The Hatred of Colleen Hoover Made It Easier to Dismiss Blake Lively and Trust Justin Baldoni.

Image found online; originated from Spanish news publication Archivo Historico RTA, Blake Lively llamó a Justin Baldoni «cerdo rabioso» en un mensaje de texto a Colleen Hoover

I didn’t want to sit down for nearly a week, and create an article that would take over 100 minutes to read. However, it’s imperative to me that people on the outside of this issue grasp the severity of the things Colleen Hoover is accused of/perpetuates. I WILL get to my thesis… after an hour and a half of book reviews. I’ve included headlines that you can skip to, but these 100 minutes were specifically important to my overarching claims.

If you are ONLY FAMILIAR WITH THE MOVIE AND SUBSEQUENT TRIAL — if you haven’t been involved in book discussions, and know who Blake Lively and Justin Baldoni are BEFORE you know anything about Colleen — this article is for you.

The tones and writing style shift as my mood does. Sometimes, I respond with lightheartedness, flippancy, or more cursing; other times, my thoughts are collected, honed, and more serious. I do not think an AI would ramble the fuckass way I do.

I want it to be known off the bat that I, too, do not like Colleen Hoover, and I haven’t for many years. If you know NOTHING about Hoover’s past of deeply problematic writing, you may not have come to the right place. I say that, and would truly like for us to begin on the same page, before even trying to present the thesis I’m posing… however, I also think it would be a greater disservice for me to make severe claims without backing them up. I will do my best to provide my own examples, though they will not be vast/detailed enough to drive home just how pervasive it is IN ALL NOVELS, and I do thoroughly invite you to leave and come back once you gain a better understanding of the criticisms levied against Hoover. (I will link resources briefly/throughout the article).

There are so many different books of Hoover’s that have already been criticized by numerous, N U M E R O U S others, who have made the exact same points I would be futilely regurgitating. If you are a fan, and don’t want to listen to them, there is NO WAY you will listen to me, and I don’t want to spend excessive time defending a stance you wouldn’t listen to anyway.

Therefore, I am choosing to ONLY present a deep-dive into ONE of Colleen Hoover’s books. I’ll be comparing it to It Ends With Us and the conversations within/surrounding that novel, before FINALLY making my point as to why I believe the distracting smear campaign against Blake Lively was successful to a specific audience LIKE ME, as well as having BEAUTIFULLY PRIMED people LIKE ME to feel inclined to trust Justin Baldoni over Blake and Colleen.

The Straits Times released an article outlining a good foundation to the criticisms, though it does not cite specific pages or paragraphs, and is not comprehensive; a high school news publication uploaded an opinion piece, wherein a student is able to recognize the contradictory ways in which Hoover writes about sexual assault as either valid romance (November 9) or reprehensible (It Ends With Us).

A really fun 40 minutes of your time that was MY PERSONAL introduction to the world of CoHo, is ‘A complete history on my feud with Colleen Hoover’ by Caleb Joseph, where he DOES go into detail about certain novels, including the original version of November 9 wherein Ben sexually assaults Fallon, and they fall in love and have a happy ending.

In-depth video-reviews have been posted by countless online creators that I have appreciated in the past; Rachel Oates and AlizeeYeezy on YouTube have posted analyses I’ve found to be informed, thoughtful, and empathetic (mostly Rachel, though I appreciate Alizee’s commentary).

You don’t have to personally agree with hating Colleen Hoover; but it is vitally important that we have the same basis of understanding of the things people bring up time and time again, when discussing the horrifying actions Hoover excuses/consistently romanticizes in her novels. This article is over 100 minutes long, because I’m dissecting a novel steeped in domestic violence and sexual assault that IS NOT It Ends With Us. YOU HAVE TO SEE HOW COLLEEN REALLY TREATS VIOLENCE AGAINST WOMEN.

Prevalent criticisms that overlap most of Hoover’s novels can be found when discussing Ugly Love and November 9, two of Hoover’s most popular and controversial books. However, I’m not going to talk about those. So many people already have. I’m going to talk about one that a lot less people have ever heard of: Maybe Not, a slight-prequel to the first installment, Maybe Someday.

**In my opinion**, Maybe Not is a book more domestically violent than It Ends With Us, and it’s wholly intended to be a romantic story, one where the couple (allegedly) ‘falls in love’ and lives ‘happily ever after’.

By BookBrief, the novel is described as follows:

In “Maybe Not” by Colleen Hoover, readers are taken on a delightful journey of unexpected romance and heartfelt emotions. This contemporary romance novel will captivate readers with its engaging storyline, well-developed characters, and the exploration of themes such as love, trust, and self-discovery. With her signature writing style, Colleen Hoover delivers a compelling and heartwarming tale that will leave readers wanting more.

[…]

Warren is a charming and confident young man with a reputation for being a player. Bridgette, on the other hand, is guarded and fiercely independent, with a past that has made her wary of relationships. As they navigate their living situation and develop a deeper connection, both Warren and Bridgette must confront their fears and insecurities to explore the possibility of a romantic relationship.

In the Q&A section on the website:

1) What is the book ‘Maybe Not’ about?

Maybe Not is a romantic comedy novella that follows the story of Warren and Bridgette. Warren is a hilarious and charming guy, while Bridgette is a tough and feisty girl. The book explores their unexpected attraction and the challenges they face as they navigate their complicated relationship.

[…]

4) Is ‘Maybe Not’ suitable for young adult readers?

Yes, ‘Maybe Not’ is suitable for young adult readers. It is a contemporary romance with some comedic elements and does not contain explicit content.

[…]

8) Does ‘Maybe Not’ have a happy ending?

Without giving away too much, ‘Maybe Not’ has a satisfying and heartwarming ending that will leave readers feeling content.

KEEP. THAT. IN. MIND. Tuck it away in that big brain of yours, it’s a surprise tool that’ll help you out later.

A one-star review on GoodReads prefaced their thoughts, “I am not bashing this author, and I am not trying to bash her work, I’m trying to make those who read this review understand the importance of the issues I found here. In fact, I don’t blame the author one bit.” Now, personally, these types of comments are hard, yet understandable, to look at. See, a LOT of Hoover’s alleged misogyny is underhanded, soft, missable, or throw-away narration, that subtly reinforces ideas that keep women as one ideal under scrutiny, while the toxic and often abusive men are put on a pedestal and are meant to be celebrated or empathized with, even at their lowest.

The one novel where the abusive partner doesn’t get away with it, is in It Ends With Us, and is in no way indicative of how she actually feels or cares about violence against women. It Ends With Us is the ONE TIME where a bad man is labeled “bad”.

I’d annotate every instance of how pervasive Warren’s disgusting behaviors and mindsets are, how prevalent Hoover is in talking down to/about women, and show every ounce of before and after context building up the relationship until Chapter 5. However, I’d have to highlight the entire novel. (By God, I nearly do).

I’ll try to summarize, but you really just have to see it for yourself in several instances if I’m to prove this idea. Bear with me, this’ll be a doozy for a while, but I wouldn’t put this much context in if I didn’t think it was IMPERATIVE for shaping the opinion on Colleen Hoover’s misogynistic tendencies (though that implies it isn’t an onslaught), and showing the development of the relationship, the demonization of Bridgette by the demon that is Warren (and Colleen), and finally some more spaced out annotations that drive home how disgusting and violent Warren is.

A criticism to this article may be “You just picked one of the bad ones! That’s one of the only bad ones! Did you even give her a chance? You should read another, that’s one of the only bad ones!” While I will agree that this is certainly one of Hoover’s worst and most overtly horrifying novels, it is only for the reason that this is meant to be a romance, and that these characters (at least Warren; you are meant to dislike and blame Bridgette) are supposed to be likeable. I know her other books; they are just as bad, however most do not slip into the worst of the worst that this novel does.

This book is still given a 3.95 star rating on GoodReads. They are commonly well received among her audience, which isn’t a good thing, because there is no critical thought being applied to how destructive the meta-narratives are: that these behaviors are fine, the couple is sweet, and all of these men are ‘boyfriend goals’.

Scenes that I’ve shortened have not been chopped of context; inconsequential lines that would actually do more good to prove my point if I kept them will be trimmed here and there.

‘MAYBE NOT’; IN-DEPTH EVIDENCE OF MISOGYNY, SEXUAL ASSAULT, AND COLLEEN HOOVER’S IDEA OF A GENUINE “ROMANCE”

This review is mostly in-depth of the romance plot, not necessarily the semantic plot surrounding the main couple. I wanted to make this as brief as possible… but there is so much wrong with this book. I wanted this to be a 15-minute discussion, and I’m sitting here days later, STILL getting annotations together, on something that is nowhere near done, and is estimated at a reading time of over 1 hour ALREADY.

I will be primarily highlighting and dissecting the most horrific scenes that stand out to me. This review is LONG, because the ENTIRE BOOK is horrifying; to chop up a crime scene soaked in blood and forensic evidence into “the most important bits of the crime” is… really hard to recognize and make shorter than I’ve initially intended.

You can skip this review, hell you can skip all the way down to my main thesis if you already know what the hell is up — but if you don’t know Colleen Hoover, I don’t think you should. Cozy up or read this at separate times, you do you babe, and let’s get into it.

Bridgette is immediately vilified throughout the entire novel for not being a kinder person, and for not getting along with Warren, the main male lead. His first introduction to her is with his penis out, buck-naked in the bathroom she is currently occupying. He bursts into the restroom very abruptly, wherein she is sitting on the toilet — an extremely compromising and vulnerable position.

[NOTE: The roommates are constantly ‘pranking’ one another; the opening scene is Warren waking up to pepper spray/juice in his eyes]

I can’t find my shorts — God it hurts so bad — so I stumble my way to the bathroom in order to wash the pepper juice from my eyes and hands. I find the doorknob and swing the door open, rushing straight to the sink. I’m pretty sure I hear a girl screaming, but that very well could be me screaming. I cup my hands beneath the stream of water and bring them up to my eyes, rinsing them over and over until the burn starts to subside. Once my eyes begin to feel relief, my shoulder starts to ache from the repeated blows being delivered to it. “Get out, you pervert!” I’m awake enough now to know that I actually did hear a girl screaming, and now that girl is hitting me. In my bathroom. I grab a hand towel and press it to my eyes while I shield her punches with my elbow. “I was peeing, you sick bastard! Get out!” Shit, she hits hard. I still can’t really see her, but I can recognize fists when they’re flying at me. I grab both of her wrists to keep her from assaulting me even more. “Stop hitting me!” I yell. The bathroom door that leads to the living room swings open and my left eye is working enough that I can tell Brennan is standing there. “What the hell is going on?” He walks toward us and removes my hands from her wrists and then stands between us. I bring the towel back to my eyes and squeeze them shut. “He barged in on me while I was peeing!” the girl yells. “And he’s naked!” I open one eye and glance down. I am, in fact, completely naked. “Jesus, Warren. Put on some clothes,” Brennan says.

He does not, in fact, use a towel to cover himself. He spends the entire scene naked until she pushes him into his room and closes the bathroom door on him.

If THAT was my first introduction to a man, on my first day of living in a new apartment, shared with 2 other men, and I’m the only girl, AND I know I have to live with this uncomfortable/unapologetic presence for the foreseeable future… I would be hostile, or at the very least apprehensive and standoffish, too. In fact, acting outwardly annoyed and [emotionally] pushing someone away is a coping mechanism to ensure that they do not come near you and will not become close. You are allowed to not like someone, and keep that person at a physical and emotional distance.

“Well, this has been a really fun bonding moment,” Bridgette says, walking toward me. She shoves my shoulders, pushing me back toward my bedroom. “Now wait your turn, Roomie.” The bathroom door closes in my face and I’m standing in my room again. Still naked. And maybe a little emasculated. [How… absolutely fragile is your masculinity?] “You can leave, too,” I hear her say to Brennan, right before the door to the living room slams shut.

She’s in the shower. My shower. She’s probably taking off her shirt right now, tossing it on the floor, pulling her panties down over her hips. I’m fucked.

My apartment is my sanctuary. My man cave. The only place I can go where my life isn’t ruled by women. My boss is a woman, all my professors are women, my sister and my mother are both women. Once Bridgette steps into my shower and makes it her own with all her girly shampoos and razors and shit, I’m screwed. That’s my shower.

And now that we’re acquainted with a concrete baseline — may we be acquainted with the horror of Warren.

I groan, frustrated, and run my hands down my face. “This is great,” I mumble. “The last thing I need right now is some chick taking over my entire bathroom.” Brennan rolls his eyes and begins walking back toward his bedroom. “It’s a bathroom, Warren. You’re acting like a little shit.” “She hit me!” I say in defense.

[…]

The water turns off in the shower, and I hear the curtain slide open. As soon as the door to her bedroom shuts, I walk toward the bathroom. My bathroom. I try to open the door from the living room, but it’s locked from the inside. I walk through my bedroom and check that door, but it’s locked, too. I walk out of my room, straight into her bedroom. [You could have waited for Bridgette to leave her room and finish dressing after her shower.] My eyes catch a glimpse of her before she screams and pulls a towel in front of her. “What the hell are you doing?!” She picks up a shoe and tosses it at me. It hits me in the shoulder, but I don’t even flinch. I ignore her and walk into the bathroom and slam the door shut. I lean against it, lock it behind me, and then close my eyes. Dammit, she’s hot. Why does she have to be hot? And I know it was just a glimpse but . . . she shaves. Everywhere. It’s bad enough I have to share a bathroom with a girl, but now I have to share it with a hot girl? A hot girl who has a severe mean streak? A hot girl with a sick tan and hair so long and thick, it covers up her breasts when it’s wet, and shit, shit, shit. I hate Brennan. I hate Ridge. I also love them for doing this to me. Maybe having her for a roommate could be a good thing. “Hey, asshole!” she yells through the door. “I used all the hot water. Have fun.” Maybe not.

This girl is certainly not a “bitch” [sic] for no reason. Not only has her privacy been violated twice in the same morning (once with full intention), but Warren continues to antagonize her, all the while making insane leaps in logic to validate the things he’s doing, or to drive one-sided, un-communicated ideas about her intentions. (P.S. Out of the 12 instances of ‘bitch’ used in the novel, 10 of those are used as a direct insult to Bridgette, from Warren. The worst word she calls him is an “asshole”.)

((Culturally, there is not an agreement as to whether or not ‘bitch’ is a slur. ‘Bitch’ is a curse that’s spent more time alongside words like “fuck”, “shit”, “ass” and the lot. When it is used among women or queer people as another throw-away swear, I don’t find it to be a problem. I, personally, use it for men as well; I use it when emphasizing an abstract idea with flexible usage along “bitch, please”; I use it when talking about inanimate objects or to coincide a genderless anger; I use it the way I liberally use ‘fuck’; I still think calling your friends “my bitches” was a cute reclaim; and I don’t think women/queer-people using ‘bitch’ is the inherent problem. The problem comes from how men, ESPECIALLY straight men, ESPECIALLY straight men that do not respect or like women, use this word. They mean for ‘bitch’ to be a degradation. They spit the word with venom, or a laugh, because it reflects how deeply they mean it, and how much they hate/look down on women.

It is important to recognize the difference between women and queer groups using the word as another flippant swear to spice up daily language, and when it is being used with hatred. This is not to say that queer men and women cannot be misogynistic, but I do not think that keeping it out of meme-/internet-/queer-speak is the right thing to do at this point. The problem is how you use it — just like the n-word, just like “queer” or the f-slur, just like all other sensitive words that are allowed to be used by the in-group, not by the ones suppressing that in-group.))

There is such a thing as an unreliable narrator, or writing from the point of view of a horrible person on purpose, and in ways that are not meant to excuse, glorify, or justify these thoughts/actions outside of the mind of a terrible, disordered, or disturbed person (see: American Psycho or Lolita). However, that is not this book, and I do not believe Colleen Hoover is capable of writing something WELL in that manner (see: Verity).

“What are you doing?” Ridge signs. […] “She’s lived here two weeks,” I tell Ridge. “If she wants to be a roommate, she has to live with the pranks. It’s the rule.” Ridge shakes his head disapprovingly. “What?” I say defensively. He sighs heavily. “She hardly seems like the type to embrace pranks. This will backfire on you. She hasn’t even spoken to us since she moved in.” I disagree with a shake of my head. “She hasn’t spoken to you because you’re deaf and she doesn’t know sign language. She hasn’t spoken to me because I’m pretty sure I intimidate her.” “You annoy her,” Ridge signs. “I don’t think that girl is capable of being intimidated.” I shake my head. “I don’t annoy her. I think she might be attracted to me and that’s why she’s avoiding me. Because she knows it’s not a good idea for roommates to hook up.”

Another thing of note: a girl, Sydney, moves into the apartment as well, later in the book. What we see in Maybe Not is a flipped perspective of the novel Sydney and Ridge star in, Maybe Someday. When Sydney comes to the home, Bridgette, for no reason in particular, thinks that Sydney is deaf, like Ridge is. All of the roommates know that Sydney is hearing, and they purposefully choose not to tell Bridgette, keeping her in the dark for THE SAKE OF A PRANK. She yells slowly at Sydney for a majority of the time they live together (Sydney pretends that she can’t hear her), and says insulting things about her in her vicinity, before Sydney blows up and reveals she is not, in fact, hard of hearing. This will be a later conflict, where Bridgette (RIGHTFULLY) feels betrayed for being lied to for weeks.

I roll my eyes. “You don’t get it. No, I don’t want to hook up with her. Yes, I like staring at her ass. And I’m only pranking her because if she’s going to live here, she needs to get used to it. When in Rome . . .”

It’s revealed that the reason Bridgette is living in this apartment, is because she’s the half-sister of brothers Ridge and Brennan. This later turns out not to be the case, even though the boys’ father and Bridgette’s mother did have an affair.

Later, there’s a scene when Warren eavesdrops on a conversation between Bridgette and her friend on speakerphone. He learns that she once appeared briefly in a pornographic film, though admittedly, the role was short, and she only appeared “for all of three minutes”.

She glares at me as she picks up the phone and holds it to her mouth. “I’ll call you later, Brandi.” She ends her call and slaps her phone against the counter. “What’s your problem?” I shrug. “Nothing,” I say, straightening up and walking toward the kitchen. Don’t look at her shorts, don’t look at her shorts. “I just didn’t realize you were capable of normal human interaction.” Bridgette rolls her eyes and picks up the plate of food she just finished preparing. She begins walking toward her bedroom. “I can be pleasant to people who deserve it.”

[…]

I stand up and slip on my shoes. “Ever heard of knocking?” I ask as I follow her through the living room. “Really, Warren? Coming from the guy who’s walked in on me in the bathroom no less than three times in the past two weeks?” “Ever heard of locking doors?” I say in response. [VICTIM BLAMING] She doesn’t reply as she makes her way outside. I grab my keys off the bar and follow her. I am curious as to why she never locks the doors when she’s in the shower. My first thought leads me to believe that maybe she likes it when I walk in on her. Why else would she leave them unlocked? Come to think of it, she also wears that damn [Hooters] uniform way longer than she needs to. She puts it on a good two hours before going to work and she leaves it on just as long when she gets home. Most people spend as little time as possible in their work clothes, but Bridgette seems to like flaunting her ass in my face. I pause at the bottom of the stairs and watch as her ass makes its way toward my car. Holy shit. I think Bridgette is into me. She turns around after she tries to open the locked door. She looks at me expectantly and I’m still frozen at the bottom of the stairs, staring at her, my mouth agape. Bridgette likes me. “Unlock the car, Warren. Jesus.” I lift the key fob and point it at the car to unlock the doors. Bridgette slides into her seat and flips the visor down, fingering at her hair. A smile slowly spreads across my face as I make my way to the driver’s side. Bridgette wants me. This is gonna be fun.

The way that Warren’s conclusions are presented or written are meant to be the canonical reasons as to why Bridgette is doing the things she’s doing, even though the reasons vary from victim-blaming her, for him violating her boundaries consistently, to speculating that everything she does must be to get a rise out of him, and is because she’s so stubborn but so attracted to him ‘in secret’.

