Sweet and self-conscious Sasha Collins has never had a boyfriend. She never imagined that anyone, much less the star of the varsity baseball team, would be interested in her unruly red hair and socially awkward tendencies.
After years of floating invisibly through the hallways of her high school, Sasha is completely shocked when confident and handsome Adam Lincoln chooses her to be his Chemistry partner. Despite Sasha’s best friend’s skepticism, Sasha refuses to believe that Adam selected her solely because of her grade point average.
As an unlikely relationship blooms, Sasha feels like she’s living out a made for TV fairytale. But Sasha soon finds there’s more to Adam than his classic good looks and athletic ability. Navigating his jealousy, mood swings and possessive behaviors prove just to be the tip of their complex relationship.
Eager to love Adam and desperate to keep from losing him, Sasha devotes herself to trying to keeping him happy. As pleasing Adam engulfs her whole world, she slips into depression for reasons that she can’t quite put into words.
Sasha is painfully aware that she can’t continue living this way, but she can’t imagine living without Adam, either.
Sweet and self-conscious Sasha Collins has never had a boyfriend. She never imagined that anyone, much less the star of the varsity baseball team, would be interested in her unruly red hair and socially awkward tendencies.
After years of floating invisibly through the hallways of her high school, Sasha is completely shocked when confident and handsome Adam Lincoln chooses her to be his Chemistry partner. Despite Sasha’s best friend’s skepticism, Sasha refuses to believe that Adam selected her solely because of her grade point average.
As an unlikely relationship blooms, Sasha feels like she’s living out a made for TV fairytale. But Sasha soon finds there’s more to Adam than his classic good looks and athletic ability. Navigating his jealousy, mood swings and possessive behaviors prove just to be the tip of their complex relationship.
Eager to love Adam and desperate to keep from losing him, Sasha devotes herself to trying to keeping him happy. As pleasing Adam engulfs her whole world, she slips into depression for reasons that she can’t quite put into words.
Sasha is painfully aware that she can’t continue living this way, but she can’t imagine living without Adam, either.
I can already tell I’m going to hate every minute of this process. You’re asking me to bare my soul despite the fact we’ve only known each other for exactly eleven minutes. I’ve been watching the slow movement of the minute hand on your wall clock, designed to look like the paddle of a canoe against the slightly faded river scene.
It’s sort of a cheesy clock, if you ask me, but everything in your office is pretty lame. It’s almost like you’re trying too hard to make it feel cozy. From the little wooden signs on the wall with cliché sayings about seizing the day and taking advantage of every opportunity, to the canvas paintings of sunsets over peaceful lakes. Your office basically screams “I’m a therapist trying to make you think you’re comfortable!”
Here’s a news flash: I’m not comfortable, and I sure as hell don’t want to talk to you.
But since I’m being forced to sit here, I guess we might as well talk. Sitting here in silence would probably be just as awkward, and I know what you have to say about me is going to have a lot to do with whether they let me out of this place. I know I need the therapist sign-off to go home. I need you to say this was just a onetime episode and I can go back to being normal. I need you to believe I’m okay and everything is fine now, even if I’m not sure I believe it.
The days and weeks leading us to this room seem all fuzzy in my mind. It’s like trying to recall the details of a dream that seemed so incredibly vivid at the time, but five minutes after you wake up, you’re left with only wisps of vague concepts and nothing substantial enough to hold on to. When I look back at the last year of my life, I feel like all I have are those wispy details.
Obviously, I know I’m here to talk about Adam. I know that’s what you’re waiting for, as you tap that stupid gold pen against the page of your notebook. You want me to spill everything out and let the story flood your office. You’re convinced putting the whole thing into words is supposed to help me somehow.
“We’ll work through it together,” you say cheerily, as if it’s a difficult word problem written on the blackboard. But we weren’t together through it all. I was alone, and just because you’re sitting here with me now doesn’t mean I don’t still feel like I’m stranded on a deserted island.
You want me to give it a try. You’re gently urging me to open up. You’ve probably practiced that look in the mirror, so it’s just the right amount of concern paired with encouragement.
