Page 32 of The Love Interest
“Did you tell him you’re a writer?”
“No. But I’m not a huge best-selling author. Yet.”
“He probably liked that you aren’t a star fucker. That’s why that old guy with the weird voice who was onSex in the Citythat one time liked me. Because I didn’t know who he was.”
He looks so frowny and handsome in his author photos. There’s only a hint of the sadness and humor that I’ve seen in his eyes, and on some level that makes me feel special because I got to see something that his readers and most Googlers don’t get to see. But my body certainly recognizes him, and I’m squeezing my thighs together even as I wrinkle my nose while scanning the article titles because… “Eww. Action thrillers? He wrote the books those Ryan Gosling movies were based on?”
“Ryan Gosling is hot in those movies. Maybe I should get my hair cut like that.”
“Jack Irons. I can’t believe he isn’t a lawyer.”
“Are you disappointed that he’s not a lawyer? Can I take a whack at him?” Jed wrestles his phone away from me, so I reach for my own.
There are texts from my mom, reminding me to do a heart chakra meditation, asking when she’ll get another cock pic—but none from Emmett. I was the last one to send a text last night, telling him to let me know if he wants to meet up today. This is the part that I have always dreaded about being attracted to someone that I actually like. The ups and downs. The waiting for a notification, and the rereading of texts, and the analysis of every sentence and moment I can remember between us.
It’s fucking agony. Delicious. But agonizing.
I’ve read about it. I’ve seen it in movies, and I’ve felt what it must be like when listening to songs about it. I had never written about it before and thought I could get away with using my imagination to describe it in my manuscript. But this is the first time I’ve really experienced it—the longing for a specific person I’ve already met.
And I don’t hate it.
I GoogleEmmett Ford author marriedbecause I am not going to have obsessive nipple-y butterfly thoughts about whether or not a man has chest hair if he’s married. A quick scan appears to confirm that he is not and has not been married. So I am cautiously optimistic. I will hesitantly resume obsessive nipple-y butterfly thoughts about Emmett’s probable lack of chest hairiness.
“It says here his net worth is ten million and he’s six-foot-two.”
“See, that’s why I don’t like to Google people. I’d say he’s six-one. And I don’t care what his net worth is.”
“My last boyfriend reused his coffee filters and stole toilet paper from his job. He once used toilet paper for a coffee filter, and I would not be surprised if the vice versa also occurred. This isn’t Eureka. New York is expensive. You need to care about that kind of thing.”
“Well, I don’t. That’s not what inspired me about him.”
“It says here he’s circumcised.”
“Oh good. Wait. How do they even know that?” I close my browser app and put my phone back onto the bedside table facedown. “I don’t want to know. Stop Googling him.”
I yelp when the door to our apartment slams shut, but Jed is not at all startled. I hear heavy footsteps, and seconds later, our other roommate Keiko stomps into the room. She has pink hair and lots of eyeliner. She’s wearing a floral minidress and black Doc Martens, and she’s very pretty but also slightly terrifying, and I really want her to like me. I’ve only met her once before since I moved in here just over a week ago, because she’s always at her boyfriend’s place.
“Hi! Welcome home!”
She frowns at me, says nothing, throws her overnight bag onto her bed, and starts pulling clothes out of it, tossing her dirty laundry into the hamper at the foot of her bed. Then she grabs things from her garment rack and stuffs them into her overnight bag. It all takes her less than sixty seconds, and I can’t look away.
“Hey, Keik.” Jed doesn’t even look up from his phone.
“Hi.”
“Left your mail for you on the counter. Did you see it?”
“No, I’ll grab it on the way out.”
“Cool.”
“I love your hair!” I find myself saying. “I’ve never seen that shade of pink on a head before.” I wince as soon as I finish blurting out that sentence. I would ignore me too right now. “Do you have to use a rinse every week to keep it looking that shiny, or…?”
She slings her bag over one shoulder and then stares down at the philodendron on her bedside table. “Did somebody water my plant?”
“I did. A couple of days ago. It was really dry.”
“Don’t water my plant.”
