Page 40 of The Love Interest
Thank you, Beowulf.
“Despite the genre or subgenre,” he continues dismissively. “Good job.” He pats me on the forearm.
I almost sort of liked him for a second there.
I nod and pretend to take notes on my laptop while the middle-aged lady to my right gives me notes on every single line of my assignment. But really, I’m trying to decide how to convince my mom that I am more passionate about dental hygiene than writing.
When it’s Veronica’s turn to chime in, she sighs dramatically and tells Emmett how much she loves the entire Jack Irons series, and despite thinking every word of it is perfect, she too thought it was very brave of me to tackle this book for this assignment. “I thought it was cute,” she says, as if describing an ugly baby. “And I want to support other women authors, many of whom write romance…” She sighs again. “It’s just that I’m already sick of the wholeBridgertonthing. That show is so overrated, and so are the books. There, I said it. I’m done.”
…
Veronica must die.
…
I can barely hear anything because of all the cartoon fire shooting out of my ears, but I do notice, in my peripheral vision, that Emmett is stroking his chin in contemplation while regarding Veronica. If he likes to look at her, fine. Whatever. It feels like my face is melting right now, so I’m sure I’m not going to be much to look at from now on.
He clears his throat and then says in a very steady voice, “I think now would be a good time to remind everyone that the goal here isconstructivecriticism. It’s fine to have an opinion—we all do—but the point of a creative writing workshop is to learn how to give and receive constructive criticism. Meaning criticism of the work that will actually prove helpful to the writer…despite the genre or subgenre.”
Wow. I almost sort of likedhimtoo for a second there.
And now, instead of dropping out or flinging myself from the window, I am determined to remain in this class and to continue writing Regency romance—at best because I will prove to these assholes that romance novels are a respectable form of storytelling and at worst because I want to piss everyone off by being defiant and awesome.
When my final classmate has finished his attempt at constructive criticism, Emmett Ford stares at his laptop screen—at my assignment, I assume—and says in a clipped tone, “I don’t have anything to add to what’s already been said.” And then he sings the praises of the assignment written by the middle-aged lady to the right of me.
I’m happy for her. I really am. It must feel great to be the recipient of that kind of recognition from such a frowny-face, shiny-blue-eyed hack author.
19
EMMETT
* Three weeks later *
Idon’t need to be in therapy. But if I were, I’m sure I would just be babbling on, ad nauseam, about how frustrated I am right now. The therapist would then tell me I had convinced myself that I’d never find love again and so I somehow managed to find someone I might be able to love, and after getting a cruel glimpse of what it would be like to fall in love again, I created a situation that would make it impossible for me to have her. Not yet, anyway. And by the time I am no longer strongly discouraged from engaging in any manner of loving behavior with her, she will either despise me or be totally indifferent because she’ll be in a relationship with some asshole her own age whom she is now free to have sex with, like Beowulf.
Fucking pretentious little shit. I happen to think that Fiona is a very smart woman. Surely she wouldn’t be dumb enough to fall for that little shit’s moves—if she hasn’t already. But if she does—none of my business. And I certainly can’t fault that little shit for trying. I could do everything within my power to ensure his failure as an author…but I’m not going to do that. Because he’s such a pretentious little shit writer, he’ll be doing that all on his own. I have no idea what he’s even doing in the master’s program.
Anyway. Congratulations to me for confirming my belief that I will never love again. I was right. And it’s fine.
I’ve gotten through the first month of classes. I’ve written thirty thousand words of my novel. Jack Irons gets to say and do every single thing to Catalina that I can’t say or do to Fiona. So good for fucking him.
I just wish I could let Fiona read my manuscript, but even that might be inappropriate. Not that she’d want to read it. She probably hates my writing more than she hates me. But she’d be happy to know just how much she’s influenced me. If I could tell her.
Instead, I will be pissing her off even more when she knocks on my office door in a few minutes.
I don’t even know if I’m pissing her off anymore, actually. I think she is now amused by me. And that pissesmeoff. And turns me on. Which further pisses me off. So, I’m even colder to her, and that just makes her sass it up in class like it’s all a big secret joke to her. She keeps smirking and raising her hand to ask a question whenever I’m on a rant about story structure or past versus present-tense first-person POV, and she keeps calling meProfessor Ford. “Sorry—can I ask a question, Professor Ford?”
Would the question be: “Is your dick getting harder right now, Professor?” The answer is: Ask me again in May, when classes have ended. I will tell you everything you need to know about how hard you make me, Miss Walker. I will tell you about my rock-hard martyred cock and the lust in my heart and every fucking organ. I swear to God even my liver is obsessed with you. Every gesture, every smirk, every word you utter when I’m around goes straight to my balls and remains stored there until I get home, and then it’s all released. I’m a fucking beast, and I release you and then I feel sane again, for a little while. I will tell you exactly what happens to my brain and my body when you open that soft, glossy pink smart mouth of yours. I will tell you every filthy thing I have fantasized about doing to that mouth and every single part of you.
If that doesn’t scare you off, then I will proceed to do every one of those things to you, Fiona. Achingly slow and tense at first, to torture you like you’ve tortured me. And then hard and fast because I won’t torture myself any longer. It will be the sweetest relief and the most agonizing pain all at once because no matter how deep I drill into you, I will never actually be a part of you. We’ll always be two separate, unknowable people who are drawn together and then separated, again and again.
But I will kiss you and fuck you until we both forget this terrible truth. I will kiss you and fuck you until there are no memories, feelings, no words left. Only sweat and skin that feels sunburned and raw from endless friction. Only breaths that might never be caught. Only hearts that have been beating so fast for another person that they’ve emptied out and are ready to be filled again by that same person—by love, if that’s the story we want to tell each other.
But that day in May might never come, and this is not a story we can tell ourselves or each other or anyone else right now, not with the two of us as hero and heroine.
She emailed yesterday to request a short meeting with me after today’s class—if I can “spare a few delightful minutes.” She kept the email brief and to the point. She would like to discuss her work in progress with me. I already know that it’s not the work in progress she wants to discuss with me so much as my inability to praise her work in progress. And the fact that I rarely make eye contact with her or speak to her directly.
Even if I were in therapy, no one would be able to convince me that I’m not doing that for her own good. Yes, it’s easier for me to not look at her in class. Yes, it’s less of a risk to not speak to her directly. But she’s the one who’s paying all the tuition. She’s the one who moved across the country on her own. She’s the one who needs to move on and date some little shit who isn’t me. I’ll be fine. I’ve already had the privilege of knowing the love of my life. I’ve got my career. I’ve got more money than I’ll ever need. I’ve got a deadline to keep me warm at night.
