveloped college romance into a portrait of growth, adulthood and grief. King balances hues of nostalgia and longing with our narrator’s groundedness in the present. I was anxiously anticipating a last-ditch effort to reunite the two tortured artists, but King surprisingly rises above. And thank God for that. 

My adoration of the second half of the book makes me reconsider my harsh judgment of the first half. Perhaps the stunted characters and tropey narrative of the first half is authentic in its portrayal of college romance as immature and performative. Indeed, the hollowness of the characters didn’t hinder my own fulfillment and satisfaction with this read. After logging this silly, delightful book into my Goodreads, suddenly I felt oh-so-ready to return to campus.