Warren, throughout the next handful of chapters, takes the information he’d learned during her phone call in the worst way possible. He becomes a public menace in the household by playing pornography on the living room TV, loud and unmuted, to provoke Bridgette and find the one she starred in. One night, he even makes his roommate so uncomfortable that he wants to sit on the balcony instead. (IMPORTANT: He actually pauses the TV once he sees that his roommate is removing himself. THERE IS A LATER SCENE where Bridgette is trying to do homework in the living room. She keeps trying to mute the TV, and Warren keeps turning it back on. He refuses to respect her, but respects his male roommate on a whim.)

Ridge elbows me to get my attention. “What’s with this new fascination?” he asks, referring to the fact that I’ve done nothing today other than watch porn after porn. I don’t want to be honest, so I just shrug. “I like porn.” He nods his head slowly and then stands up. “I’m not gonna lie,” he signs. “It’s really awkward. I’ll be out on my balcony if you need me.” I pause the TV.

Up until this point, I feel I’ve done a pretty good job of portraying my argument of misogyny; if you would like a different, general dissection, I recommend ‘Colleen Hoover Finally Broke Me’ to go over certain things I’ll be skipping throughout the book.

Hereon, I’ll try focusing on the inciting incidents that fuel the pair together, before discussing their first and second sexual encounters in Chapter 5— the second of which being, in no uncertain terms, a clear depiction of sexual assault. It is a moment framed as the ‘breaking of bad boundaries’ and forcing Bridgette to realize ‘what she’s been missing all these years’, by keeping herself recluse and not seeking her own pleasure during sex. I will include the entirety of that scene, to ensure that I cannot be accused of chopping up the context that could possibly make this behavior okay. Afterwards, I’ll focus on the biggest moments that really stuck out to me as abusive or toxic.

The two go on to fight with one another constantly, brewing in a sexual tension born from nowhere but the fact that they’re both hot people, and two hot people must fuck, I guess.

Before Bridgette comes home from her shift one night, Warren got distracted and forgot to pick her up from her job. Her shift ended at 11PM (23h), and while she’s presented as being openly hostile, nearly vibrating in anger, I’d like to pose the idea that she was probably cold and terrified. Warren could have been late on purpose, for all she knew, and standing outside in the city at night, in a Hooters uniform, can be extremely dangerous, very scary, and put her at potential risk for her physical safety.

I give my focus back to the TV and fast-forward through at least three more films before I realize it’s already eleven and I’m late picking up Bridgette. Shit. Time flies when you’re watching porn.

[…]

When I pull up, she’s standing outside with her arms folded across her chest [she was probably cold], shooting daggers at my car. She swings the door open and climbs in. “You’re late.” I wait until she slams the door before pressing on the gas. “You’re welcome for the ride, Bridgette.” I can feel the anger radiating from her. I don’t know if it’s simply because I’m late picking her up or because she had a shitty night at work, but I’m not about to ask. When we pull into the complex, she jumps out of my car before I even have it in park. She stalks up the stairs and slams the front door shut. When I reach the apartment, she’s already in her bedroom. I try to be understanding, but this is just . . . it’s fucking rude. I give her a ride to and from work and all she does is bitch at me? You don’t have to be taught manners to know how inappropriate that kind of behavior is. Hell, I’m one of the most inconsiderate people I know, and I would never treat someone like she’s treating me. [EXCEPT YOU LITERALLY SPEND THE ENTIRE NOVEL TREATING HER WORSE.]

[…]

I close my eyes and try to put myself in her shoes. Maybe she’s had a rough day. Maybe she hates her job. Maybe she hates her life. Whatever her reason for acting the way she does doesn’t excuse the fact that she still didn’t say thank you for the ride.

You have given her no reason to like or thank you for an emergency, convenient lift to work. You two openly hate one another at this stage, and you’re acting like she’s the only person who’s been responsible for the hostility in this cohabitative relationship.

She’s treating me like I ruined her life, and all I’ve done is try to accommodate her.

By including her in pranks to ensure she doesn’t feel wanted in this home? By consistently violating her privacy, then blaming her for leaving the doors unlocked? By going into the bathroom, while she’s taking off her make-up after the workday, and pissing in the toilet just to spite her when she’s in a terrible mood, and to expose yourself to her again?! How, exactly, have you accommodated her?!

After peeing in front of her, he joins her at the sink to brush his teeth. He encroaches on her personal space in a moment of sexual tension, after the two were elbowing each other in a… toothbrushing competition?

I smile at her, just inches from her face. The fact that she’s allowing me this close only proves that my theory earlier this afternoon is correct. She wants me. She wants me to touch her, to kiss her, to carry her to my bed. I wonder if she’s as mean in the bedroom as she is out of the bedroom.

The two don’t kiss, and go their separate ways. The next day, Bridgette wants to do homework in the living room in pajamas that Warren CANNOT stop sexualizing. He sexualizes the fact that she isn’t wearing a bra, and he can see her nipples (grow the fuck up) under a thin tank top; along with that, she chose very short shorts. I feel this description of her pajamas are meant to be a validation of the sexualization; ‘why else would she wear short-shorts and no bra if not to provoke him sexually?’, which is a disgusting excuse and exactly what Colleen is going for. Warren is, once again, occupying the TV with porn, and will not allow her to exist in the space.

She leans forward and picks up the remote, and then points it at the TV to mute it. I don’t know who she thinks she is, but if she doesn’t want to hear the TV, she can go to her room. I grab the remote and turn the sound back on. She sighs and opens one of her textbooks and begins reading.

This is semantic and stupid; you’re meant to be cohabitating a public space such as THE LIVING ROOM. If you refuse to take your porn to your phone, the least you could do is keep it muted. Why does Warren even need sound, when Bridgette would only be a 3-minute visual? This is so much effort to make him seem quirkier than he really is; he’s exactly the intruding jerk he claims is Bridgette.

She grabs the remote and mutes the TV again, possibly because one of the girls was screaming at the top of her lungs. I wonder if Bridgette is loud during sex? Probably not. She’s more than likely stubborn, refusing to give up any of her sounds. I unmute the TV again and she reaches her breaking point. “I’m trying to study, Warren. For fuck’s sake, you still get the same effect when it’s on mute.” [MY POINT EXACTLY] I eye her curiously. “How would you know? Are you a porn expert?” [WHAT DOES THAT HAVE TO DO WITH ANYTHING, now CoHo’s just being stupid for the sake of forced flirtation and one-liners] She glances at me, a flash of suspicion in her eyes. “Can you please, for one night, forgo your addiction so I can study in peace and quiet?” Bridgette said please. “Go study in your bedroom,” I say.

The two fight, she unplugs the TV, which prompts Warren to slut-shame her.

I don’t know how I ever got beyond her horrible attitude enough to even be attracted to her. She’s vile. [She unplugged a 24-hour stream of porn in YOUR SHARED home to do HOMEWORK in her HOME.] I don’t care how good she looks, she’ll never find anyone who can put up with her personality. “You can be a real bitch sometimes, you know that?” She releases an exasperated breath. “Yeah, well. You’re addicted to porn.” I laugh under my breath. “At least I wasn’t in a porn.” […] Her focus falls back onto the pages of the textbook. “You’re an asshole.”

He accuses her of lying about being Ridge and Brennan’s sister, just to have a free place to live.

She looks capable of murder. “Warren, I suggest you stop making accusations against people you know absolutely nothing about.” I grin, because I know that got to her. I might come out victorious again.

… What a revolting, toxic man. He’s meant to be in the right during this entire novel, by the way.

“I’ve learned enough about you to know you don’t deserve to be trusted.” I pick up her book and put it back in her lap and point to her bedroom. “Now take your homework and go back to your borrowed room.” […] “All you do is watch porn and stare at my ass. You’re a lazy pervert.” “All you do is flaunt your ass and fantasize about me kissing you.” [victim blaming and making shit up] “You’re disgusting,” she says. “As a matter of fact, watch the porn. I’m sure you need all the pointers you can get.” Okay, that’s low. She can insult my laziness, my finances, my new porn addiction, but she cannot insult my bedroom skills. Especially when she doesn’t have firsthand experience. “I don’t need pointers to please a woman, Bridgette. I was born with natural talent.” She’s eyeing me like she’s about to punch me, but I can’t stop staring at her mouth, hoping she insults me again. Somewhere between being called an asshole and this moment, I’ve become more turned on than I’ve ever been in my life. I’m hoping she’s about to storm off to her bedroom because I’ve already met my quota for restraint when it comes to her.

That means he was fully intent on following her, while she’s trying to seek distance from him during an argument, to pursue hate-sex. WHO SAID she wanted to have sex with you? WHAT MAKES YOU THINK she would reciprocate against your ‘quota of restraint’? Instead, they begin making out on the couch.

I pull away from her mouth and begin working my way down her sweet, sweet neck. As soon as I make it to her shoulder, she begins to push me away with her hands. Just like that, I snap back to reality and separate from her willingly. […] She quickly sits up on the couch. She wipes her mouth and I run my hands through my hair, doing whatever I can to process this. *She’s an evil vixen. *[FOR DENYING SEX, SOMETHING SHE IS ENTITLED TO DO AT ANY MOMENT] […] I think of all the lies that were just passing through my head as my dick tried to convince me she was actually a decent person. […] “Don’t do that again,” she says, angry and breathless. Her voice makes me wince. “You started it,” I say defensively. [You always kiss her first so imma have to call Uno Reverse]

Side note: CoHo men are nearly always the ones initiating romance, kissing, or sex.

The next day, they drink a small touch of whiskey and talk.

“Bad day?” I ask. She leans against the counter and pulls at the elastic of her orange shorts. “The worst.” “Want to talk about it?” She looks up at me through her lashes and then rolls her eyes. “No,” she says flatly. I don’t push it. I don’t even know that I really want to know about her day. Anything and everything seems to set her off, so she’s probably pissed over something stupid, like a red light on her way home. It has to be exhausting to respond to all aspects of life with so much anger. [Oh. You mean every CoHo man ever written? WE’LL GET THERE] “Why are you always so mad?” She laughs under her breath. “That’s easy,” she says. “Assholes, stupid customers, a shitty job, worthless parents, crappy friends, bad weather, annoying roommates who don’t know how to kiss.” I laugh at the last comment, which I’m sure was supposed to be a dig, but it felt more like an underhanded flirt. “How are you so happy all the time?” she asks. “You think everything is funny.” “That’s easy,” I say. “Great parents, being lucky enough to have a job, loyal friends, sunny days, and roommates who starred in porn films.” She glances away quickly in an attempt to hide a smile that almost appeared on her face. God, I wish she would let that smile out, because I’m dying to see what it looks like. As long as she’s lived here, I’m not sure that I’ve ever seen her smile.

‘You should smile more, it’ll make you prettier’. He’s one of THOSE. He TELLS HER to stop hiding her smile because it’s “fucking beautiful”.

Warren begins asking her about the porn she starred in, which… gives us some great character from Warren:

“Did you have sex on camera?” She shakes her head. “No.” “But you made out with a guy?” She shakes her head again. “Wasn’t a guy.” Holy fuck. I turn around and grip the bar with one hand while making the form of a cross over my body with the other. […] “So you’re telling me you made out with another girl? And it’s documented somewhere? On film?”

Hilarious. Lesbians being used for the horniness and objectification of men is so funny and has never produced harm to lesbians in real life ever. I love this joke. I can’t get enough. (This, also, incentivizes him to look even harder for the porn.)

Before the two hook up, she tries to make Warren promise that this will stay a strictly sexual affair, and he won’t bother her outside of designated sex. This comes up again before he assaults her. This is also an arrangement Warren cannot agree to in ways I’ll provide later.

“Warren,” she whispers, tilting her neck to the side, allowing me free rein of her skin. “If I have sex with you, you have to promise you won’t get clingy afterward.”

… “Rein”? Outlined by Merriam Webster, “In current English, rein in is used to mean both ‘to limit or control (something or someone)’ and ‘to make (an animal) stop by using reins.’” Free control of her skin? Or did Colleen mean dominion over, open-access to, her skin? ‘Reign’, which is what I believe Colleen was going for: “It can mean, among other things, ‘to possess or exercise sovereign power,’ as in ‘a queen who reigned for 50 years,’ and ‘to be predominant or prevalent,’ as in ‘a classroom where chaos reigns.’ It does not, however, have any meanings relating to limiting or controlling someone or something.”

Thank you, grammar, I love you grammar ❤. Anyways, off my high horse —

The sex scene itself is its own mess. Bridgette doesn’t allow Warren to touch her; he keeps trying to, and she keeps stopping him. People use this to further the idea that she’s a ‘control freak’ and can never let Warren have any satisfaction.

She winces slightly when she begins to take me inside of her, and I feel kind of bad that it hurts her. But not bad enough to stop myself from lifting my hips and sliding into her the rest of the way.

Which is DISGUSTING behavior from Warren, hear me out. Depending on factors like how long it’s been since her last act of penetrative sex, to where she is on her menstrual cycle (in the days post-period, the vaginal canal can be especially painful/sensitive to penetration), this could be painful for Bridgette, as indicated when she “winces”. We’re told that Warren’s dick is “impressive” and huge; the fact that she winces in pain is a sign that he may need to go slower, that he needs to make sure he isn’t too far in, that she’s adjusting to him and can take him comfortably further IN HER OWN TIME. Let it take a second; shoving it all in quickly can be VERY stuffy and raw, with AND without a proper amount of lubrication.

Good, safe sex isn’t just making sure to include a condom. It means checking in with your partner, ESPECIALLY if this is the first time you’re having sex, as is the case with these two. It means having to restrain your urges to make sure that you’re BOTH going at an enjoyable pace, and you aren’t HURTING ANYONE. Only after forcing himself as far as he can fit, does he “[give] ourselves a moment to adjust”.

Sex ensues:

[…] I give up. I can’t not touch her. My hands grip her waist and she tries to pull them away but I just grip harder, lifting her when she rises and pulling her down when she falls. She gives up trying to fight me after seeing how much better my strength [oh shut up] can make it feel.

Alright, gross; with so much animosity between the pair, you really, REALLY need to sit down and communicate beforehand, so that you don’t violate one another, and so that you understand where the lines are at all. They don’t even flesh out or come to a mutual conclusion, regarding sexual freedom or romantic/sexual exclusivity with one another. They do not communicate about these boundaries, leading to a really terrifying scene I’ll highlight later, where Warren physically overpowers Bridget by pinning her arms to the bed and grabbing her by the jaw so she has to look at him during an argument.

But consent isn’t hot, talking is boring, and boundaries are suggestive, I guess.

I slide a finger between us […] I begin to rub her, but she immediately stops moving. She grabs my wrist and pulls it away from her, slapping my arm against the mattress again. Her eyes open and focus firmly on mine as she slowly begins to move again. “Keep your hands on the mattress, Warren,” she warns. […] But first, I’ll let her have her way. I close my eyes and stop trying to take control.

This feels like another inherent moment of CoHo-isms. It’s kinda “if you know, you know”, more or less. Her sex scenes are specific to expected gender roles or normative heterosexual intercourse. Warren can’t not have control in this sexual moment. All other CoHo men maintain control and domination in the bedroom. It’s VERY RARE for Colleen to experiment with meaningful changes in position — lending the women genuine maintained dominance or allowing the men to wholly participate in submission — nor does she vary who is in absolute control at any given time. It is always in the hands of the man. Always, in and out of the bedroom, the man holds power over a woman that can only find happiness once submitting to the way he can make her feel. And even if he were to relent to her, it is brief, and he will always remind her that he is the one in control.

“Why would a girl care to find herself when she’ll never be able to make herself feel as good as a guy can” is a literal excerpt from November 9. I know this is hyperbolic, and Colleen probably didn’t mean this line with unabashed seriousness, but it is a repetitive idea thread between every single moment of hetero- sensuality or sexuality throughout ALL novels.

Warren climaxes, however Bridgette did not.

Now, a lot of push-back to criticism is “context”. ‘You’re missing the context, there’s context that explains EVERYTHING, there’s context that makes this all BETTER, there’s an EXPLANATION as to why these things are justifiable, you’re CHOOSING not to look at the CONTEXT.’

… But tell me, what amount of context makes this scene better?

(TRIGGER WARNING: THIS SCENE WILL CONTAIN EXPLICIT MATERIAL DEPICTING SEXUAL ASSAULT.)

She continues to move over me as I quietly succumb to the tremors. When it’s over, she comes to a stop on top of me. I open my eyes and look up at her and catch her smiling down at me. As soon as she realizes I’m looking at her, the smile is gone. I want her to collapse against my chest. I want to roll her onto her back and take her in my mouth until she’s screaming my name out in ecstasy, rather than anger. Instead, she slowly slides off of me. She stands and turns toward the bathroom. “Goodnight, Warren.” The door closes behind her and I’m lying here in complete confusion. I would be running after her right about now, but I’m still too weak to move. I give myself time to regroup, and then I remove the condom and toss it into the bathroom trash can on my way to her bedroom. I swing open the door just as she’s crawling into her bed. As soon as her head meets her pillow, I’m on top of her, kissing her. As expected, she pushes me away. “What did I say about being clingy?” she says, pulling her face from mine. “I’m not being clingy,” I say, kissing my way down her neck. “We’re not finished.” She pulls away even farther and pushes my face back. “I’m pretty sure we finished, Warren. About three minutes ago.” “I finished,” I say, looking her in the eyes. “But you didn’t finish.” I can feel her resistance as she attempts to roll over. “Warren, stop,” she says, pushing me away. I don’t pull away from her. Instead, I wrap my arm around her and slowly move my hand across her stomach.

That’s when she slaps me.

I immediately pull back and look down at her in shock. She pushes me away and scoots up on her bed until her back meets the headboard. “I said stop,” she says, defending her slap. I work my jaw back and forth, not sure what to do. In all my years of experience with girls and even in all the recent porn I’ve been watching, this isn’t how sex usually goes.

Yes, Warren. Film is not reality, women are people, people are complicated and different from one another, and this is a really fucking poignant example of how porn should never be your sexual education. Also: it’s porn! Both actors walk onto set knowing the fact that THEY WILL BE HAVING SEX TODAY, and they are CONTRACTUALLY OBLIGATED to look like/express [that] they’re having a good time!

[direct continuation] People are selfish by nature and the fact that she doesn’t even want me to get her off is confusing the hell out of me.

I think the only thing that can make this scene even more gut-wrenching, is the fact that we later learn Bridgette is a victim of child sexual abuse at the hands of her uncle. Now read this scene, and why Bridgette ‘doesn’t want to open herself up’ or sexually trust a man she’s only ever hated until this point, knowing that.

This doesn’t have to imply that Bridgette will never open herself up wholly or sexually, with a person that she can trust and reciprocate genuine admiration and love to. These two feel nothing but annoyance, hatred, and lust, not love, for one another. This is, in no way, a meaningful, emotional connection between the pair at this stage in their relationship. Warren forces her to explore stages of sexuality she IS NOT COMFORTABLE OR OKAY exploring with HIM. Hoover writes this as a deep flaw she will never be able to get over until Warren has the ‘generosity’ to show her ‘what she’s been missing’. He ‘shows’ her through use of force, until she has an orgasm and she begins to lean into what he’s doing, encouraging more. 20 no’s before 1 yes is not consent. It is the indiscreet explanation of consent in a scene that never, ever, once communicated consent — it has communicated the exact opposite. It is MORTIFYING that Colleen thinks forcing a survivor of child sexual abuse into sexual acts will force her past her ‘brokenness’. (When Warren finds out about her childhood later in the book, he remarks in the narration, “She seriously can’t be this broken.” Tell me how you really feel, Colleen.)

