The Unhoneymooners

 

The Unhoneymooners 

by Christina Lauren

I honestly can’t remember how The Unhoneymooners ended up in my hands. Did a friend lend it to me? Did I snag it from the overflowing shelves at Goodwill? Or maybe I bought it after seeing one of the many book-lover accounts I follow rave about it. However it happened, it turned out to be one of those light, cheesy rom-com reads…perfect for an evening when your brain needs a break and your heart could use a little lift.

As I got deeper into the story, I found myself relating to Olive’s identity as the “unlucky” twin. She’s the one who always seems to draw the short straw in love, while her sister Ami floats through life getting picked first, finding cash in vending machines, and landing the perfect guy. In my case, that sister is Vanessa. And while she’s out there catching every lucky break, I’m left juggling job drama, empty pockets, and a love life that feels like a cosmic joke.

I’ve watched her fall into relationships that seem effortless…sparks fly, everything clicks. Meanwhile, I’ve been ghosted, blindsided, and stuck in the friend zone more times than I care to admit. Like Olive, I’ve wondered if the universe is playing favorites.

Quick recap: Olive’s sister Ami is having her dream wedding and a free honeymoon. But when the entire wedding party gets food poisoning from bad seafood, Olive and Ethan, the groom’s brother and Olive’s sworn nemesis, are the only ones left standing. The honeymoon is non-refundable and non-transferable, so they agree to go. The catch? They have to pretend to be newlyweds.

Cue the chaos.

From awkward shared hotel rooms to surprise run-ins with bosses and exes, Olive and Ethan are forced to play the part of a loving couple. And somewhere between fake kisses and real arguments, the walls start to come down.

What struck me most about Olive wasn’t just her sarcasm or skepticism…it was how those traits served as armor. I’ve worn that same shield. I’ve brushed off romantic hope, avoided dating altogether, because disappointment feels too raw, too vulnerable.

What I loved about her story is that her luck doesn’t change because she morphs into someone else. It shifts because she starts trusting herself. She speaks up. She takes risks. And she finally lets someone see the real her…not the unlucky twin, but the fiercely loyal, smart, and deeply lovable woman underneath.

I’ve got my own work to do, no doubt. But this book reminded me that being unlucky in love doesn’t mean you’re unworthy of it. Sometimes, it just means your story hasn’t hit its plot twist… yet.

Happy Place

 

Happy Place by Emily Henry

Happy Place is more than a romcom…it’s a quiet reckoning with the inevitability of change. It delivers a powerful meditation on the evolution of friendship, identity, and the bittersweet reality of growing apart.

Told in a dual timeline, the central romance between Harriet and Wyn provides the emotional heartbeat of the story. They were the perfect couple…until they weren’t. But it’s the unraveling of their once-inseparable friend group that creates the novel’s deeper, more resonant undertone.

Set against the backdrop of a beloved Maine cottage, their annual retreat, the story unfolds under the shadow of its impending sale. The loss of the cottage is symbolic. Its fading presence mirrors the slow erosion of the group’s bond, a quiet acknowledgment that even the most sacred traditions can’t withstand the pull of time.

Why do the books I gravitate toward lately keep circling this theme…a painful reminder of the ever-shifting landscape of friendship? The way life shakes out sometimes makes me wonder why growing up...sometimes means growing apart. Who shows up? Who fades into the distance...not forgotten but definitely changed.

Relationships that once felt effortless now require intention. Diverging paths, career pivots, romantic entanglements, personal growth…all leading to the realization that love, even the platonic kind, doesn’t always mean permanence.

“Things change, but we stretch and grow and make room for one another. Our love is a place we can always come back to, and it will be waiting, the same as it ever was.”

That line feels comforting and safe. It captures the emotional journey of the book: the idea that even as people evolve and drift, the bonds formed in deep friendship can remain a kind of emotional home…unchanged, waiting, and full of memory.  That feeling of not seeing someone for years and then calling or getting together and it is as if...not a moment has been lost.  

Ultimately, Happy Place is about the courage to let go. What happens when the people who once defined your world no longer fit into it? There are no easy answers. But friendships are meant to shape us, and sometimes it’s heartbreaking to watch them change. You just hope that in the spaces they leave behind, new versions of joy will take root.

This book doesn’t offer tidy resolutions…but it offers real ones. It’s a love letter to the people who shape us, and a gentle farewell to the versions of ourselves we outgrow.

 

The Devil Wears Prada

 

The Devil Wears Prada

I don’t know about you, but I absolutely adore this movie. I’ve watched it more times than I can count, and I’m not even remotely tired of it. It’s become a go-to comfort film for me and my sisters. Every so often, we plan a virtual movie night from afar: same dinner, same movie, same cozy vibes. And, more often than not, we land on The Devil Wears Prada.

