Eric Lindstrom didn't just write another YA romance. He wrote a manifesto on agency. When I first picked up the Not If I See You First book, I expected the usual tropes: a girl who can’t see, a boy who feels guilty, and a slow-burn realization that love fixes everything.
It doesn't. And that’s why it works.
Parker Grant is, frankly, kind of a prickly person. She’s blind, but don't you dare feel sorry for her. If you do, she’ll probably kick you out of her life before you can even finish your sentence. She has "The Rules." They are strict. They are non-negotiable. And they exist because Parker is tired of people treating her like she’s made of glass or, worse, like she’s invisible just because she can't see them.
The Brutality of Parker Grant’s Rules
Most books about disability focus on the struggle of the disability itself. Lindstrom flips that. The struggle in this story isn't that Parker is blind; it's how she manages the people around her who think they know what’s best for her.
She has a list of rules for interacting with her. Don't touch her without asking. Don't lead her unless she asks. Don't lie to her.
Rule number one is the big one: Don't ever talk about her behind her back.
It sounds simple. It’s actually impossible for most high schoolers to follow. When Scott Kilpatrick shows up back in her life, the guy who broke the most important rule of all years ago, the book stops being a "disability story" and becomes a raw look at betrayal and the messy process of forgiveness.
Parker isn't always likable. She’s stubborn. She’s mean sometimes. Honestly, she’s a bit of a hypocrite. But that makes her human. In a world where disabled characters are often written as saint-like inspirations, Parker’s jagged edges feel like a breath of fresh air.
Beyond the "Blind Girl" Trope
Let’s talk about the sensory writing. Usually, when authors write blind characters, they lean too hard on "the smell of rain" or "the sound of a distant piano." It feels performative.
In the Not If I See You First book, the sensory details are functional. Parker navigates her world through mental maps and specific tactile cues. Lindstrom doesn't just tell us she’s blind; he forces the reader to understand the logistics of it.
How does she run? She runs on a track with a guide or a very specific setup.
How does she know who’s who? Voice recognition and scent, sure, but also the "vibe" of their movement.
The book avoids the "magical disability" trope where the character has superhuman hearing to compensate for their lack of sight. Parker just has a highly developed sense of spatial awareness because she has to. It’s a survival mechanism, not a superpower. This grounded approach is likely why the book remains a staple on "best of" lists for disability representation, even alongside newer titles like The Silence Between Us or Get a Life, Chloe Brown.
Scott Kilpatrick and the Ethics of "Helping"
Scott is an interesting character because he represents the "well-meaning" person who messes everything up. Years ago, he did something that Parker viewed as the ultimate betrayal. He thought he was helping.
This is the central tension of the novel.
Is it okay to break someone's trust if you think you're protecting them?
Parker says no. Absolutely not.
The book pushes the reader to wonder if Parker is being too harsh. Is she pushing people away to stay safe, or is she actually standing up for her own autonomy?
It’s a fine line.
Scott’s return forces Parker to re-evaluate her rigid structure. Her life is built on these walls she’s erected—both physical and emotional. She runs every morning. She follows the same paths. She keeps her circle tiny.
But life is messy. You can't run a perfect line forever without hitting a literal or metaphorical hurdle.
Why the Ending Isn't What You Expect
Most YA novels end with a bow. The girl gets the guy, the trauma is healed, and everyone learns a valuable lesson.
Lindstrom is smarter than that.
The resolution in the Not If I See You First book is more about Parker’s relationship with herself than her relationship with Scott. Yes, there’s romance. But the real "win" is Parker realizing that having rules is good, but being a prisoner to them is a different story.
She has to learn that vulnerability isn't a weakness. That’s a cliché, I know. But for someone whose physical safety depends on being in control, vulnerability is terrifying. It’s not just about "opening your heart"; it’s about letting someone guide you when you’re used to holding the leash.
What Most Reviews Miss
I’ve read a lot of critiques of this book that focus on Parker being "annoying."
That’s the point.
We allow male protagonists to be grumpy, distant, and rule-obsessed all the time. We call them "brooding" or "complex." When a female character like Parker does it, she’s labeled "unlikeable."
But her anger is justified. She’s dealing with the death of her father, the abandonment of her mother, and a world that constantly underestimates her. If she wasn't a little bit of a jerk, I wouldn't believe her character at all.
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Also, the friendship dynamics are top-tier. Her best friend, Sarah, is the MVP of the book. She doesn't treat Parker like a charity project. They fight. They make up. They talk about normal teenage stuff. It’s one of the most authentic portrayals of female friendship in mid-2010s YA literature.
Practical Takeaways for Readers
If you're picking up the Not If I See You First book for the first time, or if you're a writer looking to learn from it, here’s the reality of why it works:
- Autonomy over Inspiration: Don't look for an "inspirational" story. Look for a story about a girl who wants to be left alone to live her life.
- Logistics Matter: Notice how the author handles the day-to-day life of a blind teenager. It’s in the small details—how she organizes her clothes, how she uses her phone—that the character becomes real.
- The Weight of the Past: Pay attention to the flashback sequences. They aren't just filler; they explain exactly why the current-day "Rules" exist.
- Nuance in Forgiveness: Forgiveness doesn't mean forgetting. It means deciding that the person is worth the risk of being hurt again.
If you want to dive deeper into this kind of storytelling, check out Eric Lindstrom’s other work, like A Tragic Kind of Wonderful, which deals with mental health with the same level of raw honesty.
The biggest lesson from Parker Grant? You don't have to be "nice" to deserve respect. You just have to be yourself. And if people can't handle your rules, they don't deserve to be in your orbit.
Stop looking for the "lesson" in people's lives and start just seeing the people. Even if, like Parker, they can't see you back.
To get the most out of this story, read it while paying close attention to the dialogue tags. Lindstrom uses them to convey a lot of the "visual" information Parker misses, creating a unique reading experience that forces you to perceive the world through sound and tone rather than sight.