Page 4 of The Love Interest
Less than three years later, I had already become a fairly successful asshole New Yorker. I wanted to tell everyone who had moved here that they were just bringing their memories and broken hearts with them and there wasn’t enough room in this town for mineandtheirs.
Ten years since moving here, I’m an impossibly successful, jaded asshole New Yorker who doesn’t even see past five feet ahead of him. If I move somewhere else, I’d just be taking my past and my broken heart with me there too. The eloquent dissonance of this city has become my soundtrack. I don’t know if it’s my soul projected outward or if I’ve somehow embodied the numb electric shock of predictable chaos.
But New York, more specifically New York at night, is my home as much as any place could be without Sophie.
At least I have family here. At least there are three people on this island whohaveto love me. As if on cue, my phone vibrates in my pocket. I know, even before reaching for it, that it’s my sister.
Three a.m. is too late for a booty call when you’re thirty-five, even in New York, and only someone who is related to me would know that I’m up at this hour. The Fords are a family of night owls. Night owls who get shit done. Night owls who would just lie in bed thinking about all the things they never said to their loved ones if they weren’t so busy being productive and awesome.
I answer after the second ring. “Hello, Celeste.”
There’s a brief pause when she sucks in her breath, and then: “Holy shit, you scared me.”
“I know it must be startling when people see your name on their caller ID and actually accept the call.”
“Oh, fuck you. I was going to leave a message. I figured you’d be working.”
“Iamworking. Outside.”
“Ohhh. Aninspirationwalk. How’s it going?”
“Fine.”
“You finish that first chapter yet?”
“What can I do for you, Celeste?”
“That bad, huh? Did Dad call you today?”
“No. Why?”
“Nothing. I mean, it’s not nothing, but he should be the one to tell you.”
“Tell me what? What happened?”
“Nothing happened. I mean, something might happen. He just has to talk to you about it. Something. It’s not bad. It’s actually a good thing. I think. Forget I mentioned it. He’ll probably call you tomorrow.”
“Great. Thanks for the heads-up.”
“This isn’t a heads-up. You have to talk to him.”
“Just tell me what he’s calling about.”
“I can’t—Oh hey, look who’s up!” I can hear her telling my niece that she’s on the phone with me. Bettina is seven. She’s my favorite person alive and currently suffering from insomnia. This wasn’t a huge problem in the middle of summer break, but Labor Day is just around the corner and she won’t be able to get up at noon on a school day.
Honestly, I don’t even know how kids can sleep in this city, and I also don’t know how parents can handle raising them here. Just that thought causes me to swallow down the faint sting of regret, of not raising children with the love of my life. It’s fading now though, like the sense memory of that first sip of Irish whiskey. Like absolutely everything else.
“She wants to talk to you,” Celeste tells me. “That okay?”
“It’s the only okay thing about this day so far. Put her on.”
She switches to speakerphone and places the phone on a hard surface. They must be in the kitchen. Celeste spends her late nights in the kitchen, and I spend them in my office.
“Helloooooo? This is Bettina. Who am I speaking to please?” She giggles. This is her new thing—something she heard her mom say on the phone last week.
“This is the Sleep Police. You’re under arrest for getting out of bed in the middle of the night.”
“No I’m not.”