[direct continuation] “Am I . . .” I pause and look at her. “Am I misreading something here? Because I thought . . .” “We fucked, Warren. It’s over, now go to sleep.” I shake my head. “No, Bridgette. You fucked. You did all the work and you didn’t even get to enjoy it. I don’t understand why you won’t let me touch you.” She groans, frustrated. “Warren, it’s fine. It was fun.” She looks away from me. “I just don’t like the other part, so go to bed.” She doesn’t like the other part? The part where she has an amazing, mind- blowing orgasm? “Okay,” I say. “I’ll go to bed.” “Thank you,” she mutters. “But first,” I say, holding up my finger. “I need to know something.” She rolls her eyes. “What?” I lean toward her and look at her with fascination. “Is this how sex always is with you? You have to be in complete control, to the point where you don’t even allow someone to get you off?” She kicks at me with her foot, trying to get me to leave her bed. “I’m not discussing my sex life with you, Warren. Go back to your room.” She scoots down on her bed until her head meets her pillow. She rolls over until her back is to me and she pulls the covers up over her head. Holy shit. This is . . . I don’t even know what to think. I’ve never met anyone like her. She has some serious control issues. “Bridgette,” I whisper, needing her to roll over and talk to me again. She ignores me, but I can’t leave because this conversation needs to happen. [HAVE IT IN THE MORNING, LEAVE HER ALONE] “Are you telling me you’ve never had an orgasm during sex?” The covers fly off her head and she rolls onto her back. “It’s never been an issue with anyone until you,” she says angrily. [Oh, he just cares that much and is so unique to give a shit about her pleasure. So much of a shit, he refuses to take no for an answer, and forces her to feel it.] I laugh and shake my head and for some reason, feel extremely happy about this. Because she’s apparently been with some really selfish assholes in the past, and I’m about to show her what she’s been missing. She pulls the covers back over her head and faces the opposite direction again. Rather than stand and walk back to my room like I know she wants me to do, I lift the covers and slide in behind her. I wrap my arm over her, pressing my palm against her stomach, pulling her against my chest. She practically growls at me. “Warren, stop. Believe it or not, I’m perfectly happy with my sex life, and I don’t need you to — Oh, my God.” She stops mid-rant as soon as I cup her between the legs. I rest my cheek against hers. “I need you to shut up, Bridgette.” She doesn’t move, so I roll her onto her stomach and slide on top of her. I pin her arms beneath my hands, just like she did me earlier. “Please don’t resist me,” I whisper into her ear. “I want to be in control, and I want you to do what I say.” I run my tongue across her ear and watch as the chills break out on her neck. “Understood?” Her breaths are shallow, and she squeezes her eyes shut with her nod. “Thank you,” I tell her. I kiss my way down her neck and shoulder, and then work my kisses slowly across her back. Her entire body is tense and knowing that she’s never experienced an orgasm at the hands of another guy already has me hard again. I reach down to her thighs and spread her legs with my hand. She buries her face into her pillow and it makes me smile. She’s never been this vulnerable with someone else, and she doesn’t want to give me the pleasure of seeing how much she enjoys it. [FUCK YOU.] I keep my eyes focused on her anyway as I slowly push two fingers inside of her, waiting for her to moan into her pillow. She doesn’t make a sound, so I pull them out and re-enter her with three fingers this time. I press my forehead into her pillow, right next to her face, and I wait for the sounds to escape. Nothing. I laugh quietly, because I really have my work cut out for me. I pull my hand away from her and flip her onto her back. Her eyes are still closed tightly so I grab her jaw and press my lips to hers. I kiss her hard and deep, until she begins to kiss me back with just as much anger. She pulls at my hair and spreads her legs for me, wanting me to bury myself inside of her. I do. I push her panties aside and shove into her so hard and fast, she lets out a moan and my God, I need more of that. So much more. But I don’t have on a condom, and this time isn’t about me, so I pull out of her. I take one of her breasts in my hands and bring it to my mouth. I slowly kiss my way down her stomach and the lower I get, the tenser her body grows. I can feel her hesitation and part of me wants to devour her immediately, but part of me needs to know that I’m not going too far, too fast. [YOU FUCKING ARE.] I can tell by the stiffness in her posture that she’s nervous now. I position both my hands on her waist and look up at her. She’s chewing nervously on her bottom lip and her eyes are terrified. “Have you never let anyone do this to you?” I whisper. She releases her bottom lip with the shake of her head. “I don’t like it.” “How would you know?”

I’m asexual, have had years to explore my individual libido, and I’ve never had sex. I know what I want (and am only comfortable receiving from myself when the need may arise), what I am comfortable doing with another human being [not sex!], and what I’m not [SEX!].

Bridgette has had prior sexual partners; if she’s comfortable experiencing pleasure, wherein a partner does not make her orgasm, BUT she is willing to ‘take care’ of herself separately, so that she can still experience that type of pleasure alone, that is an entirely valid system of sex to uphold, and you do not need to change or force yourself beyond what you’re comfortable. She is allowed to not be willing to try certain sexual acts. She is allowed to know what she doesn’t want, even without having done it before.

Also… she’s allowed to be along for the ride and be not interested in an orgasm at all. All of these things are entirely valid ways to have and experience sex. If THAT is how you can enjoy the sensation, THAT is how you have sex. You owe nothing more to anyone.

You cannot force your sexual partner to ‘get over’ something they do not want and are scared of. You cannot force a sexual partner to accept an act of sex that they are not willing to receive.

If you have done that, you have committed sexual assault.

No ‘if’s. No ‘but’s. No ‘take-back’sies.

She shrugs. “I just know.” I pull her hips down several inches on the bed. “You’re too stubborn for your own good.” I lift her and begin to lower my mouth to her, but she pulls back and sits up. “Don’t. I don’t want to do this.” I grip her hips and pull her back down. “Lie back and close your eyes, Bridgette.”

Oh. You mean ‘close your eyes/lie back and think of London’?

In the first link, an article from Phrase Finder: “‘Close your eyes and think of England’ is a reference to unwanted sexual intercourse — specifically advice to an unwilling wife when sexually approached by her husband.”

She continues to look at me with fear in her eyes, refusing to lie back down, so I lift up onto the palms of my hands. “Will you please stop being so stubborn and just relax? Fuck, woman. I want to give you the best ten minutes you’ve ever had in your life, but you’re making it really difficult.” [How fucking generous.] She bites her lip hesitantly, but she does as I say and slowly lowers herself to the bed, relaxing into her pillow. I smile triumphantly and press my lips to her stomach again. I start just below her belly button and trail slow kisses all the way down until I meet her panties. I hook my fingers into the waistband and pull them down, over her hips, over her thighs, and I continue to slowly remove them until I’m at her ankles. Once I toss them on the floor, I lift her leg and press a soft kiss against her ankle, then her calf, then the inside of her knee, repeating the kisses all the way up her thigh, until I’m inches from sliding my tongue against her. As soon as I position my mouth over her, I can feel her warmth beckoning me. “Warren, please . . .” she begins to protest. As soon as the word please leaves her mouth, my tongue slides against her, separating her. She lifts her hips several inches off the bed and cries out, so I grip her waist and pull her back down to the bed. She’s sweet and salty and as soon as my mouth is against her, I’m convinced she could satiate every ounce of hunger I’ll feel for the rest of my life. She cries out again, still trying to pull away from me. “What . . . God . . . Warren . . .” […] Her hands find their way back to my hair just as my fingers find their way back inside of her. I’m filling her, consuming her with my tongue, and she’s taking every ounce of me she can get. She’s no longer trying to scoot away from me. Now she’s pressing my face into her, begging me to go faster.

That line is meant to make EVERY SINGLE THING HE HAS DONE UNTIL THIS MOMENT okay. She’s ‘no longer’ resisting; he finally broke her down, and she can ‘finally’ enjoy herself.

… Fucking revolting. Colleen genuinely thinks that makes this consensual, and that everything is now okay.

I want to kiss her, but I don’t know if she’d want that. Some girls prefer not to be kissed afterward, but my mouth is aching with a need to feel her lips against mine.

But if they don’t want to be kissed before an orgasm, well fuck that, huh?

The first time the couple had sex, they were wearing protection; however, when Warren followed her to force fellatio unto her, he did not bring a condom with him. That doesn’t stop him, however, from inserting himself inside of her again during this scene. THANK GOD, he manages to “somehow pull out of her”, and does not ejaculate inside of her without her consent, even though, a) he’s already done everything without her consent, and b) I truly wouldn’t put it past Colleen Hoover.

Perhaps now… you can understand my dislike for this woman.

I’ve already spent so long in this article proving a point of misogyny, proving how terrible Colleen writes her men, how villianized Bridgette is for breathing, and accentuating the point that Colleen Hoover does not take violence against women seriously.

But don’t worry! THERE’S SO MUCH MORE! It does not stop after the sex scenes, and you NEED TO SEE what all he puts her through, to understand my reason for choosing this book. ONLY THEN will I present my actual thesis.

I initially called Maybe Not “more domestically violent” than It Ends With Us; it may be a SLIGHT exaggeration, but not by much. The instances of abuse are 3 scenes, if I remember correctly: Ryle slaps Lily, knocking her into a cabinet; he pushes her down the stairs and gaslights her into believing she fell; and Ryle attempts (but fails) to rape Lily (who I believe was pregnant). However, just because Warren has not slapped and purposefully gaslit Bridgette about her physical abuse, that does not mean this novel is not full of domestic violence.

Back to the story, Bridgette kicks Warren out of the bed because he snores.

I try to open my eyes, but I can’t. Or I just don’t want to. I don’t think I’ve ever experienced as deep of a sleep as the one I’m being torn from right now.

Listen to that. The sex (assault) was so perfect, he’s sleeping better than he ever has before.

My eyes fall shut again but they fly open when her cold feet meet my stomach. She uses the strength of her legs to try and push me out of her bed. “Go,” she groans. “I can’t sleep.” I somehow push myself into a standing position. I look down at her and she rolls onto her stomach, flips her pillow over, and sprawls out across her mattress.

Queen.

Although, this is one more reason why Bridgette is different (allegedly ‘worse’) than all other lead women in CoHo books. She has a hard time bonding with children, she does not want romance, and she likes to have her bed/personal space. What a bitch — right, Colleen?

I’d treat Warren like this too; I know he’s the victim of her bad attitude aww poor baby, but he’s a rapist.

I’ll bring back up the same one-star reviewer:

What bothers me is that the scenes are full of domination and attempting to make violence “sexy”. THAT IS THE DEFINITION OF RAPE CULTURE. In fact, one sex scene in this book IS a rape scene, even though it isn’t presented that way. When you are doing something sexually to a person and they tell you to stop multiple times, YOU STOP. 100 percent, no questions asked. Why the hell does this even have to be explained right now? I’m not saying this author wrote these scenes with the intention of it being rape or having the scenes encourage rape culture…I know that she didn’t. However, that’s the problem. The problem is that people don’t even realize it’s a problem, and that’s the worst thing about it. People aren’t even aware of rape culture and what it represents. […] I’m sorry if my review seems harsh, but this is a serious issue in our culture today that we are putting up with when we shouldn’t be. The fact that we have allowed this for so long that so many people accept it and think it’s okay, even normal, is truly saddening. People think it’s sexy because it’s being presented that way. There is absolutely nothing sexy about violence.

There is nothing ‘too’ harsh about this review; we may not agree on a lot of literature, but we do come together in comradery that this is not okay, and this is rape culture.

And one more thing from BookBreif, the 10th Question-and-Answer:

10) Are there any trigger warnings for ‘Maybe Not’?

While ‘Maybe Not’ is a light-hearted romance, it does touch on some sensitive topics such as past trauma and emotional baggage. Readers who are sensitive to these themes may want to approach the book with caution.

I FUCKING SCOFF AT THEE.

A PERSONAL ANECDOTE FROM MY YOUTH

While I sadly cannot pull annotations from myself, as I threw away the dead laptop this scene was on, I would like to bring up something I’d written as a child.

I believe I was 14 at the time. I do recall feeling I was “too old” to be writing what I had felt ‘forced’ to write. Now, I would call the scene a ‘sexual intrusive thought’, however at the time, I did not have the language or knowledge I do now to call it such.

It wouldn’t be until 19 years old that I would be diagnosed with Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, specifically Pure-O. I’d struggled with intrusive thoughts that had driven me suicidal for the overwhelming extent of my teenage years. Upon reflection, this was an intrusive Sexual-OCD thought.

I could not stop a self-made smut scene (for lack of a better term) from turning over and over in my mind. It came to the point that I felt compelled to write about it. I never finished that scene, as starting to develop it was enough to expel the thought and help my mind move on.

In the scene, I used two characters from a children’s TV show I’d adored since I was 10 years old, because those were the characters in my mind, even though it made me uncomfortable to look at them through the lens of sexuality.

The characters are high schoolers, aged 15–16, and eventually grow to become a couple throughout the series.

I had never had sex, kissed, or held hands by this time in my life; all I could use was the flow of my imagination, personal experience with myself, and what MY reactions and responses would have been to a sexual encounter. When the two characters began making out, and the male character was getting a bit more handsy, the girl gasped along the lines, “Ah, no, stop, wait.”

AT FOURTEEN YEARS OLD, I RECOGNIZED THAT THIS KNEEJERK REACTION, while not indicative of her willingness or level of consent, HAD TO BE ADDRESSED IMMEDIATELY.

AT FOURTEEN YEARS OLD, I wrote that the boy immediately stopped what he was doing, and asked her if everything was okay, and if she wanted to stop.

AT FOURTEEN YEARS OLD, I wrote that the girl responded by clarifying it was “just kind of what I say”, because I had no reason why this was my reaction to the personal progression of sex or physical intimacy, even when enjoying myself. I don’t remember if I made the characters create a safe word (and maybe the semantics of turning the scene into a more serious project is what turned my ADHD-brain off and let me move on), but I do believe I did have the characters whip up a safe word so that the girl could clarify “when I actually mean it”.

AT FOURTEEN FUCKING YEARS OLD, I understood that sex, kink, and consent CANNOT OCCUR without discussion beforehand — even just a small interruption that would take less than 1 minute to clear up.

YOU CANNOT PURSUE SEXUAL ACTIVITY FROM A PERSON THAT SAYS “No”, “Stop”, OR “Wait”. YOU HAVE TO STOP, AND SPEAK TO THEM, OR YOU RUN THE SEVERELY HIGH 99% CHANCE OF VIOLATING SOMEONE YOU DO NOT UNDERSTAND THE TRUE BOUNDARIES OF.

I UNDERSTOOD THAT FACT AS A CHILD AMATEUR WRITER.

NO ONE had to tell me otherwise.

THERE IS NO EXCUSE. Portraying that as acceptable behavior IS VERY DAMAGING; that this “loving romance” — where a guy continues after she says stop; where they are romanticized; and her body’s physiological positive responses to sex or physical intimacy is an “inherent consent”, even when she tells him to stop, get off of her, and to go away — IS ACCEPTABLE. I’ve internalized less grotesque shit without even realizing it, and let that affect my thoughts/guilt moving forwards. If you don’t know what your partner has done to you is coercion, pressure, and assault, and all you have to compare what you went through is to a novel that is spouted as a WHOLESALE ROMANCE, you will not be able to compare and recognize that your consent has been violated, and that you have been assaulted, because “her body liked it, even when she said ‘no’… he knows her better than she does”.

THIS IS RAPE CULTURE. Courts have USED THIS AGAINST VICTIMS OF SEXUAL ASSAULT, that the body responded ‘well’, or the fact that they may have orgasmed during rape, AS A REASON THAT THEY HAVE “NOT” BEEN RAPED, AND A REASON THAT THE PERSON WHO ASSAULTED THEM “DID NOT ASSAULT THEM”. “How could they have not liked it or wanted it, if they had an orgasm?”

THIS. IS. RAPE. CULTURE. And Colleen Hoover presents it as ROMANTIC. And thousands of fans TOUT IT AS SUCH.

THIS IS WHY I HAVE A PROBLEM WITH COLLEEN HOOVER.

(My thesis in a nutshell) THIS IS WHY IT WAS SO EASY TO WANT TO TRUST BALDONI. Because he was the only person in interviews to be verbally and adamantly expressing how serious he recognized these topics to be in It Ends With Us — in comparison to someone like Blake, who was following the lighthearted marketing campaign that SHE HAD NO CONTROL OVER, AND EVERY OTHER ACTOR MARKETING THE FILM, OTHER THAN BALDONI, HAD TO USE, as was part of their marketing contract.

AN ANECDOTE FROM A NOVEL I’M WORKING ON

I’m annotating my own sex scene lmao

I wanted to keep it brief, but because I’ve been making such a fuss over the sexual assault scene, I feel I need to include the majority. One character is scared of what’s happening, even though he does want it to happen. This was written without Maybe Not or proving some sort of point in mind; I just wrote what was organic for these two. What was organic, was one of them being scared; his sexual partner HAD to address that.

This is an excerpt from something I’d written and intend to keep (if not continue editing) over the years until my books are finished. This is between Ryland, my autistic main character who has never had sex, and Lance… who I regret to inform is a vampire. MY BOOKS ARE DEEPER THAN THAT, LISTEN TO ME, LISTEN TO ME!

The story explores a lot of really heavy topics between the main series and spinoffs, and ONE! of the overarching ideas is that you cannot let your traumas define and erase who you are. (Ryland has NEVER experienced sexual assault/abuse; that is not why he’s afraid to have sex with Lance).

This is RIGHT before the two progress into sex. Ryland is terrified; he’s wanted nothing more than this moment he’s only ever dreamed of. Now that Lance is reciprocating, he’s freezing, he’s scared, and he doesn’t know if he can sexually be enough for Lance — he doesn’t know if he could sexually be enough for anyone, because he doesn’t know sex! Lance sees that Ryland is scared, and he consistently stops to reinforce Ryland’s consent.

I hate putting my work out there but fuck it.

The two have been friends that flirt for months at this point; neither believe that the other genuinely reciprocates. Before the two kiss for the first time, they’re talking about lore-stuff regarding an alternative way of turning humans into vampires (it’s a venom that also acts as an aphrodisiac for vampires to ingest).

To disrupt his taunting leer, I rolled my eyes. It wasn’t hard to play indifferent; the burning knot in my pelvis made me too sick for flirting. “Hush.” I pushed lazily at one of his shoulders, and he stepped back with a grin. “How does it work? Do you need to… think of something to fit the mood?” He hummed, a seductive confirmation. “It’s faster to picture something sexual. It doesn’t have to be. Just having a strong will to turn is usually enough.”

“So, in your head…” The ruckus of my heartbeat was nearly too brash to hear our conversation. My elbows hugged tighter at the base of my ribs; I tried to pass a sardonic smile, and straightened to meet the unspoken provocation. “Were you turning me, or just touching me?”

A sneer shadowed the warm glint in his eye. “It was far more than touching,” he assured. I laughed him off and slipped through an opening to my right, where the alley opened back to the street. “Fun. Invite me next time.” I’d only taken a step when Lance slapped a halting grip on my shoulder. The demand automatically turned me back to him. He tugged down, forcing me to bend close. His brows lifted with the genuine, low inquiry, “You think I was kidding?”

An anxious grin split wide-eyed apprehension— the opposite of what I wish I’d done: I barked a sudden laugh, then shriveled. “Oh, are you serious?” Alarmed, he released the pressure of his grasp, hovering a touch instead. “Is that… bad?” We exchanged a pallid shade of startled. “No, not… at all, just — hard to believe.”

I include this because it’s an example of “manhandling”, sure, but in a far less domineering way than Colleen writes. Even when Lance is invading Ryland’s personal space, he isn’t locking him in by caging his arms around his head aggressively. The moment Ryland responds with “Are you kidding?”, he immediately lets him go.

Later, before they get to fuckin’:

“I can — take us somewhere…” he offered breathlessly. “Somewhere private.” Lightheaded and fleeting, I kept hazy eyes closed. “Anything. I don’t care.” My fist nervously wrung down the lapel of his jacket. I whispered on the tip of a numb tongue, “Just be with me. Tonight. Any way… Please.”

Ryland is saying ‘We don’t even have to have sex, I just want to be near you.’