One of my favorite parts is right at the beginning…those quick-cut scenes of models getting dressed, slipping into heels, and stepping out of their impossibly chic NYC apartments. It’s like a mini fashion show set to the rhythm of the city. Then there’s Andy Sachs, played by Anne Hathaway, munching on a bagel as she heads to her interview at Runway magazine, dressed in her drab, Midwestern best. That contrast between her and the polished fashionistas is so stark, it’s almost comical that she lands the job.

Speaking of bagels…can we talk about salt bagels for a second? I’ve been on the hunt for one and I kid you not, they’re nowhere to be found. It’s like they’ve vanished from the face of the Earth. I’m seriously considering a quick weekend trip to New York just to satisfy this oddly persistent craving. If Andy can land a job at the most elite fashion magazine in the city, surely, I can find a decent salt bagel.

But here’s the thing: The Devil Wears Prada isn’t just about fashion or the fantasy of living in New York. Beneath the designer labels and glossy magazine spreads, it’s a surprisingly poignant story about ambition, identity, and the cost of success. Andy’s transformation, from outsider to insider, from idealist to realist…is both thrilling and sobering. It asks the question: how far are you willing to go to get ahead, and what are you willing to leave behind?

My all-time favorite actress, Meryl Streep, delivers a masterclass in subtle power as Miranda Priestly. She doesn’t need to raise her voice to command a room…her mere presence is enough. For example, every morning she glides into the office, wordlessly tosses her coat and handbag onto her assistant’s desk, and begins issuing rapid-fire demands, including the impossible: “Get me the unpublished manuscript of the new Harry Potter book.” Why? Because her twin daughters want to read it. That moment perfectly encapsulates Miranda’s influence…she doesn’t ask for the world, she expects it.

It's stylish, smart, and endlessly rewatchable.  The Devil Wears Prada delivers. 

It’s a movie that never goes out of style.

 

 

My Friends

 

My Friends

By Fredrik Backman

Friendships mean everything. They shape our lives in ways we often don’t fully grasp until something shifts. I’ve written before that my mother once told me I was blessed with the gift of friendships. She reminds me often: I’ve always been surrounded by people who truly care for me… who show up… who would do anything for me… who love me deeply. I’ve never doubted it. But since moving recently, I’ve felt that absence in a way that’s hard to put into words.

In My Friends, the story portrays the power of friendship as a lifeline through grief and chaos, showing how shared memories and quiet loyalty can transcend time, loss, and even art itself.

“That’s all of life. All we can hope for. You mustn’t think about the fact that it might end, because then you live like a coward—you never love too much or sing too loudly. You have to take it for granted, the artist thinks, the whole thing: sunrises and slow Sunday mornings and water balloons and another person’s breath against your neck. That’s the only courageous thing a person can do.”

But lately, I’ve felt that courage slipping. The news is a relentless drumbeat of grief. I hike alone, paddleboard alone...seeking peace in solitude...but even there, I hesitate. Because people are being murdered while simply living their lives. Buying groceries. Walking dogs. Laughing with friends. And suddenly, the breath against your neck feels like a risk. The sunrise, a fragile promise. It’s terrifying. Lord, come quickly.

And yet...what choice do we have but to keep loving too much and singing too loudly? To take it for granted, not because we’re naïve, but because we refuse to let fear steal the music from our lives. 

The story follows Louisa, an almost-eighteen-year-old aspiring artist who becomes captivated by a famous painting, "The One of the Sea." Where most people just view the sea...they miss the three tiny figures tucked into a forgotten corner of the canvas. Most people overlook them. But she doesn’t. She becomes determined to uncover their story. Her journey across the country mirrors her internal one: a quiet search for meaning, for connection, for a way to make sense of her own sorrow.

Decades earlier, in a seaside town, a group of teens with fractured home lives found refuge on an abandoned pier. They spent their summer telling jokes, sharing secrets, surviving in the only ways they knew how. That summer, and the love they found in each other…inspired the painting now in Louisa’s hands. What begins as a mystery becomes something deeper: a meditation on growing up, on memory, on holding grief and joy in the same breath.

Twenty years later, the artist literally bumps into Louisa…quirky, awkward, fiercely intelligent, raised in foster care…as she flees the church where his painting was auctioned. He instantly recognizes her as one of them. He devises a plan, enlisting Ted to carry it out before he leaves this earth. That’s how Louisa becomes part of their love story and discovers the true meaning behind The One of the Sea…a painting that isn’t about the sea at all, but about the depth of friendship… and yes, a fart.

