I knew going in – and I hope this is no surprise to anyone, considering the fame the book and movie have gained over the last 30 years or so – that this story was not going to have a HEA. I’d never seen the movie, never read this story before, and only knew there was no HEA waiting for me. When I was halfway in, there was no way I could see myself crying over this one, famous as it is for lubricating the tear ducts. By the seventeenth chapter of this slight, twenty-two chapter novel, I was still pretty much convinced. I mean, I wasn’t even sure I liked the narrator, this arrogant Oliver Barrett IV. And Jenny is hardly the pitiable type. But that didn’t stop me from reading the final chapters through a blur of tears.

But let me start from the beginning.

Oliver Barrett IV is a rich WASP, a jock, and Harvard man through and through. He has a cold and unloving relationship with his father, and apparently little or no relationship at all with his mother. Still, he is upper crust, and not at all ashamed of that fact. But his rich little world is about to be turned upside down by Jenny Cavilleri, an Italian Catholic girl with no money. Instead of being impressed by his money, his looks, or his name, she insults him. Not just the first time they meet, but every time. And very soon, they’re in love.

Needless to say, their relationship hardly meets the approval of Oliver Barret III, who threatens to cut his son off if he marries Jenny, and then makes good on his word. Soon, they’re living in a tiny apartment, working constantly while Oliver studies law. After three long years, their hard work pays off, and Oliver is hired by a prestigious New York law firm with a generous salary, and things are finally looking up for him and Jenny. They decide to have that baby, Bozo, that they’ve been talking about for so long. But they can’t seem to conceive, and decide to see a doctor. And then the nightmare begins.

In the event that anyone isn’t aware of how this one ends, I won’t go into detail over it, but I will warn that there is no HEA in sight. What I can say is that the final chapters are heartbreaking in a strangely unsentimental way, or perhaps it is just that the sentiment is present in a way that may seem strange to romance readers. Oliver tells his tale in a matter-of-fact way that invites no pity, pulls no punches, and leaves no doubt as to what happens, and how he feels about it. Not badly done for a spoiled, imperfect rich kid I wasn’t even sure I liked.

Though Love Story stands as a modern romantic classic, it also stands apart from the romance genre for more reasons than a HEA and a male narrator can explain. Nonetheless, for all its brevity, it is truly a story about love, in all its glory and agony, and should not be missed, regardless of how much kleenex it takes you to get through it. It is – and should be – unforgettable.