Page 21 of The Love Interest
“You want me to take a picture of you? For your mom?”
She slides her phone back into her pocket while adjusting her hair. She has shoulder-length hair and she’s always fiddling with her bangs, as though having bangs that aren’t covering her forehead in exactly the right way will somehow temper the alarming beauty of her face. It doesn’t. She could have a crappy wig on backward like leopard-print coat lady and still be stunning.
“I don’t like posing for pictures. Especially not in public. Thank you though.”
“Fair enough.” I pick up Goliath. “To the Whispering Gallery?”
“Yes, please. You know how to get there?”
“Yeah, it’s by the Oyster Bar.”
“So you’ve experienced it before? The whispering thing?”
“Nope. I’m usually on my own when I’m here. On my way to or from Connecticut.”
“Walking around by yourself, huh?” she teases. “I’m concerned.”
I don’t even bother replying with a comeback because she’s so busy looking around and I’d rather just watch her. I lead her to the ramp down to the Dining Concourse. I’ve never been here at five in the morning before. It’s usually bustling and I’m usually in a rush to catch a train. It’s quiet now. This is one of the reasons I love being awake late at night, but this feels like a stolen moment. Like catching the sunrise over the harbor. It’s turning out to be one of those rare New York experiences where things come into focus, and I’m so glad I can actually recognize it while it’s happening.
I’m already grateful to this girl for reminding me of something that I need to keep in mind for Jack… Each new person you meet is an opportunity to become some new, better version of yourself. It’s just a matter of whether or not you’re willing to reach for the new in order to let go of what you don’t need anymore.
Jack Irons is ready to reach for something new.
I’m not.
But I’m ready to write about it.
“You really aren’t tired?” I ask her. Because she seems so young, and I just don’t remember what it felt like to be wide awake for all the good reasons.
“I haven’t been tired for a week.” She shrugs. “I know I should sleep more. I mean, I have slept a few hours here and there, but…there’s so much to do and I…”
“You what?”
She seems shy all of a sudden. She looks down at the floor, five feet in front of her, like a typical New Yorker. Like me. “I’ve had this feeling…like something significant is going to happen. You know? I haven’t had that kind of anticipation since I was a kid, and I don’t even know exactly what it is I’ve been anticipating.” It seems like she’s going to continue, but she doesn’t. It seems like she wants to look over to check my reaction, but she doesn’t.
I stop in the middle of the arched entryway between the Oyster Bar and the exit to 42nd Street. “This is it.”
“It is?” she whispers, looking at me all wide eyed and young, so young.
“The Whispering Gallery.”
“Oh.” She’s disappointed. She thought I was telling her that this is what she’s been anticipating. But I can’t tell her that. I’m too old to say things like that out loud to beautiful girls I’ve just met in the wee small hours of the morning.
This part of Grand Central doesn’t look much different from the other cream-colored-tiled Beaux-Arts corridors, which makes it even more intoxicating to know that it has a secret.
I put the rooster down in a corner before saying, “You read about the Guastavino tiles and why the phenomenon occurs?”
“No, my mom and I were Googling articles about special places to visit in New York, and we thought this sounded romantic.”
“Okay. Well, Guastavino designed this archway, and the tiles on the curved ceiling are set together so tightly, without any vents, that there’s no place for sound waves to disappear into. And there aren’t any rugs, so there’s no way for sound to be absorbed. Because of this, if one person speaks directly into one of these corners, there’s nowhere for the sound to go except up, following the arch to another corner.”
“That’s amazing.”
“It was a happy accident. The sound waves basically cling to the walls. Do you want to get a shot of the cock whispering into that corner?”
“I think my mother would rather know that I tried it out myself with a handsome stranger.” She doesn’t even smile or blush or smirk, she just says it so directly.
“Right. Let’s do this.”