And by the way, this sex scene isn’t “when two people are enthusiastically consenting, you still have to spend ten minutes reinforcing consent or you’re hurting them!” No, don’t twist my words. The only reason this is reinforced over and over and over, is because Ryland is evidently scared throughout the WHOLE build-up before the act of sex. He’s never done this. He’s anxious, but he DOES want to do it, and they HAVE to communicate as such MULTIPLE TIMES.

Lance brushed a finger across the curve of my cheek. “I’ve never seen you so pale… Are you okay?” His lips nervously pursed, flushing on release. With the caressing pointer, he tipped my chin, adding in an intimate whisper, “It’s okay if you aren’t ready.”

“… I don’t think I ever will be,” I murmured. “But… if you’re — sure you want me…”

He teased my bottom lip with his, and a tremble tickled my ribs.

My voice was so broken, so hard to project beyond the stifling fear coursing my veins, that my whisper could barely register. “Just tell me what to do…” I begged. “Put me… where you want me… I don’t know how to handle you, so make me.”

Lance placed a knee on the outside of my thigh, and urged the tilt of my chin higher. I could feel him, a foreign pressure at the center of my ribcage…

“Tell me to stop,” he encouraged. “You need to tell me when it’s too much… or else I won’t stop.”

A pinched leer traced the contours of my buckling hesitation. Frigid fingers played under the hem of my shirt; he traced sweetly sickening goosebumps along the skin beneath.

“Don’t let me hurt you…” he pleaded. “You have to tell me… Do you want me to keep going?”

I nodded; […]

Lance unfastened the button of my jeans. He brushed my groin as he pinched the zipper, pausing at my jump. He refused to move, waiting for initiation.

Slowly, I opened my eyes and focused on the stillness of his beauty. I reached for him, drifting distant, awestruck fingers across his cheekbone. His mouth parted, revealing a swell beneath his lips. [because vampire, remember] He clutched my palm and leaned into the touch; desperate, insatiable, he pressed the tip of a fang onto my skin. A breath I couldn’t recover stalled in my throat, hollowed my empty chest. I began to retract my hand, bringing him in a bend over me.

“Go…” I took the zipper of his pants; a silent inhale rose in his lungs, and I pulled down. “I’ll tell you when to stop.”

This takes them a brief period of time, in between the active progression of sex. This is non-negotiable. You don’t have “rEsEaRcH” this shit.

He clutched the hem of my shirt. “Can I take this off?” I nodded, lifting my back, then my arms.

Consent does not have to be verbal every single time. Speaking is really hard for Ryland to muster right now because autism and fear. You can still write a scene where one character wants what is happening, yet they are apprehensive of something new. However, the key difference is that Bridgette did not want what happened to her, and made it known to Warren numerous times. Ryland is consistently letting Lance know that, even though he’s afraid, he DOES want this. Lance does not stop at one reinforcement of consent; Ryland continues to show fear, and Lance continues to check in with him and give him opportunities to make this stop.

He tugged gently at the waistline of my jeans. I gulped thick nothingness, and helped him remove them.

I can’t keep doubting what’s in front of me…

On perched elbows, my drooling gaze obsessed the divine flex of his muscles as he ditched his last garments.

The moment I glimpsed his phallus, I dropped on the bed and stared blankly at the ceiling.

BUT THIS IS THE SCARIEST THING I HAVE EVER KNOWN.

He playfully squeezed my ankle, running his palm along my leg as he crept up the bed. “You shave for me?” he teased.

“… I don’t like body hair?”

“In the middle of winter?”

“You’re not the only one who likes to be cold,” I deflected.

He scrunched his nose at the denial of a grin, and laid a long peck to my lips. I perked, chasing his retreat. The kiss worked around a helpless smile; he granted one more, then peeled away.

I knew exactly what was coming next.

Every second was building to this moment, tumbling recklessly to land us here.

His palms sat on both sides of my naval. They began to slide lower, and I audibly winced. “I — !” A gasp snagged, and I sat up frantically. “I don’t know how to do this…”

Not “I don’t want this” but “I don’t know how/I’m scared to commit to this” right before the naked-part.

Lance carefully studied my apprehension. His arms raised; his fingertips began to comb through my buzz[cut], starting at the hairline and soothing a trail to the base of my neck.

“… Do you want something to happen?” There was an amused hint to the soft question. Another shudder hiccuped through my chest. Mouth frozen on the edge of an exhale, I nodded.

His hands dropped, curling a gap between my skin and boxers. He paused at my exaggerated breaths, then dragged the band down my hips.

My eyelids shut in a flinch. I raised my heels from the sheets, and felt my soul dissipate once the fabric stopped touching my skin.

There’s nothing left to hide in.

Our bare chests were close to an embrace. I winced, clamping my jaw as he drove his pelvis atop mine.

Lance eased a thumb to the tight crease at my brow. “Ry…” he breathed, a sympathetic, timeless provocation. He massaged the confliction at my temples, and an anxious tear fell from my lashes. Lance eased his boiling contact from my body. “Are you sure you want to do this…?”

They are literally naked, and Lance is still giving Ryland an out.

“I’ve… never been this close. To anyone.” I practically heaved the admission. “This is… so scary. I want you… but I can’t even tell if this is real.” His worry lightened to a serene surprise. “I can’t even breathe… when I pictured this. It’s so much… and I can’t believe it…”

Lance gently swiped the wetness from under my eye. “… I’ve thought about this. A lot,” he confessed in turn. “In so many different ways, I’ve wanted you for a long time. It feels… weird for me too…… We don’t have to do this if you aren’t ready. It’s okay… We can stop.”

I wrapped loose arms around his waist, pressing flat hands to his bare back. [sorry mom] his sight lulled in a second of tantalized pleasure.

“I’ll never be ready…” I whispered. “But if you want me, I want you so bad.”

His Adam’s apple bobbed in a quivering swallow. “Lay down. I’m gonna get something from the dresser.”

Consent does not have to take away from a sex scene, Colleen. It is so fucking easy to integrate. THIS is an example of breaking THROUGH, not DOWN, something that’s really hard to have the courage to do.

I could include the rest, because it just involves… human conversation. Ryland asks if there’s any position that’ll make it easier; Lance has him bring a pillow under his tailbone and try to relax. He’s fuckin’ around in the shadows, vampire shit, before coming back to the bed with lubrication.

One of my hands reached for the bottle, but he held a hand over it. “I’m already covered. I’ll take care of you.”

“… Is it…?”

“It won’t be uncomfortable for long,” he assured. “If you didn’t prepare before, I’ll go slow.”

Again, I shook my head.

Before the point of no return, I gathered his face and tugged him to my lips.

Right before insertion:

“Put your hands on my shoulders,” he gasped. I complied, grabbing his muscle with an anxious flex. “Hit me right there when you need me to stop.” He tapped the back of my palm. “Okay? You won’t hurt me.”

And because I made a big deal of when Warren first penetrated Bridgette:

He began with a gentle test […] with the next sunken length, I balled a fist over his pec. Lance paused, momentarily losing his strength above me. […] My fist opened […] he began a long, steady pace, allowing my body time to adjust and accept.

The scene ends with:

“Here.” Neatly bundled tissues pressed at my rear; I gasped, rushing to sit up. “You don’t need t — !”

“But it wouldn’t hurt,” he retorted in a cheeky mumble. “Don’t worry about anything. I’ll take care of it in the morning.” [As in, if something were to leak overnight, Lance doesn’t want Ryland to feel embarrassed or ashamed.] Lance wiped the mess on our stomachs, before sealing his promise with a kiss. […]

“You’ll be good,” he smiled over my lips. One last peck, and he pulled away, finally allowing a long-held breath to release. He tossed the balled tissues into the garbage, and motioned for me to stand. “Come on, I’ll get the bed ready. If you — want to stay. You don’t — ”

“I do–I want to,” I whispered past the dryness.

[…] [Getting under the covers] I curled into a cold ball and nervously awaited whatever would happen next. Lance crawled close on top of the sheets, slipping underneath and tucking what already covered my arm securely past my shoulder. I chuckled at his concern.

He drew a wistful caress along the only visible contour of my neck, stopping where the sheets began. Goosebumps trailed in his wake, and my eyes fluttered to a sleepy close.

“You okay?” An inquiry as gentle as his touch, brushing away my fever.

“Mm-hm.” My eyebrows raised a muted fraction. “Why, do I look upset?”

He scrunched his nose, and spared one last kiss. “No. Just wanted to make sure.” I shuffled closer, cuddling into his body.

“Thank you,” was all I had the strength to whisper.

Maybe it’s because I’m listening to lo-fi but after the fucking shit I’ve been reading and getting so upset over, READING THAT made me feel CALM. I FEEL SAFE, DUDE. THAT’S HOW IT SHOULD FEEL.

ANECDOTES OVER

Warren is disgustingly cocky the next morning, going out of his way to share the news with his roommate and his roommate’s girlfriend without Bridgette’s consent. Look at that! Again!

I’m convinced that I’ve never slept as well as I did last night. And even though she kicked me out of her bed, I still feel victorious. Like royalty.

I’m just gonna focus on annotating the big moments, or else this will be an hour long. (Oh, you sweet summer past-me child)

“Morning, Bridgette,” I say with a triumphant smile. “Sleep well?” She sees the look on my face and immediately rolls her eyes. “Screw you, Warren.”

I think Bridgette is and would be all of us.

She lets her head drop back in defeat, until she’s staring up at the ceiling. “I knew it was a bad idea.” “It was a great idea,” I interject. She looks at me with as much seriousness as she can muster. “It was a onetime thing, Warren.” I hold up two fingers. “It was twice, actually.” She makes a face that lets me know just how much I’m irritating her. “I’m serious, Warren. We’re not doing it again.” “Thank God,” I say, slowly stepping toward her. “Because it was awful, wasn’t it? I could tell you weren’t enjoying it.” I continue across the kitchen until I’m less than a foot from touching her. “You especially weren’t enjoying the part when you were on your back, and my tongue was . . .”

Rape culture. Do I need to keep pointing it out or can we recognize it already? It’s so on the nose, I have to begin to wonder if Colleen genuinely knew what she was doing? If this was a satire, or if we are meant to be reading from the point of view of an actual sex offender? It’s almost, but I guarantee you… that’s not what this is. I fucking wish it was.

She slaps her hand over my mouth to shut me up. She’s looking at me, narrow-eyed. “I’m serious, Warren. This changes nothing. We aren’t a couple. In fact, I’ll probably bring other guys home and you need to be prepared for that.” She removes her hand from my mouth and I disagree. “You will not.” She looks at me with a competitive gleam in her eyes. “I will. This is why I warned you not to get clingy.” Ha. She thinks this is clingy? If she smiles and laughs like she did last night, she’ll find out just how clingy I can be.

Please seek therapy.

“If you don’t want me to want you anymore, it’s not that hard,” I tell her. “Just don’t smile at me.”

Putting the blame on HER for YOU being attracted to her.

I lean forward until my lips are at her ear. “If you don’t smile at me, I won’t have the urge to do all those bad things to you. Because your smile is incredible, Bridgette.” I pull away slowly and look down at her. She’s attempting to control the rise and fall of her chest, but she’s not fooling me. I grin, and the faintest of smiles appears on her lips. I reach my hand up and touch the corner of her mouth with my finger. “You’re such a tease.” She pulls away from me and calmly pushes against my chest. She grabs her drink and returns to her bedroom without another word. I press my head against the cabinet door and sigh heavily. What have I done? What in God’s name have I done to myself?

Not gone to therapy.

She stayed in her room most of the day, and she wouldn’t even acknowledge me. Now it’s after eleven at night. I have to be at work tomorrow morning, and I know she has an early class, so my hope for a round three is swiftly dwindling. She even locked the door when she took a shower earlier.

Listen to this sex offender:

I sit on the edge of my bed and contemplate the night before, going over every single move in my head, wondering where I went wrong. The only thing I can conclude is that I did nothing wrong. I did everything right, and this scared her, because she’s not used to guys taking control over her. I made her feel weak. She doesn’t like to feel weak. She obviously has serious power issues and I messed with her head. This should probably make me feel guilty, but actually I’m proud. I love that I got to her. I love that I’m slowly figuring her out. And the best part is, I have a feeling that she’ll be coming back for a repeat. Maybe not tonight, but she’ll be back, because she’s human. Every human has a weakness and I think I just discovered what hers is. Me.

… You don’t know an actual substantial thing about this woman. What’s her birthday? Did she have a dog growing up? What about her do you love so much? Do you like her… or the adrenaline you feel when you get to fight and fuck with her?

AN ANECDOTE ON TOXIC RELATIONSHIPS

I know toxic people, I’ve met my sister and I’ve met her boyfriend. My sister hates herself. She’s been improperly treated for lesser mental illness than the severe disorders she refuses to have diagnosed; she does not like herself, cannot spend time with herself, and has been hopping from long-term boyfriend to boyfriend without so much as a 2-week gap between breaking-up and finding someone else.

She has been with this man for years; they can barely go one day without emotionally manipulating or fighting with one another. My sister, who knows how bad this is, broke up and got back together with him because it hurt too much, and she would have to confront and comfort herself instead of sinking herself into a distraction — but soothing herself is something she has never learned to do. She will rather continue suffering in a way she’s used to, than go through a pain that’s better for her in the long run. She’ll keep throwing band-aids on eviscerations, never work on bettering herself, nor learn how to begin treating herself with kindness, nor value herself before she could ever be in a successful relationship with another human being. I believe a reason she stays, whether she realizes it or not, is because she would rather have a boyfriend to constantly fight with than to be alone; she seeks adrenaline rather than to be just empty inside and having to deal with her own self.

I hate my sister (trauma. not sexual; I shouldn’t need to clarify, but what I don’t say will lead to speculation), but not because she’s mentally ill. Besides from that, a part of why I find her deeply frustrating, is because she doesn’t respect herself. “Why would you stay?” Do you think someone that GENUINELY KNOWS THEIR WORTH, will advocate for themself, and TRULY VALUES themself, wouldn’t break up with a person so consistently disrespectful? That argument can’t hold up all of the time — you’re broken down by the good memories. You stay because you don’t think you’ll find anything better; because you don’t think you’re worth anything better, and a part of you believes that you deserve this. Another reason: you’re used to it. What’s one more day? Maybe this one will be better, and they’ll go back to the person you didn’t know yet, who still treated you with kindness because you weren’t close enough to see their reality.

You keep putting up with more and more. You don’t put an end to it. You don’t recognize the pattern. And you keep staying, because it’s only a small, ‘ignorable’ fraction of your mind that’s telling you that you shouldn’t be putting up with this.

Toxic couples, one reason they like to fight rather than be alone (this is my speculation, I’m not a doctor), is because that adrenaline is addictive, and better than nothing or alone-depression. Being mad at someone else is easier than only having yourself to hate.

Enough psychology, back to Colleen Hoover.

Apparently, on the night they won’t fuck, Warren can’t sleep at all. He decides to go to Bridgette at 3 AM; when he opens the door, she’s standing there, “wearing a black lace bra and the tiniest pair of panties I’ve ever seen in my life.”

… In an apartment with two other roommates? That could, like… come out for a midnight piss and see you?

“Is this what you sleep in?” I say against her mouth, pulling the straps of her bra down. “Yes,” she says breathlessly.

LMAO LIAR — lingerie to bed, every night, regardless of sex?! Have you met lingerie!? I’ve tried! EMPHASIS ‘TRIED’.

I promise, sweetheart, if you can’t be real about your sweatpants, he doesn’t deserve you. You have nothing to be ashamed of.

This scene is more consenting than the last, but there’s still lines that imply she isn’t enthusiastic about everything:

I position myself directly behind her and run my hands down her back and to her waist. “Put your palms against the door.” She doesn’t move them right away. I can feel her hesitation. I’m sure she doesn’t want to hand over control again, but she needs to realize she lost control the second she showed up at my bedroom door. I watch as she slowly presses her palms against my bedroom door. I lean forward and brush her hair away from her neck, dropping it over her shoulder. “Thank you,” I whisper against her neck.

JESUS CHRIST, WAIT A MINUTE. Is this book ‘breaking down a dominant woman’?! IS THIS BOOK JUST FORCING A DOMINANT WOMAN WHO IS NOT COMFORTABLE BEING SUBMISSIVE INTO BEING SUBMISSIVE? AGAINST HER WILL?!

JESUS CHRIST. THAT IS WHAT THIS IS, ISN’T IT!?

In fact, being in control of sex to the point that she doesn’t want to orgasm is probably because she does not want to be assaulted again, and has not conquered a fear of trusting her sexual partners — men that are often one-night affairs, men she does not advance to a stage of wholesale ‘trust’ with. Assault is an act that continuously happens to her once she’s been broken down to accept it, but it’s framed as ‘he knows what’s best for you, you won’t even let yourself have some fun.’

They fuck against the door, like the two other roommates wouldn’t hear that. (I just learned Brennan doesn’t live with them. THAT WAS NEVER EXPLAINED IN THE STORY UNTIL THE LINE “Oh, man. I wonder if we were loud? We never have to worry about how loud we are when Ridge is home.” meaning only Ridge, the deaf man, is primarily ‘home’, and can’t hear them. WHATEVER.)

I already know I’m gonna sleep like a rock tonight.

WHAT DID I JUST SAY like 1,000 words ago.

My forehead meets hers, and I look her hard in the eyes. “Touch yourself.” Her eyes grow wide, and she begins to shake her head. I place my hand on top of hers and I look down at where are bodies join together. I move her hand a few more inches until her fingers are right where I want them. “Please,” I breathe out, desperately. […] she timidly begins to move her fingers in a slow, circular motion.

Or you could just not force her to do what she doesn’t want to do all the time.

Three solid weeks. Twenty-one nights. Over thirty times we’ve had sex.

… And when the fuck did she have time for her period?

Absolutely zero interaction during the day. I don’t really understand her. I don’t know her well enough to know what sets her off or, in turn, what makes her so quiet. I don’t know why she refuses to treat what’s going on between us like it’s anything remotely significant, but I’m not complaining. I mean, come on. We have sex every night and I don’t have to dote on her during the day. I would have the perfect setup if I didn’t want just a little bit more from her. But until I can get to another level with Bridgette, I know nothing better come in between us.

Is that a threat.

As much as I want to pretend I’m as casual with this arrangement as Bridgette is, if another guy even looks at her ass in those shorts, I won’t be able to refrain from beating his ass. And I’m not even the type of guy who fights other guys, but Bridgette makes me want to fight everyone. Even the nerdy guys. I’ll hit all the humans if it means keeping up the arrangement I’ve got going with her.

Nothing hotter than violence.

That Sydney girl has now moved in —

I like this girl. She could give Bridgette a run for her money. And I don’t mean with me, I just mean because Bridgette is mean and probably doesn’t meet a lot of girls who would stand up to her. This could be fun.

Because women never have backbones, STAND THE FUCK UP FOR ONCE, COLLEEN.

“Good morning, Bridgette. Sleep well?” She looks at me briefly and rolls her eyes. “Screw you, Warren.” Which, in Bridgette speak means, Yes, Warren. I slept like a baby, thanks to you.

STOP SPEAKING FOR HER.

I think Bridgette already has an issue with this girl. All the more reason to make sure she becomes the new roommate, because I like an angry Bridgette. I’m also willing to bet a jealous Bridgette will be a lot more clingy, which could work in my favor. I turn and glare at Bridgette from where I’m seated. “What am I, your bitch? Tell her yourself.”

WHY IS HE ALWAYS THE ONLY ONE SAYING ‘BITCH’.

[to Sydney] “Are you opposed to porn?” “Not opposed to the principle of porn, but slightly opposed to being featured in one.” I nod, because that’s probably a good thing. At least I won’t have double the reason to watch every porn I can get my hands on.

[…]

“It’s obvious you need a place to stay, and we’ve got an empty room. If you don’t take it, Bridgette wants to move her sister in next month and that’s the last thing Ridge and I need.”

… but a girl is still moving in?

