I need a happy ending in my books. It might be immature, illogical and unrealistic but I need it. I’ve read books where there isn’t one and it’s not the same.
When I read, I get attached to the characters. No. Strike that. I get very, very attached to the characters. I wince when they’re in pain and cheer when they overcome challenges. I follow their steps with my heart in my mouth, hoping, hoping things will work out. When people (ahem–other characters) hurt them, I grit my teeth and keep reading, wishing for that happy ending.
I know people who can tell where a book is headed. They can see a twist coming or know what will happen at the end. I’m not like that. I don’t see that elusive happy ending coming. In fact, fear and worry it won’t be there at all. I know, I know. I read romance. A happy ending is a guarantee. I know that…or at least my head knows it. My heart has doubts. When I read, I still agonize that the hero and heroine won’t get together. For much of the book, I’m terrified and, if anyone interrupts me at those times of acute angst, I must admit…I’m not exactly cordial.
Thankfully, I read romance. The happy ending does arrive and, when it does, I sigh with relief and appreciation. I probably should expect it but it never ceases to amaze me. Every time, I’m just as incredibly grateful. I sigh with wonder and delight and love the entire world.
Ahhh…those happy endings.