Not Your #Lovestory Takes a Look at Love in the Age of Twitter Voyeurism

Page Street Kids

In 2018, on an Alaska Airlines flight from New York to Dallas, a woman switched seats with a stranger and spent the next four hours conversing with her attractive new seatmate. Unbeknownst to either of them, their conversation was being documented in a viral Twitter thread by the passengers behind them, depicting a meet-cute worthy of a romantic comedy. The story launched the hashtag #PlaneBae and, on the surface, seems like a happy little anecdote that I would have easily retweeted had I known it existed at the time. But after reading Sonia Hartl’s sophomore novel, Not Your #Lovestory, I was reminded that strangers’ personal lives are not meant to serve as entertainment for others—and that the downsides of viral internet fame can far outweigh the benefits.

Not Your #Lovestory follows Macy Evans, who has dreams of her ’80s film-review YouTube channel taking off and allowing her to get out of her small town, where she worries she’ll end up in a dead-end job like her mother. After an awkward run-in with a cute boy named Eric at a baseball game, Macy is suddenly rocketed to viral stardom when photos of their encounter are posted on Twitter and portrayed as a romance that doesn’t exist. She is reluctant to play along at first, but the pull of bolstering her platform becomes difficult to ignore, despite the online harassment she’s subjected to. The longer she indulges Eric’s ego and their internet audience with the #BaseballBabe fantasy, the more Macy wonders whether her proverbial 15 minutes are really worth giving up her own happiness.

It’s all too easy to get swept away in a story where you’re the outside viewer and can fill in the blanks about the people involved; it happens every day on the internet, after all. In Macy’s situation, she’s on the other side of that equation, her personal life and information quickly exposed to anyone with a social media account, and suddenly it doesn’t seem so harmless. Along with the online hate she receives, strangers begin to show up on her doorstep unannounced to gawk and ask questions, and people she’s known for years begin to see her in a less favorable light. Even when Macy decides to start interacting with Eric on Twitter and YouTube, the criticism only gets worse, and the drama starts to seep into her real-life relationships.

While the framing device is the catalyst for the events of the novel, it’s Macy’s everyday life that is the real focus—specifically, her budding romance with coworker Paxton and her fragile relationship with her mother. With a strict “no dating coworkers” rule in place, Macy finds it frustrating that she can’t take things further with Paxton; on the other hand, her constant worries about making enough money to support her family are why she goes along with the #BaseballBabe ruse, which upsets Paxton due to past trauma he’s faced through social media. Macy is constantly torn between doing what she wants for herself and what she thinks will be good for the future, even if it’s at the expense of her own happiness, and while it’s frustrating to watch her struggle, it’s a very relatable situation. Making a name for herself on her own terms disappears the moment the #BaseballBabe thread is shared, and Macy spends the entire story trying to take back control of her life and peace of mind.

One thing I was disappointed by was how the side characters weren’t as fleshed out as other YA books I’ve read in the past. Many of them are funny and have a vibrant presence whenever they appear, but they feel fleeting and largely unimportant to the overall story. For example, Macy’s shy new coworker, Brady, seems to be a superfluous addition to the cast, as does his ex-girlfriend Strawberry, the two of them hardly present enough to make much of an impact. Macy’s manager, Midnight, gets a bit of a backstory that plays nicely into the Defrosting Ice Queen trope—while she dresses in black and has a threatening aura, she has a reason for doing so—but the reason fell flat for me. Midnight also has had an on-again, off-again relationship with Macy’s best friend, Elise, and Macy doesn’t initially trust her to treat her friend the way she deserves due to Midnight being closed off in the past. This subplot didn’t feel explored enough to be satisfying because it was there for Macy to learn not to judge others, not for any kind of profound character development.

Still, Not Your #Lovestory was a quick read for me, and it was one I enjoyed for the most part. I think the discussion of the voyeuristic nature of social media was a good one to bring to light; like many things in life, it’s a complex, ever-changing situation that doesn’t have one answer or opinion to sum it up, but it’s something to always keep in mind when navigating the internet. Hartl’s story may not explore this topic too deeply, but at the very least, it’s a conversation starter—and a good reminder for those of us who are quick to romanticize, or throw stones at, strangers on Twitter.

Not Your #Lovestory hits shelves September 1, 2020.