Why do you hate the girl you won’t leave alone so fucking much. I’m pretty sure the reason he doesn’t want Bridgette’s sister, specifically, to move in — as if he’s ever met her or knows what she’s like — is because having a sister to rely on would make her less vulnerable, she might be able to stand up or be backed up once in a while, you won’t get sex every single night, and you won’t get to just bulldoze into having your way ALL the time. Otherwise, if it was just not wanting another female roommate, why does this girl pass the test? She’s ‘not like other girls’ enough for you? What made you so certain Bridgette’s sister wouldn’t be a good fit, either?

“Where’s Bridgette?” I sign. He shifts in his seat. “Out.” “Out where?” He shrugs. “Warren, do you really want to know? Because you aren’t going to like it.” I sit in the chair again. “Hell yes, I want to know. Where is she?” He leans back in his chair and sighs. “A guy picked her up about three hours ago. It looked like they were going out.” “Out,” I sign. “Out like on a date?” He nods. I suddenly want to punch Ridge, but I know he has nothing to do with it. I stand up and push the chair back under the table. She’s on a date. Bridgette is on a fucking date. This is such bullshit. Why didn’t I set boundaries? Why didn’t I tell her she couldn’t see other guys? What if she brings him back here? She will. She’s so mean, she probably will. I grab my keys and sign to Ridge that I’ll be back in a little while. I’ll fix this. Somehow.

[…] She points to me. “Guy, this is Warren. Warren, this is Guy.” I look at him. At all six-metro-sexual-douchebag-feet of him.

Colleen Hoover don’t be homophobic challenge: impossible.

Bridgette yawns four times during their conversation. I feel like this act she’s putting on is exhausting her more than it is me. “You look bored to death,” I tell her. “He’s riveting,” she says with a fake smile. “I’m having so much fun, I’ll probably ask him to stay the night.” I smile, knowing that won’t happen. “He’ll never agree to that, Bridgette,” I tell her. “In fact,” I look down at my wrist and tap it. “I’m pretty sure he’ll be leaving as soon as he exits the restroom.” She sits up straight on the couch and then comes to a quick stand. She stalks over to me, pointing her finger, pushing it against my chest. “What did you do, Warren?” The bathroom door opens and Guy walks out. Bridgette faces him with her obnoxious, fake smile. “Want to hang out in my room?” she says, walking toward him. He glances at me and I shake my head, quickly. For all he knows, I’m just warning him, man-to-man, that he better run while he still can.

I’ll be inserting this entire scene because it’s all terrible. Warren manhandles and physically overpowers her in a moment of genuine anger. It’s revealed, by force, that the only reason Bridgette brought home someone, was because she was jealous of Sydney, and these two adults both have acted like children for being so incapable of having important conversations, and leaning into petty jealousy over being mature in a relationship.

“Son of a bitch! […] Hemorrhoid cream?” she yells, tossing it aside. She grabs another tube of cream that was tucked under her arm. “Wart remover?” She squeezes it onto my pillow. I’m trying to cover my head with the blanket, but she’s getting the stuff everywhere. I pull her legs out from under her and she falls on the bed, then she starts kicking me, and throwing the tubes at me. “Cold sore relief?” She squirts that one right in my face. “I can’t believe you put all these in our bathroom! I swear to God, you’re a little boy, Warren. A jealous little boy!”

Listen to the upcoming severity of the insults Warren levies against Bridgette, but all she can come up with is “asshole” and “little boy”, even in a moment of deep rage.

I’d be cussing him out on his mom, dad, grandma, granddad, dead dog, dead fish, and wish his cousin stubs a toe just for good measure.

But in reality, I’d most likely yell, “How could you ever think this was okay?! You’re a fucking dick and a stupid child, stay away from me!”

I pull the rest of the tubes from her hands and I wrestle her onto her back, locking her arms to the mattress. “You’re such an asshole,” she yells. I struggle to hold her still. “If I’m an asshole, then you’re a coldhearted, calculating, ruthless bitch!” She grunts, trying to free herself from my grip. I refuse to budge, but I also do my best to remove the anger from my voice and speak to her calmly. “What was that about, Bridgette? Huh? Why the hell did you bring him here?” She stops struggling long enough to smile in my face. Knowing that my jealousy makes her smile pisses me off even more. I hold both of her wrists with one hand and reach beside her head, grabbing a tube of the cream. I flip the lid open and squirt it in her hair. She starts thrashing beneath me and God, I’m so mad at her. Why would she do that? I grab her jaw and hold her face so she’ll look at me. She realizes she’s not overpowering me physically, so she relents. Her chest is heaving and she’s gasping for breath. I can see anger in her eyes. I have no idea what gives her the right to be mad, when she’s the one fucking with my head. I lower my forehead to hers and close my eyes. “Why?” I say, breathless. The room grows quiet. “Why did you bring him here?” She sighs and turns her head. I pull back and look down on her, convinced I see more pain in her features than anger. Her voice is quiet when she speaks. “Why’d you let another girl move in today?” I know that was hard for her, because her question proves that she cares. That question proves that I wasn’t the only one fearing a new roommate would come between us. She’s scared I’ll move on. She’s scared that Sydney is going to come between us, so she tried to hurt me first. “You think things might change between us just because another girl moved in?” I ask her. She looks over my shoulder so she doesn’t have to look me in the eyes. I tilt her jaw and make her look at me. “Is that why you brought him here?” Her eyes narrow and she tightens her lips, refusing to admit she was hurt. “Just say it,” I beg. I need her to say it out loud. All I need is for her to admit she brought him here because she was hurt and scared. I need her to admit that there’s an actual heart inside her chest. And that sometimes it beats for me. [WHAT THE FUCK ABOUT WHAT SHE EVER WANTS?!] Since she won’t admit it, I’ll admit it for her. “You’ve never let anyone close enough to where their absence could hurt you. But it would hurt you if I left you, so you wanted to hurt me first.” I press my lips closer to her ear. “You did,” I whisper. “Seeing you walk through that door with him hurt like hell. But I’m not going anywhere, Bridgette, and I’m not interested in anyone else. So that little game you tried to play backfired, because from now on, the only man you’re allowed to bring home is the one who already lives here.” I slowly pull back and look her in the eyes. “Understood?” In true Bridgette form, she refuses to answer. But I also know that her refusal to answer is her way of saying I’m right and that she agrees.

A horror novel, this is a HORROR NOVEL.

I force my mouth against hers and I kiss her with a possessiveness I didn’t even know was in me. […] Even though it’s the best kiss, it’s also one of the shortest. She shoves me away from her. She’s out of my bed, out of my bedroom, and out of my line of sight as the bathroom door slams behind her. I roll onto my back and stare up at the ceiling. She’s so confusing. She’s so frustrating. She’s so damn unpredictable. She’s nothing I’ve ever wanted in a girl. And absolutely everything I need. I hear the water in the shower start running, so I immediately roll off the bed and walk into the bathroom. My heart tightens a little when the doorknob turns and I realize she didn’t lock it behind her. I know this sign means she wants me to follow her. What she wants me to do once I’m inside this bathroom is a mystery, though. Does she want me to take her against the shower wall? Does she want me to apologize to her? Does she want me to talk to her? I don’t know with her. I never know. So, I do what I always do and wait for her to show me what she needs.

Since when. Literally since when.

I walk into the bathroom and grab a towel to wipe all the damn cream out of my hair. I get as much out as I can and then close the lid to the toilet and take a seat on it, listening quietly as she continues her shower. I know she knows I’m in here, but she doesn’t speak. I’d even take her insults right now if it meant she would say something to alleviate the silence. I lean forward and clasp my hands between my knees. “Does this scare you, Bridgette?” I know she hears me, but she doesn’t answer. That means yes. I let my head fall into my hands and I vow to remain calm.

That line means he’s getting angry at her. “I vow to remain calm”, ‘I’m restraining myself to be calm’, ‘I have to keep myself calm because I’m getting upset’. Jesus Christ.

This is how she relates. She doesn’t know any different. Somehow, over the course of her twenty-two years, she’s never learned how to love, or even communicate, really. That’s not her fault.

Like you’re a motherfucking paradigm for therapy and mental health, go fuck yourself.

“Have you ever been in love before?” […] I hear a relenting sigh come from behind the shower curtain. “I think it takes being loved in order to know how to love,” she says quietly. “So I guess that’s a no.” I wince at her answer. What a sad, sad answer. One I wasn’t expecting. “You can’t really believe that, Bridgette.” Silence follows. She doesn’t reply. “Your mother loved you,” I say to her.

You know nothing about her. You CANNOT say that when you DO NOT KNOW THIS WOMAN, how fucking entitled to make assumptions.

“My mother gave me to my grandmother when I was six months old.” “I’m sure your grandmother loved you.”

What did you learn from the last assumption you made, Warren? “I’m sure”, “I’m sure”, so many confident statements when YOU DON’T KNOW ANYTHING. THIS IS A REALLY BAD WAY TO CONFRONT A TRAUMATIZED PERSON.

A quiet, pained laugh comes from the shower. “I’m sure she did, but not enough to stay alive for more than a year. After she died I lived with my aunt, who made it very obvious that she didn’t love me. My uncle did, though. Just in all the wrong ways.”

Colleen IMMEDIATELY moves on from this. IMMEDIATELY. In fact, at the end of this scene, Warren gets into the shower with her, just not naked because he’s so in “love” with her that he’ll get his clothes wet just to kiss her.

I squeeze my eyes shut and allow her words to sink in. Brennan wasn’t kidding when he said she’s had a rough life.

WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU THINK THAT MEANT?! WHY THE FUCK DID YOU NOT CARE ENOUGH TO EMPATHIZE WITH THAT OR LEAVE HER ALONE!? AND YOU FORCED YOURSELF ONTO HER. YOU DID THAT. YOU FORCED A VICTIM OF CHILD SEXUAL ABUSE TO SUBMIT TO YOU IN WAYS SHE DID NOT WANT TO.

And she’s so casual about it, like she’s just accepted that this is the kind of life she was given and there’s nothing she can do about it.

What the fucking shit else is she supposed to do with her trauma?! The healthiest thing you can do is realize that you can’t control what’s been done to you, you can’t go back and make it different, and you were not responsible for what someone else chose to do to you. That can’t make it go AWAY, but it helps keep the pieces of you that continue to hurt at arms length and not ruin you every single day of your life. You don’t deserve that. You don’t have to sob about it every time for it to be painful, still. As if her not getting emotional doesn’t mean it isn’t emotional for her.

“Don’t bother, Warren. I’ve dealt with my life the only way I know how. It works for me, and I don’t need you or anyone else to try and figure me out, or fix me. I am who I am and I’ve accepted that.”

What the fuck does that mean, “I am who I am”? Oh, I know — Colleen is the one that wrote the line “I can’t believe she’s this broken.”

But he chooses to still love someone so “broken”. What a fucking hero, give me a break.

I clamp my mouth shut and don’t offer her words of advice. I wouldn’t know what to say anyway. I feel awful for wanting to prod her with more questions after that revelation, but I’m not sure when I’ll get this side of her again.

If you ever actually cared about her, you wouldn’t be thinking about what you can get from her while you can, and you certainly wouldn’t continue anyway because who knows when she’ll come to trust you in her own time — ‘if I don’t finish getting everything out of her while I’ve already broken her down, she might never talk about it again’. So keep slicing open the wounds that aren’t yours. Keep pissing in them and calling it a salve. Even if she didn’t believe you, you’d force her to call it ointment, anyway.

If you ever cared, you would realize you’re in over your head, you’re being a douche, and you need to back off.

Bridgette doesn’t open up easily, and now I can see why. She doesn’t seem to have had anyone to open up to, so this might be a first for her.

And she JUST tried to shut the conversation down because THIS IS OVERWHELMING. This is NO DOUBT an overwhelming step you are FORCING HER to make. She will come to you when she’s ready, EVERYTHING is FORCED out of her when IF SHE WANTED TO, SHE WOULD.

Let her come to YOU when SHE is ready. This is HER BURDEN. HER TRAUMA. NOT YOURS. She doesn’t owe you ANYTHING.

This book is the idea that you can force someone to trust you. As long as you force someone to be close to you and trust you, it’ll be genuine, and you’ll have proven you cared. Right?

“What about your sister?” Bridgette releases a sigh. “She’s not even my real sister. We’re stepsisters, and we didn’t even grow up in the same house.” I should stop with the questions. I know I should, but I can’t. To know that she’s probably never spoken or heard the words “I love you” from anyone in her life is affecting me way more than I imagined it could.

Oh, you poor baby.

“I’m sure you’ve had boyfriends who have loved you in the past.”

Should I just put the cursing emoji or… cause I really have nothing to say that I haven’t already said, he just keeps FUCKING DOING IT.

Colleen, THIS IS NOT HOW HURT PEOPLE HEAL. This is not healing, it WOULD NEVER BE. Having a neurotypical person up your ass and reinforcing that they have no idea how to empathize with what you’ve been through or how you are IS NOT HEALING. IT IS STRESSFUL.

She laughs a really sad laugh, and then she just sighs an even sadder sigh. “If you’re planning on asking me questions like this all night, I’d much rather you just fuck me.” I cover my mouth with my hand, absorbing her words like a knife to the chest. She seriously can’t be this broken. No one can be this alone, can they?

Colleen. COLLEEN. What can I even say at this point…? It’s not ‘affecting’ me, but watching… someone who has never lived with the urge to kill herself write this shit is so disheartening and enraging. I have nothing else. What am I supposed to say?! YES, COLLEEN. PEOPLE ARE THIS ALONE. I AM. I HAVE BEEN, AND I AM. ME AND BRIDGETTE ARE NOT ALONE IN BEING ALONE, and you being so… fucking illiterate in the field of psychology, empathy, or compassion is just beyond me. I am sick. I feel fucking sick. Fuck you, Colleen.

“Have you ever loved anyone, Bridgette?” Silence. Complete silence until her voice shatters it like glass. “It’s hard to fall in love with assholes, Warren.” That’s a comment from a girl who’s been jaded way too many times. I stand up and slide the shower curtain open. She’s standing beneath the stream of water. Mascara has streaked its way down her cheeks. “Maybe you just haven’t met the right asshole yet.”

You really thought you ate with that. And it’s becoming so cartoonish again that I’m just abled a distraction, thanks.

She immediately lets out a quick burst of laughter, along with a few tears. Her eyes are sad, and her smile is appreciative and for the first time, she’s completely bare. It’s as though she’s holding her heart out to me, begging me not to break it. The vulnerability she’s showing me right now is something I’m almost positive she’s never shown anyone else. No other man, at least.

What a ‘broken’ girl, what an ‘unsalvageable woman’ — and the only remedy is a fucking penis. A dick inside of her and tongue where she doesn’t want it. That’s healing from trauma. I’ll go alert the media.

She deserves to feel beautiful. She deserves to feel important. She deserves to feel cared for. She deserves to feel respected.

You mean like you’ve been doing this entire novel?

She deserves to feel like there’s at least one other person in this world who accepts her for exactly who she is.

AWWWWWW WHAT A BRAVE MAN TO ACCEPT SOMEONE SO ‘BROKEN’ AND ‘DAMAGED’ AND ‘UNWANTED’ 🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺

What brave man and his damaged goods! Right, Colleen!?

Anyway, now they’re having vanilla sex instead of just kinky shit only one of them half-consents to. This heart-to-heart just fixed all of her trauma. Who knew?

PACK IT UP, THERAPY.

Since that day in the shower, things have changed between us. […] The sex. It’s different now. Slower. Way more eye contact. Way more kissing. Way more buildup. […] She kisses me everywhere, and she takes her time when she does it. And she enjoys it.

NOW “she enjoys it”. NOW.

She still isn’t the type to want to cuddle afterward, and she always kicks me out of her bed before the sun comes up [Queen]. But still, it’s different. That night in the shower tore a wall down between us [forcibly]. Because I know that every night when I have her in bed, she gives me a part of herself that no one else has ever seen. And that’s enough to keep me happy for a long damn time. I just hope today doesn’t ruin that.

It should have. Holy shit, you have no idea.

We’ve been sleeping together for a few months now, but this is the first time we’ve ever actually done anything that didn’t involve sex.

Healthy. ‘This is what love looks like, what’re you talking about lmao’

“What’s up with Bridgette? [….] She’s just so . . . mean.” I laugh, because it’s true. Bridgette can be awful. “She can’t help it,” I say. “She’s had a rough life.”

😑 ………… just breathe……………. just breathe…………………..

What a changed man. Wow. Only when you learn why someone like Bridgette presents with the psychology and mannerisms that she does, EVEN THOUGH YOU WERE ALREADY TOLD ‘she had a rough life’ YET YOU REFUSED TO EMPATHIZE WITH HER DIFFERENCES AND JUST FORCED HER TO BE BROKEN DOWN, ONLY NOW do you realize that she’s a more complex person, and should be treated with respect. ONLY ONCE YOU FORCED THE TRAUMA OUT OF HER (AND INTO HER) were you able to humanize her as a person, not some ‘bitch with a stick up her ass, ugh, how could anyone like her?!’

“I don’t care how good she looks, she’ll never find anyone who can put up with her personality.” I CAN! There are other ways of getting through to someone that do not involve FORCEFULLY BREAKING DOWN ALL OF THEIR COPING MECHANISMS TO MAKE THEM BE THE UNTRAUMATIZED PERSON YOU WANT.

“So has Ridge,” Sydney says, “but he doesn’t bite people’s heads off when they try to speak to him.” “That’s because Ridge is deaf. He can’t yell at people, it’s physically impossible for him.”

Tell me you’ve never met a deaf person without telling me you’ve never met a deaf person. Also, as if Ridge couldn’t be a fucking dick in sign language, way to baby the disabled. AS IF RIDGE COULDN’T YELL IN SIGN LANGUAGE. COLLEEN. THERE IS SUCH A THING AS YELLING/GETTING LOUDER IN SIGN LANGUAGE. VERBAL COMMUNICATION IS NOT THE ONLY WAY TO EXPRESS YELLING AND ANGER. TELL ME YOU’VE NEVER MET —

jesus christ, hold me back.

So now the girlies are fighting and Warren sexualizes it: “Two girls in a prank war may be the best thing that ever happened to Ridge and me.”

Sydney looks up at me and rolls her eyes, laughing. She elbows me in the ribs, just as Bridgette walks out of her bedroom. Bridgette glares at Sydney and I hate that she still assumes there could ever be something between Sydney and me. I like her, and I think she’s cool, but I have a feeling Ridge would put a stop to that in a heartbeat. Which isn’t a good thing, considering Ridge has Maggie. But those are issues I don’t feel like getting involved in at the moment, because my issue is glaring right at me. “Please don’t tell me you invited your little girlfriend,” Bridgette says, shifting her eyes toward Sydney.

Way to be 5, Bridge. Get off the monkey bars and STAND UP.

Bridgette turns away, giving her attention to the purse she just slung over her shoulder. I walk up to her and wrap my arms around her from behind. “I’m kidding,” I whisper in her ear. “I didn’t invite anyone else to run errands with me today but you.” Bridgette’s hand meets my forehead, and she pushes me away from her. “I’ll stay here if you expect today to be like this.” I take a step back. “Like what?” She points at me. “You. Touching me. Kissing me. PDA. Gross.” She walks to the front door and I clutch my hand to my heart and wince at Sydney. “Good luck,” she mouths as I make my way to the door.

Bridgette… is always the bitch… for having her boundaries violated. Always the bitch for being in some ‘inexplicable’ mood. Bridgette has already had such a hard time with private physical intimacy, and these two STILL have not had a conversation about what Bridgette is comfortable doing in public with him, LET ALONE what the two of you even MEAN to each other. Verbally. YOU HAVE TO HAVE IMPORTANT CONVERSATIONS TO BE IN A HEALTHY RELATIONSHIP — you realize that, right?! This entire book is Warren guessing for Bridgette, and forcing himself to be right EVEN WHEN BRIDGETTE IS TELLING HIM THROUGH BODY LANGUAGE OR VERBAL DENIAL THAT HE’S WRONG.

But she doesn’t know anything — not what’s good for her, not her best interests, not what she’s ready for sexually, not what she’s comfortable with in public. She’s just a girl. And Warren knows what she really wants, fuck every single contradictory thing that comes out of her mouth.

