Crazy love you

Review by Booklist Review

*Starred Review* Ian is an overweight, very unhappy little boy growing up in the Hollows, a small town in upstate New York that is as creepy as it sounds. His mother has killed his baby sister during a severe bout of postpartum depression and is confined to an institution. Ian grows up bullied and prone to bouts of explosive anger; his only solace is a young girl named Priss, who shows up in his yard one day and befriends him and later defends him. Fast-forward to Ian's successful life as a graphic artist in New York City, where he is struggling with drugs and alcohol and a toxic relationship with Priss. Then he meets Megan, a young woman from a fine family, and they fall in love. Ian wants to be a better person for Megan, and he decides to stop using drugs. Megan wants to meet Priss, but Ian can't let that happen. Priss is very jealous and keeps moving in and out of his life, leaving all sorts of damage in her wake. As the narrative weaves back and forth between Ian's childhood and his adulthood, and his relationships with Megan and with Priss, the story becomes more entangled and more riveting. Is Priss real, imaginary, or a ghost? Does Ian have anger issues, or is it Priss doing all the damage? This is a complex, intricate story, yet the pages fly by as Ian, the most unreliable narrator since Nick Dunne in Gone Girl, leads us on a wild ride in this superb psychological thriller. Unger is at the top of her game here. HIGH-DEMAND BACKSTORY: Tale of the tape: Unger's books have sold 1.7 million copies and been translated into 26 languages; her latest will arrive with full print and online marketing support.--Alesi, Stacy Copyright 2010 Booklist

From Booklist, Copyright (c) American Library Association. Used with permission.

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Review by Publisher's Weekly Review

Bestseller Unger's suspenseful fourth Hollows thriller (after 2014's In the Blood) focuses on Ian Paine, a graphic novelist in New York City, who draws on his unhappy childhood growing up in the Hollows, N.Y., for his successful series Fatboy and Priss. Fatboy was the name Ian was called by the schoolmates who viciously tormented him; Priss was his only friend, a girl who wrought revenge on anyone who hurt Ian. When Ian begins a relationship with Megan, a beautiful, caring woman, the resentful Priss sets out to lure Ian back into the destructive patterns he developed before meeting Megan-patterns that included long work sessions followed by heavy drinking and drug use. Ian is soon keeping company with inappropriate companions and engaging in promiscuous sex and various crimes. The tug-of-war between the two women to gain control of Ian will keep readers hooked, but some will find the lengthy ending unsatisfying. Agent: Elaine Markson, Markson Thoma Literary Agency. (Feb.) © Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.

(c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved

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Review by Library Journal Review

Starred Review. Ian Paine is a successful graphic novelist, but as a child, his life was filled with heartbreak and turmoil. From his beloved mother's descent into madness to the merciless bullying he endured at the hands of his classmates, life dealt Ian a difficult hand. But when a young girl named Priss arrived in town, she became his loyal defender and his close friend. Now an adult, Ian can't turn his back on Priss, even though his friendship with her has taken a destructive turn, drawing him into a life of drinking and pill popping. When he falls in love with the kind and caring Megan, Ian resolves to free himself of his drug habit, but Priss makes it clear that she isn't going to let go. VERDICT Unger's skillful portrayal of complex and traumatized characters make her latest psychological thriller (after In the Blood) one that will keep readers engaged from start to finish. Fans of mystery and suspense, along with Unger aficionados, will enjoy this imaginative tale, which may be the author's best work yet. [See Prepub Alert, 8/11/14.]-Linda Oliver, MLIS, Colorado Springs (c) Copyright 2015. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

(c) Copyright Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

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Review by Kirkus Book Review

Unger takes her loyal readers back to The Hollows, a creepy town about 100 miles from New York City, in this tale of love gone awry.Ian Paine writes and illustrates graphic novels and has become quite a success. His seriesFatboy and Prisschronicles the adventures of a nerdy outcast and his gorgeous, red-haired avenger, the amoral Priss, who makes certain that no slight to Fatboy goes unpunished. Originally from The Hollows, where otherworldly events are common, Ian was the original Fatboy. He led a miserable life after his mother lost her grip on reality and smothered his baby sister, then led him to the bathtub, perhaps planning to drown him. Escaping from his mom, Ian ran into the woods, where he met Priss, a strange child with red hair; as time passed, she became his only friend. Ian was the school joke, but with weight loss and artistic success, he eventually made a new life for himself in the city. Now he's fallen in love with a woman named Megan, and she's accepted his proposal of marriage. But when his editor tells him it's time to kill off Fatboy and Priss and start another series, he finds that Priss, who has both haunted and defended him, isn't going to go without a fight, and that fight can get very, very ugly. Though fans may wonder why, given its history, anyone would live in The Hollows, the big question for readers will be whether or not Priss is real or simply a manifestation of a disturbed young man's imagination. Unger's complex novel can at times get a little confusing, with the action constantly shifting from place to place and back and forth in time, but Unger knows what her fans like and scores another bull's eye with this one. Classic Unger and a surefire hit with her followers. Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

