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A review by mhor
Henry Hamlet's Heart by Rhiannon Wilde
5.0
Queer coming of age, friends to lovers, end of year 12.
Way to make me miss Brisbane HHH.
This book is really sweet, soo the characters were great, the banter was sublime and the writing was like poetry.
….
“It’s one of those perfect blue winter-Brisbane days–bright grass, sun-ruffled trees and wind on the river–of which we only get about three each year.”
….
“There’s so much history in his face. The square set of his jaw, the golden brows, the way his teeth grip the right side of his bottom lip. I can picture him when we were five, when we were eleven, when we were sixteen.
How can I think of him like this?
(How can I not?)”
….
“I avert my eyes again. ‘Because … it just doesn’t make sense, I guess.’
‘What doesn’t?’ he whisper-yells, exasperated.
‘Shh, God. For you to want me … that way!’ I burst out, my fingers twisting together between us. ‘I don’t get it.’ I breathe in. This is the big one, the thing that’s bothered me since the start. ‘Even more than the other stuff, I don’t get … What I am, to you.’
Len’s face shifts, a rolling thunderstorm.
He leans in. Closer and closer, until he’s got me pinned between him and the wall.
‘You’re half of me,’ he says, his voice soft and serious. ‘What else is there?’”
….
Way to make me miss Brisbane HHH.
This book is really sweet, soo the characters were great, the banter was sublime and the writing was like poetry.
….
“It’s one of those perfect blue winter-Brisbane days–bright grass, sun-ruffled trees and wind on the river–of which we only get about three each year.”
….
“There’s so much history in his face. The square set of his jaw, the golden brows, the way his teeth grip the right side of his bottom lip. I can picture him when we were five, when we were eleven, when we were sixteen.
How can I think of him like this?
(How can I not?)”
….
“I avert my eyes again. ‘Because … it just doesn’t make sense, I guess.’
‘What doesn’t?’ he whisper-yells, exasperated.
‘Shh, God. For you to want me … that way!’ I burst out, my fingers twisting together between us. ‘I don’t get it.’ I breathe in. This is the big one, the thing that’s bothered me since the start. ‘Even more than the other stuff, I don’t get … What I am, to you.’
Len’s face shifts, a rolling thunderstorm.
He leans in. Closer and closer, until he’s got me pinned between him and the wall.
‘You’re half of me,’ he says, his voice soft and serious. ‘What else is there?’”
….