I grew up loving Anne of Green Gables. It’s not really a surprise because what redhead doesn’t latch on to the few characters with copper locks? (#representationmatters!) Needless to say, seeing Brina Starler’s Anne of Manhattan pop up made me giddy. I mean, a modern romance retelling of Anne’s story? SIGN ME UP.

Anne of Manhattan obviously follows Anne Shirley’s journey as a grad student in NYC… where she runs into her childhood nemesis, Gilbert Blythe. They haven’t seen each other in the six years since graduating high school in Avonlea (Long Island). They shared one great kiss at a beach party, but things went sideways in a hurry. Now, Gilbert is transferring into her program and they are forced to work together on a thesis project.

If you take this novel simply at face value, it is great. It’s got the whole enemies-to-lovers trope going full tilt. It’s got acceptable steaminess. It’s got your dose of nostalgia from the source material.

However, I’m not sure I really cared for the flashbacks. Starler used it as a way to tie more of the original material into the present day novel, but it didn’t always feel right. (Not just because the thought of Anne getting gel pens for Christmas clashed with my Anne-as-a-child vibes.) The flashbacks felt forced to me in most instances.

I also kept waiting for a classic Anne Shirley catastrophe to happen, but it didn’t ever come to pass. Instead, we got sexual harassment as a plot point, which irritates me, as I’ve mentioned with other stories.

One little delight in Anne of Manhattan is a little glimpse inside Gilbert’s head. I don’t remember getting that in the original books (but it’s been decades since I read them so I could easily be forgetting it). It was fun to see Anne through his lovesick eyes and how his actions as a child affected him into his adult life. We could all use more Gilbert time, so maybe that needs to be the next retelling.

Irritations and preferences aside, I still enjoyed Anne of Manhattan for what it was. The hefty dose of nostalgia was enjoyable and sent me into a minor existential debate. I text my friend multiple times while reading it, saying “I am Anne. Anne is me. She’s absolutely an enneagram 4w3.” Now the question is, am I the way I am because that’s me or because Anne’s story influenced me as a child. I don’t know the answer, but I’ll still smack a boy in the head with a notebook and/or chalkboard any day they need some straightening up.