This story begins where many on-campus literary adventures of mine do… the fourth floor of Centennial Hall.
For those who may be unaware, Centennial’s top floor is absolutely brimming with unconventional literature free for the taking.
While the large bookshelf near the back of the floor is always a pleasure to sift through (especially if you’re looking for books in Spanish), the hotspot for book lovers on this floor has to be the Kate Gill Memorial Library.
Kate Gill has a wide variety of literature to choose from in its compact space, from its multitude of reference books, its shelf of Shakespeare, its collection of past NOTA editions to an array of contemporary titles accrued across many English Fest Book Swaps (our short story club starts this week).
I was looking through Kate Gill after an English Fest meeting near the beginning of the fall semester when one book stood out to me. It was a queer romance titled “Sorry, Bro” by Taleen Voskuni that featured the phrase, “proudly Armenian, proudly bisexual” in its back cover blurb. I simply had to have it.
After sitting on my dorm bookshelf for months, I finally got around to reading it, and it did not disappoint.
“Sorry, Bro” follows Nareh Bedrossian, a 27-year-old Armenian-American journalist (Spectator legend?) who finds herself looking for love after turning down a proposal from her boyfriend of five years, Trevor, “in the midst of a sausage-fest polka party” (Voskuni, 1).
Now on the market, Nareh’s mother tells her to start looking for guys by attending a series of cultural events titled “Explore Armenia,” with the mother even creating a spreadsheet of men she approves of.
Very early on, though, Nareh stumbles across a woman with witchy vibes named Erebuni, who she’s immediately infatuated with. 300 pages of chemistry ensue.
There are a few things I want to point out about this book, the first being the book’s conflict. The conflict in “Sorry, Bro” isn’t very heavy, unsurprisingly, but I liked how Voskuni took advantage of Nareh’s intersectional identity to create a dynamic central conflict.
Nareh has many conflicted relationships in “Sorry, Bro,” which all seem to center around her being a people pleaser. The conflict immediately begins with Nareh not wanting to directly reject Trevor’s awkward Oktoberfest proposal, putting their relationship in a state of limbo as Trevor flies out to Europe for a weeks-long business trip.
Outside of that, Nareh is treated terribly at her workplace, with her boss being condescending towards her culture and ideas, yet she struggles to stand up for herself. Then, while in her relationship with Erebuni, Nareh tries keeping her mom happy by meeting up with her “bachelors” and lying about both her relationship and her queer identity.
At the end of the novel, all of these conflicts interact in an engaging way that forces Nareh to stand up for herself and take control over her identity.
Another standout aspect of this romance novel is, thankfully, its romance. If I were to describe Nareh and Erebuni’s romance in one word, it would be warm and not just because that’s how it’s described on the cover.
While this book does have a few physically intimate scenes, the chemistry between these two women is built mostly through character interactions. Nareh and Erebuni are both silly little flirts, yes, but they also deeply care for each other and their interests.
Erebuni goes out of her way many times to be a comforting presence for Nareh. They first meet when Nareh’s in her car, scared to go into an Explore Armenia event alone, and Erebuni notices her and offers to be her plus one.
Apart from being Nareh’s shoulder to lean on, Erebuni is also an elite hypewoman, making Nareh feel like she’s worth it at every opportunity.
It’s also sweet seeing Nareh grow as she gets closer to Erebuni. While her love for Erebuni flourishes, so does her love and value for herself and her acceptance of her queer and Armenian identities.
The final part of this book I wanted to discuss, and what stood out to me more than anything else while reading, was its humor.
Right away, Voskuni hits you on the head with the book’s silliness. Not just with the title, but also with how the first scene takes place at, again, a “sausage fest polka party” (Voskuni, 1) called “Diekkengrabers” that Trevor somehow thinks is a good place to propose.
The way this book is written, though, just exudes silliness. Voskuni is not afraid to use millennial and text slang, break off into informal parenthetical asides early and often and even include emojis at one point. This book is laugh-out-loud funny, and while Voskuni often writes right on the border of cringe, I respect her a lot for that.
As an aspiring novelist who loves writing absurd plotlines (as anyone who’s read my writing knows), I’ve been thinking about writing techniques I could take away from this book.
For the past few months, I’ve been revising my first draft of the novel I’ve been working on since 2023. The plot is extraordinarily goofy, but I’ve been struggling with figuring out how far I should be leaning into the silliness at every turn. The constant asides of “Sorry, Bro,” in particular, have definitely given me something to think about.
Overall, I’d give this book a 7.5 or 8/10. It’s not a world-altering read that deeply moved me like the books I normally give higher scores are, but it’s a very fun ride with a lot of aspects to appreciate.
I’d recommend “Sorry, Bro” to any fans of borderline cringe comedy and/or character-driven romance. It’s a very easy read, so I wouldn’t recommend it to anyone looking for a deep dive into LGBTQ+ topics, though it does talk a lot about Armenian culture and history.
Within the next few days, I shall be returning this to Kate Gill Library, so if you want to read it, it will be available. And, while you’re there, English Fest. Find us on Blugold Connect +.
Coleman can be reached at [email protected].