Louisa says, "This is a painting of laughter, and you can only understand that if you are full of holes, because then laughter is a small treasure. Adults will never understand that, because they don't laugh at farts, and how the hell are you supposed to trust the judgement of someone like that with something as important as art?"

There’s something quietly brutal about how this book explores growing up. How people drift. How those we swore we’d never lose slowly fade into the background. Sometimes you don’t even notice it happening. One day you just… stop talking. And you don’t know why. But then a book like this comes along, and suddenly, you feel sad…nostalgic…a little broken…a little grateful.

My Friends gave language to a grief I didn’t know I was carrying. It made me mourn people I haven’t even lost yet. Maybe it’s the move. Maybe it’s something deeper.

It reminded me that connection doesn’t vanish. It shifts, it evolves, but it doesn’t disappear. Grief is just love with nowhere to go. And art…whether it’s a painting, a story, or a shared memory…is how we hold on. It’s how we say: you mattered to me.

This story reminds us that life often gives us exactly who we need, exactly when we need them. These characters endured the worst of humanity, yet together they found what their families couldn’t: a safe space to be their truest selves, and moments of joy in a place that had so little to offer.

They say a picture is worth a thousand words. Sometimes, it’s worth a lifetime. And sometimes, that lifetime…is a summer.

TOMORROW!

 

Beautiful Girls

 

Beautiful Girls 

A 1996 Romantic Comedy-Drama

I wrapped up the Bentley Pontoons photoshoot this past week, and over the weekend, I gave myself permission to simply unwind. I had a punch list of tasks waiting, but I barely made a dent in it. Instead, I found myself drawn to rewatching familiar movies…there is comfort in nostalgia. 

One of them was Beautiful Girls…a classic. Great cast, unforgettable soundtrack, and a storyline that makes the relationships feel real: friendships, romances, even the messy affairs.

The story unfolds during a ten-year high school reunion in a snow-covered Massachusetts town where most of the graduates never strayed too far…except Willie (Timothy Hutton), a struggling pianist who finds himself at a crossroads…professionally…romantically and existentially.   

For me, it’s Marty, Natalie Portman, who steals the show. An impossibly wise 13-year-old who sets her heart on Willie. “I’m 13, but I have an old soul,” she says. And “My name is the bane of my existence.” She calls Willie “a dude in flux.” Her intellect, charm, and emotional depth are far beyond her years. And yes, she is…was…a beautiful girl.

The scenes between Willie and Marty are brief but tender. Innocent, yet deeply affecting. Their connection becomes the emotional heartbeat of the film…genuine, endearing, and unforgettable.

The ice pond scene stands out most for me. Marty asks Willie to be her boyfriend, saying, “If your feelings for me are true, you will wait,” and “Yep, wait five years for me… I’ll be 18.” Then the line that lingers: “We can walk through this world together.”

It made me wonder…do we look back with longing for what might’ve been, or do we lean into the unknown of what’s next? Do we cling to the wild, untamed spirit of youth, or embrace the steadiness of commitment and growth?

Overall…the movie is a snapshot of small-town life and the emotional growing pains of men who haven’t quite grown up.  It seems relatable…funny and deeply human. 

One obsesses over supermodels…one clings to his past glory…and then there is Willie…paralyzed by indecision. 

"Supermodels are beautiful girls, Will.  A beautiful girl can make you dizzy, like you've been drinking Jack and Coke all morning.  She can make you feel high...full of the single greatest commodity known to man...promise.  Promise of a better day.  Promise of a greater hope.  Promise of a new tomorrow. This particular aura can be found in the gait of a beautiful girl.  In her smile, in her soul, the way she makes every rotten little thing about life seem like it's going to be okay.  The supermodels, Willy?  That's all they are.  Bottled promise.  Scenes from a brand-new day. Hope dancing in stiletto heels." - Paul

There’s something hauntingly poetic about this. Beneath the romanticism lies a subtle melancholy...as if Paul knows that this “promise” is fleeting. Bottled promise isn’t just a clever phrase; it’s the emotional undercurrent of the entire film. It threads through the characters’ longing, their nostalgia, their quiet desperation to hold onto something pure before it slips away.

It felt...to me...like a quiet rebellion against growing up. A race to figure out what life is supposed to be before the weight of adulthood settles in. The film doesn’t mock that yearning...it honors it, even as it gently nudges its characters toward reality.

Maybe it really is that simple. Like Uma Thurman’s character says: “All she needs is to hear four words before she goes to sleep. Four little words. ‘Good night, sweet girl.’ That’s all it takes. I’m easy, I know, but a guy who can muster up those four words is a guy I want to stay with.”

Do we overcomplicate things? Maybe. Maybe not. That’s for you to decide. As for me, I’ll keep hitting play on Beautiful Girls. Again, and again.

Good night, sweet readers.