Aw, this is the scene I’ve been itching to show you guys! Tee-hee!

I feel that this could be very triggering of domestic violence, so TRIGGER WARNING; Warren almost crashes the car to hold Bridgette’s hand. He does it with so. much. physical. aggression. when he could, I don’t know, be normal with this girl he isn’t dating? Normal with this girl who is not ready for non-sexual physical intimacy and is a much more standoffish person?

… Like. If Bridgette was autistic, and didn’t want to be touched, would it be wrong enough then? She doesn’t have to be autistic to be uncomfortable with physical affection, and be valid in that physical need. Some people are not lovey-dovey in public. Some people do not like it and do not have to sit here and validate themselves. You’re allowed to just not be an expressive, emotional person on the outside. If you found someone that REALLY accepted you for ALL THAT YOU ARE: they’d appreciate ‘parallel play’ so you can spend quality time together without directly interacting with one another; they would make no big deal of you only briefly holding their hand for as long as you’re comfortable; they would find ways to meet you where you are and laugh off the things they don’t understand, but know comes with being with you and embracing WHO YOU ARE, not WHAT THEY WANT.

You can find someone who actually loves you. That is actual love: meeting you where you are, not forcing you to do the things you don’t want to do, and cherishing what you are willing to give. If you can’t find someone who respects you while being different from you, find someone that similarly does not want the physical things you want. Inversely, you can only compensate — sacrifice — so much for the sake of love; if you’re not fulfilled and you’re hurting because this isn’t the right fit for you, you need to find someone that matches your willingness for physical affection, and you need to let this person go be with someone who can fulfill them and feel fulfilled doing so.

… If that is SO SO MUCH of a problem, you are not together for the right reasons. This is not your happily ever after; find someone you don’t have to fight to love.

Warren and Bridgette go out to run errands.

She relaxes into the seat and flips her hand over so that I can slide my fingers through hers. I look down at our hands and seeing them linked together on the seat between us feels like I just went further with her than the night we first had sex. She would have never let me hold her hand back then. Hell, she would have never let me hold her hand last month. But we’re holding hands now.

Validation for everything he’s put her through.

She pulls her hand from mine and I immediately glance up at her. She’s staring straight at me. “You were smiling too much,” she says. What? I reach over and grab her hand again and pull it back to me. “I was smiling because I like holding your hand.” She yanks her hand back. “I know. That’s why I don’t want you to hold it.”

You can either accept the fact that you know she’s like this and laugh it off as her being silly — who’s to say she wouldn’t reach back out 5 miles down the road, when she doesn’t want him to make a big deal of her holding his hand again? This could’ve been sweet. This could’ve been anything else.

Shrug it off, and let her reach back out when she thinks you aren’t looking and won’t care.

Goddamit. She’s not winning this one. I reach across the seat again, swerving the car in the process. She tries to shove her hand beneath her legs so that I can’t grasp it, so I pull at her wrist instead. I release the steering wheel and reach across with both hands now, steering with my knee. “Give me your hand,” I say through clenched teeth. “I want to hold your damn hand.” I have to grab the wheel to steer us back into our lane. Once we’re no longer in danger of crashing, I slam on the brakes as I pull over to the side of the road. I throw the car in park and lock the doors so she can’t run. I know how she works.

JESUS FUCKING CHRIST. “LOCK THE DOORS SO SHE CAN’T RUN. I KNOW HOW SHE WORKS”. Because consent means LOCKING SOMEONE IN SO THEY CANNOT ESCAPE.

I lean across the seat and pry her hand away from being tucked against her chest. I grab her wrist with both hands and I pull her toward me. She’s still trying to fight me by pulling her hand away, so I release her and look her directly in the eye. “Give. Me. Your. Hand.” I’m not sure if I just scared her a little, but she relaxes and allows me to grab her wrist. I put her wrist in my left hand and I hold up my right hand in front of hers. “Spread your fingers.” She makes a fist instead. I pry open her fist, then force our fingers to intertwine. I hate that she’s being so resistant. She’s pissing me the hell off. All I want to do is hold her damn hand and she’s making such a big deal out of it. We’re doing everything backward in this relationship. Couples are supposed to start out holding hands and going on dates. Not us. We start out fighting, end up screwing, yet we apparently haven’t even made it to the point where we can hold hands. If things continue at this rate, we’ll probably move in together before we even go on our first date. I squeeze her hand until I know she can’t pull away from me. I scoot back to my seat and I put the car in drive with my left hand and then ease back onto the road. We drive the next several miles in silence, and she occasionally tries to ease her hand from mine, but each time she does it I squeeze a little tighter and get even more agitated with her. She’s gonna hold my damn hand whether she likes it or not. We hit a red light and the lack of movement outside the car and the lack of conversation inside the car shifts the mood tremendously, thickening the air with tension and . . . laughter? She’s laughing at me.

An anxiety response because WHO FUCKING DOES THIS, WARREN.

Figures. I slowly tilt my head in her direction, giving her a sidelong glance. She’s covering her mouth with her free hand, trying not to laugh, but she is. She’s laughing so hard that her body is shaking. I have no idea what she finds so funny, but I’m not laughing with her. And as much as I want to turn away and punch the steering wheel [JESUS CHRIST THIS ISN’T OKAY], I can’t stop watching her. I watch the tears form at the corners of her eyes, and I watch her chest heave when she attempts to catch her breath. I watch her lick her lips as she tries to stop herself from smiling so much. I watch her run her free hand through her hair as she sighs, coming down from her fit of laughter. She finally looks at me. She’s no longer laughing, but the residue is still there. The smile is still on her mouth and her cheeks are still a shade pinker than normal, and her mascara is smudged at the corners of her eyes. She shakes her head, keeping her focus on me. “You’re insane, Warren.” She laughs again, but only for a second. The fact that I’m not smiling is making her uncomfortable. “Why am I insane?” “Because,” she says. “Who throws that big a fit over holding someone’s hand?” I don’t move a muscle. “You do, Bridgette.” The smile slowly leaves her face, because she knows I’m right. She knows that she’s the one who made a big deal out of holding hands. It was me who wanted to show her how easy it was.

Something that the reviewer I’d first heard this scene from SKIPPED (maybe. I also could have not remembered it)… was THIS:

We both look down at our hands as I slowly pry my fingers away from hers and release my grip. The light turns green as I grab the steering wheel and press on the gas. “You sure do know how to make a guy feel like shit, Bridgette.”

AWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW POOR POOR BABY

I give my full attention back to the road and rest my left elbow on the window. I cover my mouth with my hand, squeezing the stress out of my jaw.

Serial killer.

We make it three blocks. Three blocks is all it takes for her to do the most considerate thing she’s ever done for me since the moment I met her.

I’m literally white-knuckling the back of my chair.

She reaches to the steering wheel and takes my hand. She pulls it to her lap and slides her fingers between mine. She doesn’t stop there, though. Her right hand slides over the top of my hand and she strokes it. She strokes my fingers and the top of my hand and my wrist and back down to my fingers. She stares out her window the whole time, but I can feel her. I can feel her speaking to me and holding me and making love to me, all in the motion of her hands. And I smile the entire way to my sister’s house.

… He is given everything he wants. He is rewarded for this act of violence that could have killed the both of them in a car crash.

WE’RE ALMOST THERE BABES WE’RE ALMOST DONE.

I’ve come this far, I may as well not back down now.

Still, after holding hands and kissing my cheek, she thinks I’d ever mess with another girl? I watch her as she slams stuff around in the kitchen, angrily. “I don’t like how she’s up your ass all the time,” Bridgette says. I immediately turn to Sydney and laugh, because for one, she still thinks Sydney can’t hear her, and two, I can’t believe she just said that to me. If that isn’t her laying claim to me, I don’t know what is.

Bridgette lashes out at Warren and Sydney because of her deep jealousies. These people are children; how are you supposed to be in a meaningful relationship when you cannot trust your partner, and you allow your insecurities to fester in lashing out/throwing accusations/starting arguments? This is not healthy behavior from Bridgette, and something she really needs to work on in therapy. I’m just rooting for this poor fucking woman, but she’s allowed to be in the wrong, and she is. This is not a healthy expression of jealous thoughts.

I knew it was coming, but I hoped I wouldn’t be here when it finally did. Sydney reaches her breaking point and slaps her book against her thighs. “Bridgette, please!” she yells. “Shut up! Shut up, shut up, shut up! Christ! I don’t know why you think I’m deaf, and I’m definitely not a whore and I’m not using sign language to flirt with Warren. I don’t even know sign language. And from now on, please stop yelling when you speak to me!” I glance up just in time to see a flood of hurt wash over Bridgette’s face. She marches to her room and slams her door. This is going to be impossible to fix. Sydney just single-handedly ruined my entire relationship with that outburst.

Motherfucker ruined his own relationship and blames the woman sitting next to him for having a backbone. He admits SOME fault, then goes back to blaming her:

Okay, it wasn’t all her. I played a huge part in it, too. My chest hurts. I don’t like this. I don’t like the silence, and I don’t like the fact that I’m about to have to go make this right. I put my hands on my knees and begin to stand. “Well, there goes my chance to act out all the role-playing scenes I’ve been imagining. Thanks a lot, Sydney.”

How the fucking shit is that an appropriate comment and how the fucking hell are you blaming YOUR PARTICIPATION IN THIS DUMB PRANK on SYDNEY?!

She pushes her book off her lap and stands up. “Screw you, Warren.” Ouch. Double hurt.

Ridge comes in, and because he’s cheating on his terminally-ill long-time girlfriend (who he took the virginity of under false pretenses) with Sydney, he gets mad that Bridgette is upset with her.

Ridge shakes his head. “Bridgette deserved it. If anyone should be apologizing, it should be her. Not Sydney.”

Bridgette said things that were not okay. Sydney and Ridge? AND WARREN all lied to her for who knows how long at this point. They are both in the wrong; Bridgette did not deserve being lied to and making an ass of herself for months.

Why is he defending Sydney like he’s her overprotective boyfriend? I glance at Bridgette’s bedroom door, shocked that I actually hear a conversation going on in her room, rather than a catfight. [Listen to that language! An argument between women is a silly ‘catfight’! Fuck you!] Ridge waves his hand in the air to get my attention again. “Bridgette isn’t yelling at her, is she?” he signs. He looks worried, and frankly, that concerns me. “You sure do seem to care a lot about Sydney’s well-being,” I sign. His jaw tightens, and I know I probably shouldn’t have said anything.

I’m sorry Colleen, I didn’t quite get that, can you KEEP DRILLING IT INTO MY SKULL —

I didn’t prepare for this. I knew she’d be mad, but I’m not sure I can defend myself against her physically if we were in a real fight.

………………. I think he means, he wouldn’t want to hit her back? Because, as I've gone out of my way to show you, he ABSOLUTELY has physical power over her!

I’m again just… including mass-sections of this last chapter. I can’t take it anymore and it explains itself.

I sit up straight and watch in fear as she walks swiftly toward me. She kneels down onto the couch and slides her leg across my lap, straddling me. I’m so confused. Her hands meet my cheeks and she sighs. “I can’t believe I’m falling in love with such a stupid, stupid asshole.” […] I wrap my hands around her head and pull her mouth to mine at the same time that I stand up and begin making my way into my bedroom. I shut the door behind us and walk over to the bed and drop her on it. I take off my shirt and throw it on the floor. “Say it again.” I slide on top of her and she smiles, touching my face with the palms of her hands. “I said I’m falling in love with you, Warren. I think. I’m pretty sure that’s what this is.” […] “But you wanted to kill me five minutes ago. What changed?” I lift up onto my hands. “Did Sydney pay you to say that? Is this a prank?” My heart stops. Bridgette shakes her head. I would die. I would literally die if she took them back. […] “I just . . .” Bridgette pauses, searching for the right words. “I’ve been thinking this whole time that maybe you were messing around with Sydney. But after talking to her, I know that’s not true. And she also mentioned that one night when you were drunk, you said you might love me. And that just . . . I don’t know, Warren.” God, I love this. I love her nervousness. I love her hesitation. I love that she’s talking to me so openly. “Tell me, Bridgette,” I say quietly, urging her to finish what she was saying. I roll onto my side and lift up onto my elbow. I brush the hair away from her forehead and lean forward to kiss it. “When she said that, it made me feel . . . happy. And I realized that I’m never happy. I was an unhappy child and I’m an unhappy adult and nothing in my life makes me feel the way you do. So I just . . . I think that’s what this feeling is. I think I’m falling in love with you.” A small droplet of a tear escapes from the corner of her eye and as much as I want to bottle it up and save it for all of eternity, I pretend not to notice it, because I know that’s what she would prefer. I kiss her lips again before pulling back and looking her directly in the eyes. “I’m falling in love with you, too.” […] “I think I should clarify that I never said I was in love with you. I just said I was falling in love with you. There’s a difference.” I grab her by the hips and pull her closer. “The only difference between falling in love and being in love is that your heart already knows how you feel, but your mind is too stubborn to admit it.” Then I whisper in her ear. “But take all the time you need. I have nothing but patience for you.”

Funny, because at the end of this scene, he lovebombs her into making her say “I love you” back. It's told as “she's deeply struggling to accept that someone could love her”, but she wasn't ready to say “I love you” at the beginning of the scene, and after Warren gets her in happy-tears by saying it over and over, she says it back.

“Good, because I’m not telling you I love you yet. Because I don’t. I might be on my way to that point, but anything could derail that.” I can’t help but smile and kiss her after that little disclaimer.

Bridgette interrupts them making out to say that this was all a prank —

She begins to scoot off the bed and I feel my heart dragging behind her. “It was a prank, Warren,” she says softly as she stands. I rise up onto my elbows. “What do you mean?” She turns to face me and her eyes are so full of shame, she can’t even look at me without wincing. “I was trying to get back at you for letting me think Sydney was deaf.” She opens the bathroom door and looks down at her feet. “I said all that because I was mad at you, not because it’s really how I feel. I’m not falling in love with you, Warren.” […] She glances over her shoulder into the bathroom, and then back at me. “I didn’t mean to take it that far. This is really awkward. I’m gonna go back to my room now.” She closes the door behind her. I’m too numb to feel. Too numb to move. Too numb to process the words that just came out of her mouth. My throat hurts, my stomach hurts, my chest hurts, even my fucking lungs hurt and oh, my God, it hurts so much. I fall back to the bed and bring two fists to my forehead. “Hey, Warren,” she says from the doorway. I look up at her and she still looks just as guilty. She waves her hand back and forth between us. “That whole thing that just happened? That was . . .” Her frown transforms into a shit-eating grin. “That was actually the prank!”

Does Colleen know what a “prank” is? Well… most of the internet doesn’t, since you have crimes and mortifying behavior on YouTube labelled as ‘pranks’, so… learned from the best.

She runs and jumps on the bed, and begins dancing around me. “You should have seen your face!” She’s laughing and jumping, bouncing every aching part of me up and down on the bed. I want to kill her. She falls to her knees and leans over me, pressing her lips to mine. When she pulls back, I don’t want to kill her anymore.

Colleen. I have no more speeches, Colleen.

My whole body is miraculously healed by her smile. I feel better than I’ve ever felt. I feel stronger, more alive, happier, and somehow more in love with her than I was five minutes ago. I pull her against me. “That was a really good prank, Bridgette.” She laughs. “I know. It was the best.” I nod. “It really was.” I hold her for several quiet minutes, replaying the entire scene in my head. “God, you’re such a bitch.” She laughs again. “I know. A bitch who finally met the right asshole.”

This running joke is making me vomit.

The final chapter, we find out that Bridgette is not, in fact, related to the brothers. She becomes extremely and understandably upset, because she fears that they’ll kick her out of the apartment.

“Just tell me,” she whispers. Brennan looks down at his feet and then up to me. The look in his eyes is enough for Bridgette to know that she’s not any closer to figuring out who her real father is than she was a few months ago. She inhales a deep breath, and then stands up. She mutters a “thank you” to Brennan and begins heading toward her bedroom, but he grabs her by the arm and pulls her to him. He wraps his arms around her and gives her a hug, but in true Bridgette fashion, she doesn’t allow it to last more than two seconds. She begins to cry, and I know that Bridgette doesn’t want anyone to see her cry. She ducks her head and rushes to her room.

She wonders where she’ll go from here, and Warren says that she’s staying.

I kiss her on the forehead. “I don’t care whose sister you are, I love you the same.” Her eyes widen, and I can feel her body stiffen in my arms. I didn’t say I was falling in love this time. I just told her I loved her. Like, actively. And yes, those three words could probably make her flip out more than any other three words in the English language, but I can’t take it back. I won’t take it back. I love her, and I’ve loved her for months now and I’m tired of being too scared of her reaction to say it.

… Months? You know that love is respect and not lust, right?

She begins to shake her head. “Warren . . .” “I know,” I interject. “I said it. Get over it. I love you, Bridgette.” Her expression is void of any emotion right now. She’s absorbing it. She’s waiting to see how those words make her feel, because I’m not sure if she’s ever heard them before. Her jaw grows tense, and she places her hands against my chest. “You’re a liar,” she snaps, attempting to roll out from under me. Here we go again. I pull her back to the mattress while she attempts to squirm away. “You’re exhausting, you know that?” I roll her onto her back and she begins to nod, frantically. “That’s right, Warren. I’m exhausting. I’m mean. I always see the glass half empty, and if you think telling me you love me will make me nicer and less exhausting, you’re wrong. You can’t change me. Everyone wants to change me, but I am who I am, and if you think me telling you that I love you, too, will make me shit out unicorns and rainbows, you’re wrong. I hate unicorns and rainbows.” I drop my face to her neck and I start to laugh. “Oh, my God, I can’t believe you’re mine.” I kiss her on the cheek, and then I kiss her on the forehead, and then her nose and her chin and her other cheek. I look back at her eyes full of confusion. “I don’t want you to change, Bridgette. I’m not in love with who you could be, or who you used to be, or who the world says you should be. I’m in love with you. Right now. Just like this.” She’s still guarded and defensive, so I pull her closer to me and wrap my arms around her, hugging her tightly. “Stop,” I whisper in her ear. “Stop telling yourself that you aren’t lovable, because it’s pissing me off. I don’t care if you aren’t ready to admit how you really feel about me yet, but don’t you dare dismiss how I feel about you. Because I love you.” I kiss her on the side of the head, and I say it again. It feels so good to finally say it. “I love you, Bridgette.” She pulls away just enough for me to see her face. Her eyes are rimmed with tears. “Bridgette, I love you,” I say again, this time looking her straight in the eyes. I can feel her struggling internally. Part of her wants to enjoy this moment, and part of her is trying to hold up that last wall that still stands between us. “I love you,” I whisper again. One of the tears escapes from her eyes, and I’m afraid she’s about to break and push me away like she always does. I press my lips against hers, and I inhale deeply. I touch her cheek and wipe away her tear with my thumb. “You’re the most genuine person I know, Bridgette. So whether you think you deserve love or not, it doesn’t matter, because I can’t help it. I fell in love with you, and I’m not sorry for it.” Another tear falls from her eyes. A smile forms on her lips. A laugh escapes her mouth, and her chest begins to shake because she’s laughing and crying and kissing me. And I kiss her right back, crashing right through the last wall that stood between us. She wraps her hands in my hair and rolls me onto my back, still with her lips pressed to mine. I open my eyes and she backs away from my mouth, still smiling. She begins to shake her head in slow disbelief. “I can’t believe I’m in love with such a stupid, stupid asshole.”

I can’t believe it either, girl. You don’t deserve this man. NONE of you reading this deserve to be treated with anything less than respect, even during arguments.

I’m not sure this sentence could mean more to any other man in the world. “I love you, Warren.”

Um… what? That… means a lot to other men, too!? Just because they aren’t fighting their partners constantly to finally ‘earn’ “I love you” doesn’t mean… whatever. It’s almost done.