It’s not easy, though, you know. I can’t just put words to all the things that have been going on in my head for the past year. I don’t even know if words exist within the English language for some of these feelings. I know you want me to try, but for Christ’s sakes, don’t you think I’ve been trying?
“Start at the beginning,” you say, adjusting yourself in your seat. You cross your legs, one ankle over the other, and tuck them neatly behind the leg of your chair. It sickens me how professional you look, like the perfect image of a therapist on TV.
Pretty, polished, poised.
I bet you were always this pretty. Long blond hair that falls just perfectly into large ringlets around your face. I bet you try to pretend like you don’t know how gorgeous you look, pulling your hair into a loose ponytail draped over one shoulder. The minimal makeup is a nice touch, too, an attempt at making it seem like you don’t care too much about your appearance. But all you pretty girls are the same. Of course, you know how pretty you are. Pretty girls always know, even though they pretend they don’t.
What you don’t know, wouldn’t even be able to begin to comprehend, is what it’s like to be the other type of girl. The type of girl who isn’t pretty or polished. The type of girl who tries so hard to make herself look acceptable, but always seems to come up short. I could never figure out how to tame my frizzy curls, and I sure as hell would never be able to make my ponytail look so effortless. I’ve spent the entirety of my teenage years battling the chaos that grows out of my scalp, and I’ve never once come up victorious.
Sitting here across from you, watching you use a manicured hand to toss your ponytail over your shoulder, I’m even more aware of the mane of flyaway curls that frame my face, despite the fact I’ve tried to slick my hair back into a tight French braid. As if having wild, untamable curls isn’t bad enough, my hair is an obnoxiously bright red, which by its very nature draws attention to my inability to control it.
I resist the urge to reach up and flatten my fringe of rogue curls against my head. Instead, I just stare back at you, watching your cool blue eyes study me. I find myself briefly wondering if you’re judging me, and I almost laugh out loud, realizing that’s basically your job.
You ask me to start at the beginning like that’s an easy location to find. I suppose for most people it is. The beginning is definable, the starting point of the story. But as I watch you watching me and listen to the tap of your pen against your notebook, I have no idea where that place could even be.
There isn’t one specific moment that started everything. I can’t pinpoint one day where everything changed. It’s almost like I just woke up one morning and suddenly realized I had lost control. Things had been set into motion at some point, and I was no longer capable of stopping them, and this is where we ended up. It doesn’t feel like there was a beginning. It feels like there was a before, a during and a now. And it feels like there are different versions of me in each part. Like the me that’s sitting here with you today isn’t the same me that was there in the before part. She was a completely different girl. I don’t even feel like I know that girl.
The Sasha of before would never have believed the Sasha of now could exist. And yet, here we are, you and I, sitting in your office with the stupid paddle ticking off the minutes we’ve been staring at each other. Twenty-seven minutes in, you stop tapping your pen and place it down on your notebook in your lap. You fold your perfect hands and say, ever-so-gently, “Sasha, I can’t help you if you don’t let me.”
I let out a sigh. I know, Doc, that’s the thing you don’t get. You can’t help me. I’m beyond help.
I received an ARC of He Loves Me Not by Nenia Corcoran thanks to the publisher through Reedsy in exchange for an honest review.
He Loves Me Not is a story that followed Sasha through a year of discovery, about herself, yes, but mostly about those around her. Sasha has a difficult family history with a mother who is focused on every aspect of Sasha that does not meet her expectations. This leads to Sasha have an incredible low self-worth. Then enters the cute, popular boy.
Sasha's relationship with Adam is one that is hard to read because I identified with it way too much. As is stated in the blurb Adam has issues with jealousy, mood swings, and possessiveness, which is a recipe for disaster for Sasha. Sasha's desire to be loved and seen triumphs over her own wellbeing. There are times were she can feel the wrongness of the situation, but her fear of being alone keeps her from reaching out for help or even helping herself. Rather than pushing back, Sasha caves inward and struggles to find the light.
While I loved watching Sasha crumble and wallow in misery, it is not for everyone. I also want to stress that this is not a book for those looking to have a 'depressed girl recovers' storyline. While that may (or may not) happen, the journey to the end is dark, which is the main draw to this story for me.