Perennials

I’ll admit: I rolled my eyes when I saw *another* Southern sister novel. But *Perennials* hooked me within 20 minutes—not with drama, but with *specificity*. Cantrell’s Lovey isn’t a generic “misunderstood outcast”; she’s a woman who’s spent 20 years in Arizona but still flinches at the sound of her sister’s voice on the phone. The audiobook’s brilliance lies in how Pressley handles those moments. When Bitsy coos, *“Lovey, you always were so *sensitive*,”* the narration makes it clear this isn’t just an insult—it’s a weapon Bitsy’s been honing since childhood. I also appreciated how the production uses silence. During Lovey’s flashbacks to their mother’s funeral, the pauses between lines feel heavy, deliberate, like the kind of quiet that settles over a room when everyone’s thinking the same ugly thought but won’t say it. That said, the middle act drags slightly. The Arizona sections, while crucial for Lovey’s character, occasionally meander into *Eat Pray Love* territory—all sagebrush and self-discovery—without enough tension to balance the Mississippi fireworks. And Pressley’s male voices (particularly Lovey’s love interest) sometimes veer into caricature, though they’re mercifully rare. Still, the final act lands with the force of a slammed screen door. The confrontation between the sisters isn’t cathartic in the way these scenes usually are; it’s messy, incomplete, and painfully real. By the end, you won’t remember the pacing hiccups—just the way Cantrell and Pressley make you *feel* the weight of a lifetime spent as the family’s emotional whipping girl. If you’ve ever loved (or resented) a sibling, this one will burrow under your skin.