Page 65 of The Love Interest
I wrote her a letter and mailed it after class was over. Two days later, I got a text from her, telling me to delete it immediately but that she wanted me to know she can’t do this anymore. She didn’t even call me “Assface.” And I guess I was an assface for not replying or calling her. But what can I say? She’s probably with her parents in California right now, smoking pot around the Christmas tree, doing a family heart chakra meditation or burning sage around Fiona’s yoni to clear my energy from it.
I’m in Connecticut, thinking about her and not telling anyone about her at all.
“Your presence has been requested,” my sister tells me. She collapses onto the family room sofa next to me. Her husband went to sleep two hours ago, and she’s finally convinced Bettina to go to bed. I get the sleeper sofa in the family room, which is fine. If I had a wife or girlfriend, I’d be in the second guest room and my niece would be out here—but it’s fine.
My mom’s been working in her studio ever since we finished dessert. After patting me on the shoulder and telling me he’d heard from his friend Tom that I’ve been doing a good job at teaching, my father told me that he was proud of me and then disappeared to his study to write. It was the best Christmas gift he’d given me in years.
“On my way.” I close my laptop and stand up.
My sister takes my hand. We’ve never been a touchy-feely kind of family, aside from Bettina, so it startles me. “She’s worried because you seem sad. I am too. I thought you were getting better for a while there.”
“Yeah. I did too.” I squeeze her hand and let go.
Bettina is sitting up in bed, wearing the pajamas I gave her and writing in the journal I had custom made for her. Engraved on the cover is a tree with a hole in its trunk, an envelope peeking out of the hole, and butterflies flying around it. I told her it’s for her magic secret letters. Or her story about people who write magic secret letters. Whatever she wants.
I love watching her write. The way she holds her pencil and concentrates on how she forms every single word on the page. If there was ever a time that I took that much care with my writing, I don’t remember it. I suddenly remember watching Fiona writing in her notebook that first night I saw her at the diner, and some image of her as a little girl comes to me. Or maybe it’s Fiona’s daughter. That wistful ache I used to feel whenever I was around my niece, the one that was attached to Sophie and the fact that we’d never had kids—I’m feeling it about Fiona now.
Which is insane.
I barely know her.
“I’m writing a letter to yooouuuu,” Bettina sings without looking up from the journal.
“To me? Do I get to read it?”
“Yes.” She sighs and blows at the strands of hair that have fallen in front of her face. “But then you have to write one to me. In here. Before I go to sleep.”
“That’s a lot of pressure.” I take a seat on the edge of the bed, by her feet.
“Yeah. Deal with it.” She signs her name on the page, although her signature is in bubble letters. “Here.” She hands me the journal and the pencil.
“Can’t you read it to me?”
She rolls her eyes, very dramatically. “Fine.” She holds out her hands, and I place the journal back in them. She shifts around on her bum and clears her throat, looking very serious. My sister took her to see me do a reading at a bookstore last year, and she loves to imitate me. “Dear Uncle Emmett… Hi. It’s me. Your favorite niece. Bettina! I think you are sad. I do not want you to be. Nobody should be sad on Christmas. Not even you. That part isn’t really a secret. Not everything has to be a secret, you know? Even things that make you sad. Sometimes when you tell people about things that make you sad, they don’t make you feel sad anymore. It’s magic! You don’t even have to say the things out loud. You can just write them in here. I can keep the words for you. Even if I don’t understand them. You can give them to me. I promise not to tell anyone if you don’t want me to. But if you want me to, I will. Love, from your favorite niece. Bettina.”
…
I’m not crying.
…
But I am ready to write about the things that make me sad about Sophie.
I’m not going to write in here about the things I’ve been feeling about Fiona yet because I’m not ready to let them go.
I take the journal from Bettina and kiss her on the forehead. “You will always be my favorite.”
“I know.”
31
FIONA
What the fuck am I doing in Cold Spring, New York? With my cock? In the rain?
First my parents cancel Christmas on me because they won a last-minute Alaska cruise package.
Then I can’t get any shifts at the restaurant because I had asked for the time off.