I’m in love with Bridgette. Bridgette is in love with me. All is finally right in the world. We continue to kiss while we remove each other’s clothes. Neither one of us is in control this time. She makes love to me at the same time I make love to her, and no one is in charge. No one is calling the shots. It’s completely equal now. She feels about me how I feel about her and when we’re finished, she whispers, “I love you, Warren.” And I say, “I love you, Bridgette.” And no one argues.

Couple goals, am I right.

Warren suggests that they move into the same room. I think this is ridiculous because it’s good that the couple both has a space to themself. Let Bridgette have her own space… but no.

I stroke her arm with my fingers. “I have an idea,” I whisper against her hair. She shakes her head. “I’m not doing anal.” I laugh and pull back. “What? No. Not that. Not yet, anyway.”

… She said “I’m not doing anal” in no uncertain terms. But he takes this as “not yet”. Great. Good to know how much he respects the woman he “loves”.

She considers my proposal for several quiet moments, and then smiles. “This is so dumb.” I sit up and pull her off the bed. “And romantic. Come on, get dressed. I’ll help you.” […] She falls onto her back. “So help me God, Warren, if you ask me to marry you I’ll cut your nuts off.” “I don’t want to marry you,” I say. “Yet. But . . .” I crawl over to her part of our home and lie next to her. “Will you go on a date with me?” She looks away from me and stares up at the ceiling. “Oh, my God,” she whispers. “We’ve never been on a date before?” “Not a real one.” She slaps a hand to her forehead. “I’m such a whore. I already moved in with you and we haven’t even been on a date?” “You’re not a whore,” I say to her with mock reassurance. “We haven’t even had sex . . . oh, wait.” I grimace. “You are such a whore. A huge, slutty whore who wants me to try anal with her tonight.”

They laugh, she shoves him, he shoves her back, she kicks at him, and he kicks her off the bed.

It ends with him posing one more question, but before he can ask, she says:

“I’m not telling you the name of that porn.” I drop her hand and roll onto my back. “Fuck.” Maybe not.

FINALLY.

IT DOES NOT END WITH ‘IT ENDS WITH US’.

Now thank your lucky stars I’m not in-depth reviewing this book. I HAD to review the last one in detail so that I could prove the claims that Colleen Hoover is misogynistic and does not, in fact, take domestic violence or violence against women SERIOUSLY.

Something I want to make note of immediately, is bringing attention to Colleen’s dedication and the Author’s Note.

For my father, who tried his very best not to be his worst. And for my mother, who made sure we never saw him at his worst.

… His VERY best? First of all, dedicating this book to the man that once hit your mother so hard on the skull that he had to get his knuckles replaced, BEFORE you dedicate this book to your mother, the victim of your father’s physical abuse… was CERTAINLY a choice. “Well it’s the wordplay she probably wanted to keep” I’ll change the wordplay right now:

“For my mother, who made sure we would never face our father at his worst. And for my father, who tried his best not to show his daughters that ‘worst’.”

But it still sounds shit, doesn’t it? Because you are dedicating this book to your dad… for the bare minimum of not physically hurting you and your sister EVEN THOUGH YOUR MOM TOOK ALL OF THE BLOWS AND HE DID NOT “[try] his very best to not be his worst” FOR HER.

Why are you giving him credit for ‘trying’ when he FAILED to do so? When did he try his very best not to be his worst? When was that? AFTER the divorce? Did he get sober AFTER the divorce?

In her Author’s Note:

My earliest memory in life was from the age of two and a half years old. My bedroom didn’t have a door and was covered by a sheet nailed to the top of the door frame. I remember hearing my father yelling, so I peeked out from the other side of the sheet just as my father picked up our television and threw it at my mother, knocking her down.

HE HIT HER WITH A WHOLEASS BOX TV. THIS WAS BEFORE FLATSCREENS; HE THREW A WHOLE HUGE HEAVY BOX TV AT HER. AND HE GOT THE FIRST DEDICATION. Also, something I missed — in the extended list of dedications… she gave a quick two lines to her mom, then gave an entire extended paragraph to her father.

If I was Colleen’s mom, there would be a lump in my throat.

She divorced him before I turned three. Every memory beyond that of my father was a good one. He never once lost his temper with me or my sisters, despite having done so on numerous occasions with my mother.

… Which makes him a good person!?

I don’t WANT to make assumptions, but I’LL ASSUME he only got visitation on the weekends. He could control himself 2/7 days out of the week with his children daughters, people he clearly had a “harder” time physically hurting than his adult wife.

I knew their marriage was an abusive one, but my mother never talked about it. To discuss it would have meant she was talking ill of my father

To discuss it wouldn’t inherently be shitting on your dad. She could’ve stated what happened, with or without emotion that might make you think less of your father.

“Talking ill” by factually describing abuse? I don’t think she never talked about it because she didn’t want to ‘talk ill’ of your father; she was probably TRAUMATIZED and didn’t want to project her TRAUMA onto her CHILDREN who still had a positive relationship with the man that TRAUMATIZED HER. She most likely found her trauma to not be the business of her young, young children.

Colleen… your dad traumatized your mom. Do you even understand that fact? What your dad did is traumatizing, because abuse is traumatizing.

and that’s something she never once did. She wanted the relationship I had with him to be free of any strain that stood between the two of them. [Strain?! TRAUMA.] Because of this, I have the utmost respect for parents who don’t involve their children in the dissolution of their relationships.

Hey. There is a difference between parents that grow apart, fight, hate each other, and go through bitter divorces that deliberately involve getting their children to hate the other parent… versus ONE PARENT PHYSICALLY BATTERING THE OTHER AND GOING THROUGH A HEARTBREAKING DIVORCE WITH THE MAN YOU MARRIED AND STILL LOVE, BUT YOU HAVE TO GET OUT BEFORE HE KILLS YOU AND HURTS YOUR KIDS.

I asked my father about the abuse once. He was very candid about their relationship. He was an alcoholic during the years he was married to my mother and he was the first to admit he didn’t treat her well. [How brave.] In fact, he told me he had two knuckles replaced in his hand because he had hit her so hard, they broke against her skull. My father regretted the way he treated my mother his entire life. Mistreating her was the worst mistake he had ever made and he said he would grow old and die still madly in love with her.

Is that not an inherent downplay to call it “mistreatment”? Mistreatment is a range of unacceptable or toxic behaviors that, on the far side of the spectrum of severity, I GUESS include ASSAULT AND BATTERY.

Alcohol doesn’t inherently make an abuser; you have to already have that inside of you for alcohol to lower your restraint and inhibitions and give you the “courage” to physically act on your emotions. Anger and hatred is an emotion; alcohol doesn’t make someone angry out of NOWHERE, it boosts what was already there and encourages someone to act in ways they probably wouldn’t, sober.

Abusers that need alcohol to abuse already had that inside of them; booze just lended them a willingness to act.

(I am not a medical professional, this is just personal speculation, I could be wrong).

There’s a story from my childhood — my dad did not need to drink to be an extremely scary man when he lost his temper or raised his voice. Once, my mom bought one can of beer for a recipe. I saw it in the fridge, got scared that he would drink it and become violent, and I immediately poured it out in the yard. I was mortified when I found out I had interrupted her recipe and that it wasn’t for my dad. My family laughed when I said I didn’t want my dad to drink it and become irate.

I was so scared of seeing him get angry again, I was worried about beer being in the recipe at all.

He didn’t need to be drunk to be a scary man. My household was starkly sober until I was 17–18 years old, and still, my parents only drink one a night. As we grew older and made less mistakes, he did not raise his voice as much and we had less reason to fear him. But when I saw that alcohol, something I knew “made people angry” was in the fridge, my heart stopped, and I poured it out immediately.

My mom was completely sober, too — my dad once joked that she lost her singing voice from yelling at me and my sister so much when we were young children.

… They didn’t need alcohol to lose their tempers.

When I decided I wanted to write this story, I first asked my mother for permission. I told her I wanted to write it for women like her. I also wanted to write it for all the people who didn’t quite understand women like her. I was one of those people. [Clearly.] The mother I know is not weak. She was not someone I could envision forgiving a man for mistreating her [abusing her] on multiple occasions. But while writing this book and getting into the mind-set of Lily, I quickly realized that it’s not as black and white as it seems from the outside. On more than one occasion while writing this, I wanted to change the plotline. I didn’t want Ryle to be who he was going to be because I had fallen in love with him in those first several chapters, just as Lily had fallen in love with him. Just as my mother fell in love with my father.

Ryle is WHOLLY MEANT to be a good, endearing, charming, and romantic guy before the “SHOCK TWIST” that he’s an abuser and Lily’s physical safety is in danger.

He routinely shows up, unwanted, at her floral shop, and even goes so far as to knock on 29 apartments until he found her door, to beg her for sex. He tells her to “Make it stop”, as in he was so obsessed with her after their first meeting months ago, that he’s been unable to stop thinking about her during a crucial point in his medical career. Lily finally relents, and Ryle keeps pressuring her for more, because ‘You were right, one time wouldn’t be enough.’

I don’t think I’ll provide details or a summary on It Ends With Us because:

• I’ve already proven my points and why I do not like Colleen Hoover
• I’m exhausted
• I’ve spent so much time on this article, and by skipping IEWU, I can finally spit out the thesis

There are so many other people who have detailed why Ryle sucks for being another example of a lovable and great CoHo man — just like Warren! — before he hits her for the first time.

If you need points on IEWU to be proven, PLEASE go watch someone talk about it elsewhere. I can’t spare this energy anymore and that would make this article damn 3 hours long.

When I finally did reach the point of marriage, the hardest thing I ever had to do was tell my biological father that he wouldn’t be walking me down the aisle — that I was going to ask my stepfather. […] I remember sitting down in my father’s living room a month before my wedding. I told him I loved him, but that I was going to be asking my stepfather to walk me down the aisle. I was prepared for his response with every rebuttal I could think of. But the response he gave me was nothing I expected. He nodded his head and said, “Colleen, he raised you. He deserves to give you away at your wedding. And you shouldn’t feel guilty about it, because it’s the right thing to do.” I knew my decision absolutely gutted my father. But he was selfless enough as a father to not only respect my decision, but he wanted me to respect it, too. My father sat in the audience at my wedding and watched another man walk me down the aisle. I knew people were wondering why I didn’t just have both of them walk me down the aisle, but looking back on it, I realize I made the choice out of respect for my mother. Who I chose to walk me down the aisle wasn’t really about my father and it wasn’t even really about my stepfather. It was about her. I wanted the man who treated her how she deserved to be treated to be given the honor of giving away her daughter. In the past, I’ve always said I write for entertainment purposes only. I don’t write to educate, persuade, or inform. This book is different. This was not entertainment for me. It was the most grueling thing I have ever written. At times, I wanted to hit the Delete button and take back the way Ryle had treated Lily. I wanted to rewrite the scenes where she forgave him and I wanted to replace those scenes with a more resilient woman — a character who made all the right decisions at all the right times. But those weren’t the characters I was writing. That wasn’t the story I was telling. I wanted to write something realistic to the situation my mother was in — a situation a lot of women find themselves in. I wanted to explore the love between Lily and Ryle so that I would feel what my mother felt when she had to make the decision to leave my father — a man she loved with all her heart. I sometimes wonder how different my life would have been if my mother had not made the choice she did. She left someone she loved so that her daughters would never think that kind of relationship was okay.

She left so that she wouldn’t role-model what’s acceptable for her kids? I think she left… because her life was in danger, and she couldn’t let him hurt you two??

My father passed away several years ago, when I was twenty-five years old. He wasn’t the best father. He certainly wasn’t the best husband. But thanks to my mother, I was able to have a very close relationship with him because she took the necessary steps to break the pattern before it broke us. […] I fashioned Ryle after my father in many ways. They are handsome, compassionate, funny, and smart — but with moments of unforgivable behavior. […] She wasn’t rescued by another man — a knight in shining armor. She took the initiative to leave my father on her own, knowing she was about to embark on a completely different kind of struggle with added stress as a single mother. It was important to me that Lily’s character embody this same empowerment. Lily made the ultimate decision to leave Ryle for the sake of their daughter. Even though there was a slight possibility that Ryle could have eventually changed for the better, some risks are never worth taking. Especially when those risks have failed you in the past.

When they realize that you won’t leave the first time they hit you, they get more and more comfortable with that level of reactive violence, and in turn, get worse. There is absolutely no way that Ryle would have quelled this level of violence naturally.

Before I wrote this book, I had a lot of respect for my mother. Now that I’ve finished it and was able to explore a tiny fraction of the pain and struggle she went through to get to where she is today, I only have one thing to say to her. I want to be you when I grow up.

A criticism I heard and agreed with was the fact that this Author’s Note, in the story of domestic violence and based on her own mother’s abuse, she spends a mass majority of the time talking about how great of a man her father was once her mother barely escaped with her life. Such a great and complicated man, who once had to get two knuckles replaced for hitting his wife *so *hard in the skull. What about her mom’s visceral pain? Every wound she had to heal from because of your dad? Getting a TV thrown at her?! Years of trauma she worked through in silence, alone, while struggling to make ends meet for her two daughters, before she’d be able to find a man she could trust that would end up treating her well? I’m sure you don’t need to air all her business, but if your dad broke his own bones, what the hell did your mom feel? How did she deal with what she went through? Alone and in silence. And you’re spending so much time on your father**, the man that put her through trauma and lost his daughters and wife DUE TO HIS OWN ACTIONS.

Colleen still thinks that abuse begins when that first punch connects. Everything before that physical act of violence that holds malice isn’t abuse? Remember, Warren wanted to make Bridgette feel good, so that’s not assault, right?! It can’t be! Her body felt good after 50 no’s!! CLEARLY that’s not physical abuse!!!

She spends more time humanizing the abuser that her amazing father was, than focusing on how her mother went through poverty and Hell just to keep them and herself away from him.

In fact, an overarching theme in the novel is “We’re all just people who sometimes do bad things.”

Abusers… are just people… that sometimes do bad things.

This rhetoric is explicitly tied to why Lily allows Ryle unfettered access to their newborn child.

This rhetoric is what allows the audience to forgive and defend Ryle, because he’s just a man that has a traumatic backstory and issues with self-control. He’s just a person that sometimes does bad things — such as hit his wife, throw her down a flight of stairs, and attempt to rape her.

He’s just a person that sometimes does bad things.

That’s the theme this novel is shoving down your throat.

I understand that she doesn’t want to think of her father as a bad person, but he was an abuser. He abused your mom, Colleen. That makes him BAD. I don’t care that he treated YOU well, I don’t care that he was selfless and was an okay dad — He beat your mom. That is not acceptable behavior. This novel is making excuses for men like Ryle and your father. It is trying to humanize abuse.

You are humanizing abuse.

The worst dedications comes after the Author’s Note, in her acknowledgements, wherein the longest acknowledgement of everyone goes to her biological father, in a book based on her MOTHER’S abusive relationship:

To my mother. You are everything to everyone. That can sometimes be a burden, but you somehow see burdens as blessings. Our entire family thanks you. And last but not least, to my damned ol’ daddy, Eddie. You aren’t here to see this book come to life, but I know you would have been its biggest supporter. **[Like fuck he would’ve! You aired an abuser for millions to read! I don’t think abusers take that lightly or enjoy having an ANTAGONIST based on themselves!] You taught me many things in life — the greatest being that we don’t have to end up the same person we once were. I promise not to remember you based on your worst days.** I will remember you based on the best, and there were many. I will remember you as a person who was able to overcome what many cannot. Thank you for becoming one of my closest friends. And thank you for supporting me on my wedding day in a way that many fathers would not have. I love you. I miss you.

When I read this Author’s Note for the first time, and because it’d been so long since I’ve watched/listened to reviews for this book, I felt sympathetic and compelled to believe Colleen’s words. Even with all that I know, even with the book I just showed you, I felt inclined to believe her, and my harshness to this book became glazed over.

…I began to fear it would not be enough to isolate the most overtly violent acts. I felt like it wouldn’t be enough and will lend to you going easy on her in the way I was initially inclined to.

I can link you a few reviews — one I find comprehensive is 3 hours long. Will you leave and go listen to it? Or will you stay because it’s convenient? How am I supposed to make a thorough comparison while only isolating about 5 or less scenes? How am I to walk away, knowing I haven’t outlined the toxic and manipulative behaviors COLLEEN HERSELF said made her fall in love with Ryle? — a feeling so strong, she wanted to change the entire plot and purpose of the novel so that she could keep him a “good” man.

I’m exhausted making this exhaustive. I want this to be over with. It Ends With Us is DOUBLE the length of Maybe Not.

I’m struggling deeply between staying strong to PROVING MY CLAIMS and providing a THOROUGH COMPARISON… but please… I’ve already proven that Colleen DOES NOT take violence against women seriously. She wrote all of that in her Author’s Note… and still published a novel wherein the narrator we’re meant to like and agree with is a misogynistic rapist, and wherein a woman is broken down, sexually assaulted and consistently pressured into acts she does not want, violently manhandled, and they have a love-filled ending.

I HAVE PROVED the way Colleen feels about this topic WITH HER OWN OTHER NOVEL. She can say all she wants; she does not know a thing about what she’s writing, and this being THE ONLY TIME when an abusive man is called abusive (and she STILL STRUGGLED DEEPLY to commit to it because of how much she loved Ryle) does not mean shit to me.

This article, published by a high school publication, The Standard, is called “Colleen Hoover’s novel ‘It Ends With Us’ romanticizes abuse”. It’s a good opinion piece; I’ll provide what I believe to support my argument.

“It Ends with Us” romanticizes the abusive relationship between Ryle and Lily because it portrays Ryle as a flawed character rather than as an abuser. He is described as a good boyfriend with issues, when in reality he abused Lily emotionally, physically and sexually throughout the novel.

The relationship between the pair begins in an aggressive manner when Ryle repeatedly and forcibly attempts to speak with Lily, despite her refusal. The situation is described by Hoover as a passionate attempt from Ryle to win Lily’s heart, but he is actually just harassing her in his insistence to take her on a date.

The persistence demonstrated at the beginning of their relationship evolves throughout the book, along with Ryle’s abusive tendencies. As the novel progresses, his manipulation becomes physical, culminating in a heated argument when he slaps Lily across the face.

Ryle’s behavior is characterized as mysterious and complicated, which sends a damaging message to readers. The audience is compelled to sympathize with Ryle’s negative qualities and abusive tendencies as his childhood trauma is used as an excuse for his behavior.

[…] Despite his inexcusable actions, Hoover consistently paints Ryle disproportionately to the gravity of his actions.

Though Lily does decide to split from Ryle after this point, they are seen together many times as Ryle continues to ask for her forgiveness. Lily gives her daughter to Ryle for the day, aware of his violent tendencies but convinced that Ryle wouldn’t hurt a child. Her belief that Ryle would eventually emotionally mature was often used as justification for his inexcusable actions.

Otherwise, several people have made in-depth reviews of It Ends With Us — PLEASE go watch them if you want to know why this book sucks. (Again, I recommend AlizeeYeezy and Rachel Oates, primarily the latter because Rachel has lived through similarly abusive dynamics, and provides a very important perspective on this novel. Both reviews are 3 hours long for good reason; this article will probably be the same amount of time to read, but I can’t put myself through another full review.

OF NOTE: Alizee does play into the Blake-slander at certain points, but it's minor for the purpose of the video itself, and I've stopped watching her channel for different reasons. I won't defend or deny that from her video, but because of my thesis, I understand why.

I wanted to find more articles, but they’re all on the movie, not the book.

ACTUALLY…

As I’ve become reacquainted with events that occur in It Ends With Us, there’s a few disgusting moments I really, really need to highlight.

