In her introduction, contributor Julie Sondra Decker notes that the portrayal of romantic love in literature “as a prerequisite to fulfillment and even personhood [is] disturbing.” In this collection, aro characters who don’t experience romantic attraction face not only arophobia, but also misunderstandings; compulsory romance; feelings of being broken, lacking, or othered; and disappointment from friends who want something more from their relationships. However, they also find strength connecting with other aromatic people and supportive friends and from discovering alternative ways to live and love. Most of the stories are well-written, and the standouts include “Do You See Me?” by Isa Fiel, which links the legend of La Llorona to arophobia, and “Daughter of Time” by co-editor Dyer, which contrasts a Neanderthal girl’s warm and loving community with a modern girl’s isolation. Ian M. Carlisle’s “Thomas Marley’s Fake Bride” broadens the anthology’s representation by centering on a protagonist who delights in sex—just not romance. Among the many intricately woven worlds, the high-concept nature of a few might challenge readers, as might the second-person narration of some stories. The genres represented include fantasy, science fiction, dystopia, and realistic fiction. Several tales feature leads who are of non-European heritage, and many include characters who represent a multitude of LGBTQ+ identities.

Most Americans have heard of Frank Lloyd Wright, a name once synonymous with American architecture. Wright’s buildings, including the Guggenheim Museum in New York City and Fallingwater in Pennsylvania, are rightfully considered masterpieces. But few these days know that he had been an irresistible magnet for the tabloids of his day, making him one of the first celebrities of modern times; he was targeted by media moguls looking for salacious stories to separate a rubbernecking public from their hard-earned nickels. Even so, modern readers may be surprised by the comparative innocence of the era’s mass media, which clutched its pearls over the architect abandoning his wife and children at the peak of his career to be with Martha “Mamah” Borthwick, the wife and mother of two children of a neighbor and client. Sherman, the author of several histories and true-crime tales of the rich and infamous, was charmed by the potency of the love story at the heart of the book; and thanks to copious quotes from his highly literate subjects and his own masterly tale-spinning, most readers will succumb right along with him. We learn what Borthwick saw in Wright, and we become enchanted by what we learn of her: She was a talented author and translator in her own right, as well as a pioneering feminist. “We do not want to be censored by the community,” she told a journalist, “respond[ing] to the news reports that the couple’s…neighbors wanted to drive them out of town.” All the more devastating, then, when the horrific story implied in the title takes center stage.

In this sequel to Miller’s Out of Patients (2022), Dr. Norah Waters, approaching her 65th birthday, is planning to officially announce her impending retirement, which is scheduled to commence at the close of the year. The stress of caring for and worrying about patients has become exhausting. For the past five years, she’s been in a relationship with Dr. Peter Calloway, a radiologist. The issue of retiring is a source of contention between them; Norah would like him to join her in retirement, but, although they’re the same age, Peter isn’t ready to step down. Meanwhile, over in Sun City, a sprawling retirement community outside Phoenix, Norah’s feisty 91-year-old mother, Vivian Waters, is becoming restless with her sedate life. She’s been calling Norah more frequently, and Norah realizes that it’s time for a visit. She brings a small tape recorder, proposing that her mother begin recording stories about her unconventional and most interesting life. Vivian counters by informing Norah that she’s joining a Scrabble club and is starting to train for a marathon. Still, she becomes quite enamored with the process of recording herself, resulting in a charming narrative device that allows Vivian to speak simultaneously to the machine and to readers. In alternating chapters, Norah narrates her own tale of professional frustrations, various challenges with her mother, and her relationship with Peter, frequently including the humorous text messages they exchange throughout the day (“Hey, you fell for me. Another gullible moment”). A bit of medical infighting, a painful backstory, and an unexpected romance add poignancy and welcome zest to the leisurely paced drama. Miller’s prose is breezy and sharply witty, vividly portraying the troublesome mother-daughter dynamics that have plagued the two leads over the years. Vivian is the more memorable of the two, a retired anatomy professor who’s now a delightful, curmudgeonly elder convinced that her reclusive neighbor has killed her husband.

Jansi—an attorney, epidemiologist, wife, daughter, and mother of two—is a South Asian woman “swimming against a relentless current.” Caught between her demanding career, aging father, hypercritical mother, two teenage sons, and a hollow marriage, Jansi finds each day passing in a blur of anxiety. She barely even has a moment to look inward—not that she would want to, if it means disturbing the fragile sarcophagus of her buried memories. After a particularly fateful phone call, however, Jansi feels her “quiet tether of control” snap, and she plummets into a glass of wine and a handful of pills. When she comes to, Jansi finds herself staring at the prospect of six to eight weeks in a mental hospital. Even scarier than the idea of challenging “the stigma surrounding therapy in the Indian community” is the idea of finding herself. Supported by her beloved cousin, her therapist, and a “scheduled mix of group therapy, art classes, and mindfulness sessions,” Jansi “step[s] toward reclaiming her life from the shadows of loss.” The narrative seamlessly interweaves Jansi’s present with her past, gliding between the mental facility and her childhood home in New York City. Through therapy sessions and frequent journaling, Jansi reckons with issues of abandonment, inadequacy, and abuse that color her memories of childhood, in addition to the relationships and events that make up her present. (Abruptly removed from her home in India at 6 years old, Jansi moved to the United States to be with her parents and seemingly flawless older sister.) Adusumilli depicts Jansi’s therapy arc with detail and delicacy; her moments of reflection are tragic, brave, and satisfying. The characters (especially Jansi’s mother) are, for the most part, complex and captivating. They exist in the very real gray areas of life, and readers will be able to relate. Lovers of personal and thoughtful literature will delight in Jansi’s journey of self-discovery.

Told through the eyes of an adult reflecting on lessons learned with a childhood dog, this sweet picture book by Santos follows a youngster who spots two puppies at a Sunday market—one pristine, one flea-ridden—and is steered by Mom toward the bedraggled choice. That dog, Luna, becomes the youngster’s teacher for life as she quietly shows the child the importance of listening, having fun, and forgiveness. Seiferling works in her signature brown and white graphite style—seen previously in Bear Wants To Sing (2021) and King Mouse (2019), both by Cary Fagan—and it serves this story beautifully. The technique renders Luna’s shaggy coat with remarkable warmth and texture, while Seiferling deploys color and light with a sure hand: Warm golds suffuse the child’s dreaming face as the dog glows above like a vision, and a winter spread washes the world in cool blues and greens. Compositions shift register confidently; intimate vignettes give way to expansive park scenes teeming with dogs of every description. The story’s final turn (“Last weekend, my daughter turned seven. For her birthday she asked me for a puppy”) gives the book emotional weight and multigenerational resonance that will land hard with parents reading aloud. Human characters have light tan skin.