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Crazy Love You Prologue As I pulled up the long drive, deep potholes and crunching gravel beneath my wheels, towering pines above me, I was neither moved by the natural beauty nor stilled inside by the quietude. I did not marvel at the fingers of light spearing through the canopy, dappling the ground. I did not admire the frolicking larks or the scampering squirrels for their carefree existence. No. In fact, it all made me sick. There was a scream of protest lodged at the base of my throat, and it had been sitting there for the better part of a year. When it finally escaped--and I wasn't sure when that might be--I knew it would be a roar to shake the world to its core. It was supposed to have been an auspicious year for me. According to all the astrological predictions--if you believe in that kind of thing--I was to have found security at home, success at work--rewards for all my labors. Megan, the sweet and willowy girl of my dreams--the kind of girl who asked the universe for what we needed, and who dwelled "in a place of gratitude," and who regularly walked around burning sage and whispering her good thoughts--was no match for the tide of shit that was headed our way. I should have told her not to bother. Part of me knew that I was only keeping it all at bay--the darkness, the bad luck, the ugly turn of circumstance, the destroyer waiting in the shadows. But I wanted to believe in her, in us. And for a time I did. Maybe it was all worth it, everything that followed, for the moment in which I was able to live in the sun with her. But now that moment makes the dark seem so much deeper, so much less penetrable by any kind of light. I snaked along the winding, narrow path in my banged-up old Scout, steeling myself for the sight of the house, which waited just around the next bend. It shouldn't have even been there. I'd finally scheduled it for demolition; should have done so long ago. Megan and I talked about building our dream home in its place. Or rather she talked about it, and I made noncommittal noises. I might have known the house wouldn't allow itself to be destroyed. In fact, maybe that was where I'd gone too far into my new life. It was one thing to move on. It was quite another to try to level the past, to pave it over and build it back as you would like it. That wasn't allowed. Not for me. And then there it was, as rickety as it was defiant. As fragile as it was indestructible--shutters askew, siding faded and slipping, yard overgrown, porch sagging. As I turned a hard corner with the mean winter sun setting behind me, it rose into view, looked bigger than it had a right to be. The sky behind it was orange and black, the trees dark slashes against the gloaming. Oh, Meg had plans for this place--our country home, just a few short hours from the city. It was to be our retreat, a place where I would write far from the distractions and temptations of our urban life. No, we wouldn't have wireless up here. It would have been our place to unplug. But those were her plans, not mine. As far as I was concerned, self-immolation was a more desirable option. As I came to a stop, the whole place seemed to vibrate with malicious glee. The scream dropped into my belly and became a hard ache in my gut as I climbed out of the truck. How is it possible that I am back here? I asked myself. A place I fled, vowing never to return. Now it's the only place I have left. Megan would have something to say, like: It's the universe forcing you to confront the thing you dreaded most. It's taken everything from you because that's how important this is. What lesson is it asking you to learn? In fact, that's precisely what she had said. Man, I ached to hear that bright and positive voice, to hear that vibration of love and confidence. But now, when I called her, I only got the clipped and professional tone she'd used for her voice mail. I'm not available at the moment. Please leave a message. She wasn't answering my calls. I left long rambling messages; I wasn't even sure she listened to them. Her last words to me: We don't have anything left to discuss, Ian. Don't call me until something changes. I don't know what that means, I pleaded. But there was an expression she wore when she looked at me now--sad, disappointed, and angry. And that look was the only answer she gave me before she left me on our bench in Central Park by the Alice in Wonderland statue. It was the last place I'd seen her. I watched her walk away, huddled into herself against the cold. She moved quickly past a little girl who was chasing a boy around the circle. The boy was crying but the girl was laughing, oblivious or indifferent to the fact that the game was frightening him. I think I called Megan's name, because the children stopped and looked at me, both of them staring with mouths formed in perfect O's of surprise. Their nanny hurried over and shuttled them away from me, casting a disapproving look in my direction. But maybe I didn't say her name. Maybe I said something else. Whatever it was I said, or yelled, Megan hadn't stopped. She moved faster as if she was afraid, as if she couldn't wait to be away from me. Why was she afraid of me? How could she be? I had watched until she was absorbed into the throbbing crowd of New Yorkers shuttling through the park on their various ways to various important things. Now the thud of the hatch closing reverberated like a gunshot in the silence. I had one large black duffel bag, my leather art portfolio, my supply box. I slung the bag over my shoulder and left the portfolio and art supplies for later. The air was frigid, my bare hands raw and painful from just a few moments of exposure. Then I turned to face the house. For the first time I noticed that lights were burning inside--one upstairs in my old bedroom and one downstairs in the small living room. Outside, darkness had fallen completely and suddenly like a shroud. There was movement inside and I wasn't in the least surprised. I wasn't angry or afraid, though I should have been both. This was it. Rock bottom. The way I saw it, I could lie down, a pile of shattered bones, until I slowly bled out, fading into a blissful, delicious nothingness. Or I could pull myself up, one broken limb at a time, and fight my way back to Megan, to the life we were trying to build. The decision wasn't as easy as you might think. When the darkness calls, it's a siren song--magical, hypnotic, and nearly impossible to resist. You want to go. It's so easy to do the wrong thing, the bad thing. All you have to do is give in. On the front step, I could smell her, that mingling of perfume and cigarette smoke and something else. A helix of fury and desire twisted in my belly as I pushed through the door. And she stood there, as wild and beautiful as she had always been--her hair a riot of white and gold and copper, her linen skin, her eyes the moonstone blue of terrible secrets. Priss. She took the stance of victory, legs apart, arms akimbo, a slight smile turning up the corners of her mouth. I almost laughed. I let the door slam behind me. "Hello, Priss." My voice didn't sound right. It sounded weak, had the tenor of defeat. She heard it. Of course she did. And her smile deepened. "Welcome home, asshole." Excerpted from Crazy Love You by Lisa Unger All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.

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