In chapter 20, after Ryle pushed Lily down a flight of stairs, Allysa, Ryle’s sister, says this beautiful piece:

“Ryle,” Allysa whispers. “What did you do to her?” She walks around the counter and pulls me in for a hug. “Oh, Lily,” she says, running her hand down my back. She pulls back with tears in her eyes, and her reaction confuses me. She obviously knows Ryle is responsible, but if that’s the case, it seems she would be attacking him, or at least yelling. She turns back to Ryle and he’s looking up at me apologetically. Longingly. Like he wants to reach out and hug me, but he’s scared to death to touch me. He should be. “You need to tell her,” Allysa says to Ryle.He instantly drops his head in his hands. “Tell her,” Allysa says, her voice angrier now. “She has the right to know, Ryle. She’s your wife. If you don’t tell her, I will.” Ryle’s shoulders roll forward and his head is fully pressed against the counter now. Whatever it is Allysa wants him to tell me has him so agonized, he can’t even look at me. I clench my stomach, feeling the angst deeper than my soul. Allysa spins toward me and puts her hands on my shoulders. “Hear him out,” she begs. “I’m not asking you to forgive him, because I have no idea what happened last night. But just please, as my sister-in-law and my best friend, give my brother a chance to talk to you.”

Ryle then says that, when he was six, and their brother Emerson was seven, Ryle accidentally shot Emerson in the head with a loaded firearm laying about the house.

Ryle walks over to me, taking my hands and pulling me to him. We hug each other for a solid minute when he says, “I would never tell you this because I want it to excuse my behavior.” He pulls back and looks me firmly in the eyes. “You have to believe that. Allysa wanted me to tell you all of this because since that happened, there are things I can’t control. I get angry. I black out. I’ve been in therapy since I was six years old. But it is not my excuse. It is my reality.”

It is an excuse that allows you to no longer be culpable for your actions; it permits for the idea that you don’t know the things you’ve done when you’re angry, therefore, you cannot be held accountable for what you ‘wake up’ to find.

You’ve been in therapy since you were six, and you still have violent anger issues that allow you to black out. I do not think your level of mental health treatment is appropriate for the severity of your disorders, and you need to seek higher treatment for everyone’s safety.

He wipes away my tears, cradling my head against his shoulder. “When you ran after me last night, I swear I had no intention of hurting you. I was upset and angry. And sometimes when I feel that much emotion, something inside of me just snaps. I don’t remember the moment I pushed you. But I know I did. I did. All I was thinking when you were running after me was how I needed to get away from you. I wanted you out of my way. I didn’t process that there were stairs around us. I didn’t process my strength compared to yours. I fucked up, Lily. I fucked up.” He lowers his mouth to my ear. His voice cracks when he says, “You are my wife. I’m supposed to be the one who protects you from the monsters. I’m not supposed to be one.” He holds me with so much desperation, he begins to shake. I have never, in all my life, felt so much pain radiating from one human.

……………… can i just……… can i just dive off a bridge —

The entire novel is like this. It is rationalized so hard that he just can’t help it and he’s actually a good person, that Lily allows for him to have unfettered access to their child. A man with rage-induced blackouts, where he hurts his loved ones and doesn’t know how to control himself.

There’s a point where Lily is getting her bearings after learning the night of her attempted rape that she’s pregnant.

Darin laughs. “You’ve been beat up and pregnant and hiding out at another man’s house?” he says to Brad. Atlas slaps his cards on the table and pushes back in his chair. “What the hell is wrong with you?” he yells at Darin. I reach over and squeeze his arm reassuringly. “Relax,” I say. “We bonded before you got here. I actually don’t mind that they’re making light of my situation. It really does make it a little less heavy.”

The men in this room are absolutely vile, but because Lily is ‘one of the guys’, she’s fine with their flippancy, even though:

“My husband happened. We got into a fight two nights ago and he head-butted me. Atlas took me to the emergency room. They gave me six stitches and told me I was pregnant. Now I’m hiding out here until I figure out what to do.” Poor Darin is frozen, halfway between standing and sitting. He has no idea how to respond to that. Based on the look on his face, I think he’s convinced I’m crazy.

Now, this next clip has occurred after the three main acts of physical violence — slapping Lily into a cabinet, pushing her down the stairs in a fit of jealousy and gaslighting her, and attempting to rape her after learning that she’s held someone she loved as a teenager close to her throughout her life — a premeditated attack he spent hours planning, before she came home from work. “Black out” my ass.

Ryle has been in London for a few months, and come back to find that Lily is visibly pregnant. She did not let him know about the pregnancy. Ryle understands the relationship is shattered, so he brought Allysa’s husband, Marshall, to hold Ryle accountable if he were to fly into a rage, and to be a protective presence for Lily. Lily is betrayed that Marshall would allow Ryle close to her.

Ryle finds out that Lily is pregnant, and he wants to have a private conversation with her.

“We’ll be in the bedroom. If you hear me get . . . if I start to yell . . .” Marshall knows what Ryle is asking him. “I’m not going anywhere.” As I follow Ryle into my bedroom, I wonder what that must be like. To have no idea what might set you off or how bad your reaction will be. To have absolutely no control over your own emotions.

… I’m not going to sit here and review this book because I would be here for a month, and this article would be 5 hours long. I am comfortable moving on, however I could not let this just… slip away.

There is constant narration that pounds this idea into the heads of the readers. Colleen is consistently threading the notion that poor baby Ryle is as much as victim to himself as Lily is. Once Ryle has been set off for the first time in the novel, he becomes frequently upset with less and time between outbursts— almost as if… the moment you realize they won’t leave when you get that mad… you get comfortable… and let it happen more.

This novel is exactly as revolting as every other novel she’s written until this point. Apparently, the movie did one hell of a better job taking out the victim blaming, the sympathy for Ryle, the sister’s really chilling rhetoric — I haven’t seen it, but anything is better than this novel.

I can’t put myself through an in-depth comparison. I won’t. I hate this woman, and this book is torturous before the scenes I showed. But these clips… are so vile, I couldn’t just let it go.

THE REDACTED NOVEMBER 9 SEXUAL ASSAULT

Before I finally hop to the thesis, one more overt thing that proves how little of a shit Colleen actually gives towards domestic violence, is a scene she had to delete and republish in the book November 9. The only access I have to this scene is from Caleb Joseph’s YouTube video that I linked earlier, beginning around the 6:50 mark in the video. He doesn’t include how the scene ends, but I WILL mention, Ben and Fallon had been a couple, yet broke up by this point. She’s with another man at a bar that Ben stalked her to, and when she leaves for some space, he follows her, attempting to have sex with her up against a wall as she’s trying to get him off of her.

“Stop,” I tell him, my voice louder than it’s been all night thanks to the distance from the music. His hand is right back where it was before… grazing the edge of my panties… forcing my eyes shut like it would even make a difference in here.

“I’m trying,” he whispers, threading the hand that isn’t up my skirt through the strands of my hair. He grips the nape of my neck. “Ask me again.”

I open my mouth to say it again, but I’m met with heat and tongue and lips that know just how to make it all work together. Instead of the word stop coming at him, all he gets is a moan and a hand in his hair, pulling, pushing, indecisive.

He’s kissing me so hard, my mind is still wrapped around all the ways his tongue can move before I even notice his hand has moved around to the front of my thigh. And I know I should stop him. I should push him away and make him explain himself, but his hand feels too good for that right now. My legs tense and I grip the sleeve [that’s all I have access to.]

This man is also responsible for the housefire that nearly killed her; he was well aware of who she was and how he’d hurt her before they began dating. He stalked her to ‘make it up to her’. Fallon is rightfully upset when she learns the truth, and desperately escapes him as he tries to hold her against a door and keep her from leaving. Her mom reads what he wrote about the night and their relationship from his perspective, and encourages Fallon to do the same, because it made him so sympathetic, and proved just how much he cared about Fallon. She reads it as well, and chooses to forgive him, APOLOGIZE TO HIM, and rekindle their love at the end of the novel.

This, too, is important to bring up. One of the worst acts of violence Ryle commits against Lily is biting down on her neck before shoving her onto the mattress and attempting to rape her. I won’t include the scene because it’s gruesome, and will no-doubt be very triggering, but there is line I want to bring attention to:

I start trying to fight him off of me, but it’s useless. He’s too strong for me. He’s angry. He’s hurt. And he’s not Ryle.

During the attack, she bites his tongue, and he head-butts her, knocking her unconscious. When she wakes up, “He’s Ryle again”.

His words begin to come into focus. “Sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m . . .” His hand is still pressing mine into the mattress and he’s still on top of me. He’s no longer trying to force himself on me. “Lily, I love you, I’m so sorry.” His words are full of panic. He’s kissing me, his lips gentle against my cheek and mouth. He knows what he’s done. He’s Ryle again, and he knows what he’s just done to me. To us. To our future.

The scene is visceral and disturbing. This is the only novel wherein Colleen acknowledges that what’s happened is sexual assault.

She’s taken to a separate hospital than the one Ryle works at, and chooses not to talk to the police, both for the sake of preserving Ryle’s career.

I could call the police, but my mind can’t even process what all that entails. I don’t want to give a statement. I don’t know that I want to press charges, knowing what this could do to his career.

And:

For whatever reason, I don’t want to risk the chance of running into any of Ryle’s colleagues. I hate him. I hate him in this moment more than I’ve ever hated my father. But concern for his career still somehow breaks through the hatred.

It’s hard to read… even more hard to read because Colleen DOES NOT KNOW HOW TO WRITE THESE SENSITIVE TOPICS WELL.

During the backlash to the November 9 scene, her defense was that she had included a line at the beginning of the novel to set up what Fallon hated reading in rom-com novels, as an irony for what she and Ben would end up doing/feeling together. ‘When the man continues after the girl says stop’ was a sentiment that had been edited out from the final version; what stayed was ‘I hate insta-love, when a couple falls in love right after meeting one another’, which was something that Ben and Fallon had done.

I brought this up, AGAIN, to show that Colleen doesn’t actually care. I can tear apart It Ends With Us, but Colleen’s romanization of sexual assault, manipulation, and toxicity DID NOT END after publishing It Ends With Us. She does not take this seriously. She does not understand or truly empathize with these things she has written. I have proved that without even annotating It Ends With Us. I’m exhausted; please do your own research if it matters so severely to backing up these celaims. Otherwise… let’s finally expand on my thesis.

WHAT DOES ALL THIS MEAN, AND WHY IS IT IMPORTANT TO THE CONVERSATION SURROUNDING BALDONI V. LIVELY?

I already did not like Colleen Hoover; the fact that one of her novels was getting a movie adaption was disappointing and disheartening, to say the least.

For all of the reasons I painstakingly provided above, it was very heartwarming to see how Justin Baldoni held a strong stance on violence against women, along with his empathy for intimate partner violence. He seemed genuine, he seemed kind, and it was already a far cry from the way Colleen had handled these topics in past fiction. Even if I would not watch or support this project, I admired Baldoni for speaking the way he did, and for being a better person (in my eyes, to my knowledge) than Colleen.

Something that garnered a lot of people to his side IMMEDIATELY, were the claims that Blake was trying to make light of the movie through efforts to overhaul the project. Baldoni had posted to his Instagram what the original movie poster looked like — it captured what appeared to be a sensual yet tense moment, with a zoomed focus on the intimidating closeness of Baldoni to Lively’s neck, as her mouth is parted in hesitant protest. The movie poster that studios chose to coincide with the movie, had a smiling, bright Blake Lively surrounded by vibrant flowers, an emphasis on the flower-shop subplot that only exists because Lily’s full name is Lily Blossom Bloom.

‘Baldoni focused on abuse; Lively focused on florals.’ This was becoming evident in interviews and the surrounding media frenzy that stoked the rumors of on-set tension and behind-the-scenes distancing from nearly all actors with Justin.

Blake Lively also allegedly hired her own editor, whom, if I remember correctly, had worked on her husband’s recent movie, to make a new cut of the film that would rival and end up winning in a competition with Baldoni’s original Director-Cut.

The marketing campaign was lighthearted, with multiple actors other than Blake reading the line “Grab your friends [and] wear your florals” to watch a serious and gut-wrenching movie about domestic violence. Blake had thrown a controversial After Party, where alcoholic drinks were named after various characters in the novel, including Ryle (“Ryle You Wait”), who abused Lily both under the influence and while sober. Finding articles on anything but the current legal battle is hard as hell, but if I’m right, it included drinks from her recently-launched line of mocktails called Betty Booze. If the drinks were created with ONLY Betty Booze, there’s a low chance that any contained alcohol, since Betty Booze is non-alcoholic (so far as I could find). Still, this act received backlash for insensitivity, since a lot of domestic violence goes hand-in-hand with alcoholism, and this after-party was celebrating the movie where a man hits his wife under the influence of alcohol, and commits other acts of domestic violence against her.

Several things were coming out against Blake Lively that were darkening her image and portraying her as extremely unlikable. Nothing was coming out to slander Baldoni, other than the fact that nearly all actors working on It Ends With Us had unfollowed Justin, who was still following all of them.

… I fell into the camp that believed Justin and turned away from Blake. My past criticisms of Colleen Hoover made me look at Blake’s actions and recognize what I knew of Colleen — she’s not taking this seriously, she does not care, she’s not a good person that I like or want to support.

I fell for the alleged smear campaign against Blake because I saw Baldoni as someone trustworthy. I ignored texts that Baldoni had sent to his PR team (the same PR team that Johnny Depp hired), where he sent a hate-thread on Hailey Bieber and told his team “This is what we would need”, in regards to spreading Blake’s worst actions throughout the years as a reason to discredit serious allegations of sexual misconduct on the set of the movie.

I ignored that everyone had unfollowed Justin, and that in either what Blake alleged or in the lawsuit itself, it was claimed that numerous other women/actors/staff on set were also made uncomfortable by Baldoni, and that they were witnesses that could back up Blake’s deeply concerning claims.

Why? Because the smear worked. Justin filled his counter-suit with hundreds of texts that worked to discredit Blake’s ability to differentiate between reality and ‘a perceived threat that never actually existed’. Emojis strategically cut from text messages that Blake had provided, were the ‘smoking gun’ to prove Justin’s true intent; he would whisper one thing to her ‘in character’ as Ryle, and she would feel uncomfortable hearing those words from Justin as Justin; all of these pointless distractions that were meant to keep you looking away from the serious things that Blake was alleging against Baldoni and one of the executives at Baldoni’s production studio (Wayfarer Productions).

The most disturbing story, to me, was the slew of allegations relating to the child-birthing scene. Blake was exposed with a small scrap of fabric to cover her genitalia; staff had access to numerous camera feeds focused on the scene that put Blake in a compromising position; it wasn’t a closed set, meaning anyone could and did walk in and around what was going on; either one or multiple executives at Wayfarer flew in just to watch this scene, and had not been present for any others; Justin included a friend of his to be the delivery nurse, a man that Blake had never met, who would be poised and staring directly at her vaginal area.

Justin and/or the other defendant were allegedly showing nude photos of their wives to Blake on multiple occasions; during the scene in the movie where Lily gave birth, Blake (who had given birth to 4 children and had only recently birthed her fourth) was allegedly encouraged to do the scene nude, because the executive’s wife had given birth nude and it was ‘more natural’. He then allegedly proceeded to show her a video of his naked wife giving birth.

Other actors would avoid questions related to Baldoni on set, as we saw in Jenny Slate’s viral clip. Other actors on set publicly came out in support of Blake’s suit, but because Baldoni had already successfully “proven” that Blake was an unreliable witness and would take offense to ‘inoffensive’ or innocent things that he would do, it was easy to dismiss all of the overwhelming evidence and believe the man.

We saw this in Depp v. Heard. It was years until I realized what a deep mistake I had made in believing that Johnny Depp could ever have been the abused party, and I’m ashamed to have supported the villification of Amber Heard.

While my summary of the lawsuits is absolutely subpar because it’s 3:50 AM and I’m going off of my memory, I do think it’s important to highlight the fact that what Blake Lively is alleging is very, very serious, and we cannot allow ourselves to overlook these facts simply because Blake is an “unlikable woman”. I allowed myself to be swayed by the smear campaign. I wanted to believe in Justin and was compelled to do so, because I already knew what the woman behind *It Ends With Us* was like; how she felt about women; how easily she wrote ‘abuse’ mislabled as ‘cute romance’; and the millions she made off of romanticizing toxic men that hurt the women they ‘loved’. I believed in Justin because he was a juxtaposition to both Colleen’s prior actions, and Blake’s behaviors during press tours.

Something that hasn’t been addressed anywhere is the fact that a lot of the people hating Blake and believing Baldoni most likely began as people like me: people who knew Colleen sucked, saw how respectful Baldoni was and how flippant Lively seemed, and related their prior-bias against Colleen Hoover to how Blake was acting. A lot of people are looking in from the outside; I was prominent in book communities that discussed and criticized many authors, ONE OF WHICH BEING Colleen.

My point to this article, that’s going to take over 120 minutes to read? I haven’t seen anyone point out the correlation between the audience that already existed to hate Colleen Hoover, and the contrast of Justin Baldoni’s public talks/interviews/appearances, that made it so, so easy to dismiss Blake and believe in Justin.

I could not, in good faith, willfully ignore Blake’s allegations anymore. They are deeply serious.

We are in a time where the wealth gap has never been so prominent, where the 99% are struggling and dying while the 1% kicks back and rakes in the benefit of a deeply corrupt political system. Because Blake is wealthy, has been publicly unlikable, has a rich husband, got married on a former slave plantation (which is reprehensible, regardless), seemed entitled, and blahblahblah — it was so easy to dismiss her as someone who wanted attention, and who found discomfort in things that could easily be explained away as less serious than she perceived.

We failed Amber, and my heart is shattered for what she has had to endure. We cannot allow this smear campaign to smoke-screen Baldoni and allow him to slip away from accountability, if these allegations are indeed true.

The only people who know what happened worked on that movie set. We might begin to see the truth unfold on May 18th, or we’ll see the trial Baldoni was able to control the opinion of from the beginning — just like Depp and his legal team.

Either way… I’ll continue living my life, regardless of this legal battle, until the verdict rings.

I probably phoned in this think-piece towards the end, because to go back through everything I’d once paid attention to and haven’t paid attention to for years is one fuck-ton of an effort just to say “Blake is accused of being unlikable; Justin is being accused of sexual misconduct; let’s be fucking smart here, people.”

The court of public opinion already decided that Blake was a delusional rich woman. While I don’t think that EVERYONE with eyes and opinions on this case began in the position I did, I do think it’s a crucial part of the problem that’s COMPLETELY ABSENT from our mainstream understanding of the case.

The people that have had problems with Colleen’s writing FOR YEARS first saw how Justin spoke with passionate empathy about domestic violence, and saw how Blake emphasized the fun parts of the movie and her emotions/career outside of the film. We saw that Justin spoke with seriousness, and we saw that Blake wasn’t prioritizing those same conversations. We knew that Colleen doesn’t take this seriously, so we lumped her and Blake together under the “Women I Don’t Like” file and praised Baldoni blindly for being a good, believable male-feminist.

This was BEFORE the smear, before any clips began resurfacing. This allowed us to continue believing in Justin. This is why we did not and most DO NOT want to trust Blake.

An unlikable, imperfect victim is still a victim, and they deserve justice.

I willfully ignored the evidence that showed me I was wrong, that Baldoni is not the man he continuously spouts he is, because they had already done their job to make Blake seem delusional and uncredible; once you’ve secured an unwillingness to believe the victim’s reality of events, it’s easier to toss away the evidence proving that you’re wrong. You twist it to fit the narrative or you dismiss it because it doesn’t fit what you believe in. WE LITERALLY SAW THIS AND FELL FOR THIS DURING DEPP V. HEARD.

And while my thesis, the idea that the criticism of Colleen influenced people’s hatred and dismissal of Blake, doesn’t have too much of an overall impact on how the general internet has treated this case, I think it’s a very important angle that I haven’t seen ANYONE else bring up.

I was PRIMED to believe in Justin and dismiss Blake, because of the way I’d already seen Colleen and criticized her actions, fiction, and behaviors. This is a very influential angle to the matter that no one else seems to have realized. I don’t think it’s excusable, but doesn’t it make sense?

This has been such a long journey because I had to prove why it was so easy to criticize Colleen, and by extension, believe Justin and dismiss Blake. I believe the phenomena are explicitly connected to how people like me first received this case, and completely disavowed the seriousness of Blake’s claims — claims that are ALLEGEDLY able to be reinforced/backed up by numerous other people on set.