Look, I'll admit it—I started this one skeptical. The title sounds like something you'd find in the 'Beach Reads' section at the airport bookstore, and I've been burned by 'uplifting' fiction before. But here's the thing. Charlie Lyndhurst understands something fundamental about grief that most writers get wrong: it doesn't look dramatic from the outside. It looks like swimming laps at 6 AM because you can't face another morning in a bed that's too empty.
I listened to most of this during my lakefront walks with Denise, which felt appropriate. There's something about water—the rhythm of it, the way it holds you—that Lyndhurst captures beautifully. Gabriella, Helen, and Ian aren't drowning in some metaphorical sense. They're literally going to a pool because it's the only place where the weight of their lives feels bearable. That's not a gimmick. That's truth.
Where the Narrative Actually Lives
This is a quiet book. My students would hate it. I love it.
The plot isn't really the point here—three lonely people meet at a London lido, form a friendship, help each other survive. Simple. But Lyndhurst is doing something more interesting with structure, weaving between perspectives in a way that lets you see how differently each character experiences the same moments. Ian hiding his unemployment from his husband while Helen hides her emotional starvation from hers. Gabriella trying to be both mother and father while barely holding herself together.
Some listeners have complained about the narrative jumping being confusing, and I'll be honest—there were a few moments early on where I had to rewind because I wasn't sure whose head I was in. But once you settle into the rhythm, it works. This reminds me of what Hemingway said about the iceberg theory: what's unsaid carries as much weight as what's spoken. Lyndhurst trusts the reader to fill in the gaps.
The prose deserves to be savored. It's not showy—no Faulknerian sentences here—but it's precise. Warm without being saccharine. Lincoln Highway has that same quality: unassuming on the surface but doing real emotional work underneath. The kind of writing that sneaks up on you.
Joe Jameson Gets It (Mostly)
Joe Jameson brings a clear, warm delivery that suits the material well. His character voices are distinct enough—you can tell when we've shifted from Gabriella's grief-heavy internal monologue to Ian's anxious spiraling. The emotional beats land. There's a scene toward the end involving a conversation at the pool's edge that Jameson handles with real restraint, letting the silence do the work.
That said, I noticed some rushing in the middle sections. A few passages felt like he was trying to get through them rather than inhabiting them. And there were a couple of repeated phrases that seemed like production errors—the kind of thing that pulls you out of the story for a second. Nothing catastrophic, but worth mentioning.
I listened at 1.0x because, well, you know me. The author chose those words. But I could see this working at 1.15x if you're less stubborn than I am about these things.
The Radical Act of Just Showing Up
Here's what I kept thinking about: this is a book about the radical act of showing up. Not grand gestures. Not dramatic rescues. Just three people who decide to keep meeting at a pool, keep talking, keep being present for each other. In an age when everyone's isolated in their own little bubbles—scrolling phones, avoiding eye contact, pretending everything's fine—there's something almost subversive about a story that says friendship requires nothing more than consistency and honesty.
If you loved 'A Man Called Ove' or anything by Mike Gayle, this is its spiritual successor. Identicals gave me that same urge to reconnect with people I'd let drift away. It's the kind of book that makes you want to call an old friend or finally join that community group you've been putting off.
Who should listen: Anyone craving a gentle, character-driven story about adult friendship and quiet resilience. Who should skip: If you need plot momentum or find slow-burn narratives frustrating, this will test your patience.
Is it perfect? No. The pacing wobbles in places, and I wanted a bit more depth from Helen's storyline. But it's genuine. And genuine is harder to find than you'd think.
I finished it on a Tuesday evening, grading papers at 11 PM, and I actually put down my red pen for the last hour. That doesn't happen often. Make of that what you will.
