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From 831 Stories, the highly anticipated next book in the Big Fan series by Alexandra Romanoff, an enemies-to-lovers romance in which tabloid fodder mixes with a long-brewing rivalry.Cassidy is done moving through her life as the headline-making other woman. She’s paid for what she did as a young campaign intern in spades.After five years of working on anti-bullying initiatives in D.C., she returns to her hometown, Berkeley, to recalibrate—and she quickly falls into bed with her high-school nemesis Leon, the slacker to her try-hard. It’s just a one-night thing. That is, until they both find themselves helping their mutual friend Willa open her new ceramics studio and Cassidy sees Leon in a new light. If everyone’s misjudged her, is there a chance she’s underestimated him, too?
In so many ways, I know myself better now than I did then.
And one thing I'm certain of is that if I don't unpack tonight, I'll spend the next three weeks living out of a suitcase. I force myself from the edge of the bed to the closet, open its door, and groan. How is there still clothing in here? Didn't I take everything with me when I moved to DC for college?
As I scan the relics, I allow myself a moment of tenderness for this former self, and her miniskirts so mini they might as well be belts. Band tee shirts from my short-lived emo phase hang above pairs of very aspirationally high heels.
Then I shove it all to the side and start hanging my things— my current things. The Char cashmere sweater I bought with my first big paycheck, the boots I've had resoled three times, and the Issey Miyaki dress that will probably always be my best-ever thrift find. I wish I saw the contrast between these two wardrobes as reassuring: a reminder of all of the years that have passed since I lived here. How much I've survived, and even grown. But the things I've packed feel like they're from another life, too. One I'm not entirely sure I want anymore.
In so many ways, I know myself better now than I did then.
And one thing I'm certain of is that if I don't unpack tonight, I'll spend the next three weeks living out of a suitcase. I force myself from the edge of the bed to the closet, open its door, and groan. How is there still clothing in here? Didn't I take everything with me when I moved to DC for college?
As I scan the relics, I allow myself a moment of tenderness for this former self, and her miniskirts so mini they might as well be belts. Band tee shirts from my short-lived emo phase hang above pairs of very aspirationally high heels.
Then I shove it all to the side and start hanging my things— my current things. The Char cashmere sweater I bought with my first big paycheck, the boots I've had resoled three times, and the Issey Miyaki dress that will probably always be my best-ever thrift find. I wish I saw the contrast between these two wardrobes as reassuring: a reminder of all of the years that have passed since I lived here. How much I've survived, and even grown. But the things I've packed feel like they're from another life, too. One I'm not entirely sure I want anymore.
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