Page 86 of The Love Interest
She doesn’t nod. She just says, “If shit’s gotten real, then this guy—who is aman—is probably dealing with the shit before he talks to you. That’s what grown men do.”
I lean forward. “Interesting. Go on.”
She is expressionless. “No.”
“Fair enough.”
“I’m not going to girl-talk with you,” she snaps. But then I recognize a look of regret on her pretty face. “I mean…” She sighs. “I mean, if it’s really love between you and this man, then you need to respect that. This fake angst about him not texting you back for a couple of hours is a waste of time. Trust me. I’ve been in love. Save the angst for when you know it’s actually over. Because it will suck—hard. It’s still new for you. Enjoy the good stuff. Even when there’s bad stuff to deal with…” The corner of her mouth quirks up a bit. “Or he might be dead. Should we order dinner?”
“I love you, Keiko. I love you, Jed.”
They aren’t paying attention to me because they’re already looking at Jed’s food delivery app.
I pick up my phone again.
ME: In case I didn’t make it clear: I love you. I hope you’re okay. I want to tell you I love you to your handsome face when I get the chance. But I love you.
41
EMMETT
It’s a two-hour drive from Manhattan to my parents’ house in Connecticut. I spent the first hour thinking about Fiona and the second hour thinking about my dad. The first hour was a lot more fun, even though I felt guilty about not letting Fiona know what was going on. I don’t want to tell her anything at all until I know exactly what to tell her.
I already knew I wanted to come talk to Dad before talking to Fiona, but it was important to me to get my sister’s opinion about the best order in which to do things. My parents and I have rarely been direct with each other about anything of real emotional significance. When Sophie was sick, my father patted me on the shoulder a lot when we were actually in the same room together. After she died, he put both hands on my shoulders and squeezed while staring down at the floor. Then he wrote a very moving short story about a grieving father whose son had just lost his fiancée and published it inThe New Yorker. I have a subscription, but my dad sent me a copy with a note that said,I hope you read this. My best to you, Dad.
I cried when I got to the end of that story. It was only the second time I’d cried since I’d lost Sophie. I tried so hard to stay positive for her when she was sick, and then when she finally let go, I lost it. And then I didn’t cry again for three months until I got to the final paragraph of my father’s story. I never told anyone about that.
That was when I decided to write novels though. That was when I knew my hero would be a widower and that I would give him everything I had ever felt. Bit by bit, I would let it all out on the page.
It’s not in my nature to write elegant stories like my father does, but we dance around things in the same way. That is, I used to. I’m on the verge of becoming the man I need to be for Fiona. If things have to fall apart before I can put them back together for us, then so be it.
When I first get here, my parents have just finished dinner and my mom insists I have dessert with them. After half an hour’s worth of apple pie and small talk, my mother disappears to her studio, as always, and my father invites me to join him in his study.
I had always liked coming in here when I was younger—when my dad wasn’t home. It’s comforting, being surrounded by books. But this was always the place my father retreated to. I understood why, once I’d started to write, but it felt like he was trying to get away from us. I understand now that it was the only way he knew how to connect with his feelings about us and everything else.
He sits behind his desk and gestures for me to take a seat on the old leather sofa across from him. I get settled and wait for him to clean his glasses. When he puts them back on again, he leans back in his chair and asks, “So…what’s going on? Is this about teaching?”
“Yes. It’s about teaching, and it’s about something much bigger than that…”
He raises his eyebrows. “All right.”
I tell him I had decided back in the summer that Jack Irons needs a woman. I tell him about the night I went to the diner and met a woman named Fiona. I tell him about her and the four-foot metal rooster and the Whispering Gallery and the sunrise. I tell him how much it meant to me that he wanted me to take the visiting professor position and that by some terrible coincidence it turned out Fiona was in the fiction workshop. This is probably the first story of mine that he’s really been interested in. I skip the filthy details, of course, but he gets the idea.
When I get to the part about Veronica, I can see him tensing up.
“All I know is, I refuse to give that student an A. She doesn’t deserve one. I wasn’t cavalier about the grades I gave out—I gave it a lot of consideration. Fiona’s work deserves an A. Veronica’s doesn’t. That’s the bottom line for me.”
My father nods, slowly, leaning forward onto his desk. “But what about your relationship with Fiona?”
I swallow hard and say, “I love her. I have no regrets about starting a romantic relationship with her. I know there will be repercussions, but I’m not going to stop seeing her. What I’d like to do is talk to Tom Delancey before Veronica does. Tell him about Fiona and me. I care more about her than I do about my own reputation—it’syourreputation I’m concerned about. I want to do this in a way that won’t affect you… But I don’t know that it’s possible. I’m very sorry about this.”
My father sighs. “Well…” He takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes. He always does this right before making a profound statement or doling out carefully worded criticism. I’m not sure which to expect, but whenever he calls me “son,” I know I can breathe a little easier. When he calls me “Emmett,” I’m screwed. He puts his glasses back on before continuing. “Son…I have been waiting to hear you say you’ve fallen in love with another woman for over a decade. I was hoping that job would inspire you. Remind you of why you started writing. Get you out into the world again. But it sounds like Fiona did that for you the night before I called you about it.” He shakes his head and combs his fingers through his salt-and-pepper hair. “Academia. What the fuck, right?”
I don’t even know what to say to that. That’s only the third or fourth time I’ve heard my dad sayfuckin my entire life.
“I appreciate your coming to talk to me about this. It’s not an ideal situation. I’ll tell you—I’ve seen and heard of a lot over the years at that school. Some of it pretty sordid. There is a reason why those policies are in place. And there’s a Veronica in every class, believe me… I never found myself in your position—to be clear—but I wouldn’t give her an A either.” He removes his glasses again and scrubs his face with his hands. It has always made me nervous, seeing my dad without his glasses on. He looks vulnerable. When he puts them back on, I can breathe again. “Is being reprimanded for falling in love with a beautiful woman really something to be ashamed of?”
It takes my brain a moment to process what he’s just said. “I mean—I don’t think so.”
