Page 6 of The Love Interest
“Who’s there?”
“Nobody. Because you don’t know how to talk to girls.”
“Ouch.”
I can just picture my sister doubled over laughing at that. Laughing so hard she can’t make a sound.Asshole.
“Ohhh, and?! Also?! Girls like it when you’re nice to them. Well…” She smacks her lips together, and I’m sure she’s staring up at the ceiling, tapping her chin with her index finger. “Nottoonice though. Like, not all touchy-touchy and googly eyes. Like how Jake R. is with me. And also, they sort of like it when you’re mean to them, kind of, right? But only if they can tell it’s because you like them. And only if you’re really, really cute.”
“Right. I’ve noticed that. Am I really, really cute?” Obviously, I know the answer to that question.
“Yes. I heard Kristy’s mom say so. She said you’re a hot piece of eye candy and she wants to lick you like a lollipop, so I guess she thinks you’re really sweet too!”
“Jesus,” Celeste mutters.
I shudder. “That’s nice, I guess.”
“You should go on a date with Kristy’s mom!”
“I think her husband might have a problem with that. Time for bed, Betti Boop.”
“But I haven’t finished telling Uncle Emmett about girls yet.”
“I think you’ve given him enough to work with for tonight.”
“Ugh! Fine. Nighty night. Are you coming to see me soon?”
“Sure.”
“Before school starts?”
“Definitely. Nighty night.”
Celeste tells her she’ll be there to tuck her in soon, and then I hear those little bare feet scuttle across the hardwood floor.
She takes me off speakerphone. “You still there?”
“I didn’t realize hanging up on you was an option.”
She tsks. “Emmett…”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“What?”
“I miss her too, you know. Sophie?” Her voice trembles the tiniest bit. She and Sophie had become really good friends not long after we’d started dating. Celeste would have been one of her bridesmaids. “But it’s been over a decade. It’s like…” She sighs. “Never mind. Have a good milkshake.”
“Wow. It felt like we were almost going to have a real conversation there for a second.”
“This isn’t why I called.”
“Right. You called to leave me a message about Dad calling. It’s likewhat,Celeste?” I can’t believe I actually want to hear her say it, but for some reason, tonight I do.
She takes a deep breath before saying, “It’s just that you’re not in mourning anymore. You know? It’s like you’re using her. As an excuse. To live half a life. Not even half. Your whole life is about your writing now—I know you have contracts and fans and deadlines,” she spits out before I get the chance to. “But that can’t beitfor you. That can’t be enough. She didn’t want this for you.”
I stop in my tracks, stand by the fence around a schoolyard. There may or may not be an old man peeing on a jungle gym in there, but I don’t care. I have to take a breath and bite my tongue to keep from saying what I always say when we have this discussion every few years—that she’s not an artist. She wouldn’t understand. Celeste was a lawyer before she had Bettina. Our father’s an author, and Mom’s a sculptor. Her husband’s in advertising. She doesn’t understand our careers. But shedoesunderstandme, unfortunately. I’ll just never admit that to her.
