The Love Interest
Page 20
After a moment, the door cracks open.
No, I did not open the door for you.
I don’t stand up either.
“Have a seat.” I gesture toward one of the chairs in front of my desk. She shuts the door and takes a seat. “What’s up?”
She has a smug look on her face. That is not what I was expecting. “Hi, Professor Ford. How are you?”
“Fine. How are you?”
“I’m well, thank you.” She makes a big show of observing the items on my desk. “You know, the last time I met with you in your office, I was out in the hall right outside the door and I saw you remove a piece of paper that was covering that little window. Then, through the window, I saw you tidying up some things that had fallen on the floor.”
Shit.
“Which was interesting to me because I had just passed Fiona Walker on my way over. She seemed flushed. Disheveled. A bit bewildered, perhaps.”
Fuck.
“And then when you let me in here, I got the sense that, well…you know.”
I remain still and silent. She’ll get to her point whether I ask for it or not.
She recrosses her legs and leans forward. “I haven’t told anyone what I saw yet.”
Yet.
“But I don’t like my grade. I know you only gave out two A’s and one of them went to Fiona. Which is interesting, especially since you had been surprisingly harsh on her work in the workshop. I mean, I didn’t disagree with your assessments, of course, but there was a palpable tension between the two of you. I can’t say I noticed it before I saw what I saw. But things were much clearer to me after that. And they’re very clear to me now.” She waits for me to speak, but I don’t. She sighs, as if I’ve inconvenienced her by forcing her to tell me what she wants instead of offering it to her. “I am aware of the school’s personnel policy regarding consensual romantic and sexual relationships between teachers and students. I’m sure you are as well. It’s ‘a cause for concern.’” She takes a dramatic breath before continuing. “If you give me an A, I won’t tell the department chair what I saw. But I’ve already made an appointment with Professor Delancey at two tomorrow afternoon. So you have until then to let me know your thoughts.” She stands up, zips up her coat, smooths down her hair. “You know how to get in touch with me.”
She pauses with her hand on the doorknob. “Would you like me to leave the door open or closed?”
I glare at her.
She closes the door behind herself.
I can’t believe I didn’t even realize she was outside the door when I was cleaning up in here. I was so consumed with thoughts of Fiona I barely even heard a word Veronica said during that meeting. From September until Christmas, the words “Persons found to be in violation of this policy may be subject to disciplinary action and/or appropriate sanctions” marched through my head like Stormtroopers. Now the only words that come to mind when I think of Fiona are: I think I’m in love. I need to tell her.
But I need to decide what to do about this surprising development before it turns into an actual shit storm that affects my dad.
I pull out my phone and call the only person I can think of to talk to about this right now.
When she picks up, I breathe a sigh of relief. “Is this a butt dial or are you actually reading Bettina’s mind now? Because she literally just asked when you can come over.”
“I need your advice. Not as a former attorney but as my sister.”
“If you mean you don’t want me to charge you for it, then too bad. My advice is worth even more as your sister.”
That actually makes me smile a little, but I can’t laugh.
“Did I lose you?”
I scrub my face with the palm of my hand. “No. But I may have lost my head a little over here.”
“What’s wrong? Tell me?”
I don’t know what to tell Celeste, other than everything. Everything I can tell my sister, that is. So I start with the night she called me when I was on the way to the diner. Because that was when everything changed.
40
FIONA
The uneasiness I was feeling earlier today never dissipated.
Fortunately, Jed is now dating someone who owns a wine bar and Jed just bought a case of wine from him at cost. Three hours ago, I insisted that I should not start drinking before I see Emmett. I wanted to be sober when I tell Emmett that I love him for the first time. Two hours ago, I agreed that it was rude to let Jed drink by himself.
Now I’m feeling fairly tipsy and very uneasy because I haven’t heard from Emmett at all this evening. I called him an hour ago and it went straight to voicemail, but I didn’t leave a message. An hour later I sent a heart emoji text. After I started drinking, I sent him an eggplant emoji. Followed by an angel face emoji. Followed by a grimacing face emoji fifteen minutes later.
I need to separate myself from my phone so I don’t text him something really stupid. Keiko has been in our room for the past hour, so I’m trying not to go in there. That’s a problem because the wine is out here and Jed keeps filling my glass so I have no idea how much wine I’ve consumed. Somewhere between two glasses and way too mush.
“You should send him a nipple pic,” Jed advises.
“I’m not sending him a photo of my nipple, Jedediah. He’s still my profeshor.” That sends me into hysterics. “I said profeshor.”
“I wasn’t suggesting you send him a pic of your nipple.” He lifts up his shirt to expose one of his nips and then frowns when I tip over on the sofa, laughing.
Tears are streaming down my face, but it wasn’t that funny. I am so nervous about Emmett. I hug a throw pillow to my chest. “What if it’s over? What if I never see him again?”
“I think you’re overreacting,” Jed says, sounding very sage-like and reasonable. “You should text him again.” He hands me my phone. “Have another big gulp of wine first.”
I sit up and take the phone and the wineglass from him. “You’re right.” I take two big gulps of wine because I am an overachiever.
ME: Hi! I how you happy a wondering not. I knowing well said well meet up tonight but it’s totally
ME: Chill. Shirt. That was super to say chill.
ME: Fix.
ME: Ducking.
ME: FUCK.
ME: Just delete all of this.
ME: I love you.
“Shit!”
“What?”
“I just tolded him I love him.”
“Aww.” After a beat, he laughs. “You just said tolded.”
“For the first time. In a text.”
“So?”
The panic and adrenaline are sobering me up pretty quickly. “Jed! I can’t tell a grown man that I love him for the first time in a text message!”
“Why not? I do it all the time.”
“Yeah, but you never mean it.”
“So?”
I wave him off because I can’t with him right now. “Now if I don’t hear back from him, I won’t know if it’s because I told him I love him or not. Should I write just kidding?” Okay, maybe I’m not sobering up.
“No!” He shrugs. “If you don’t hear back from him, then there’s your answer.”
“But what if he’s dead?!”
“Honey, they’re literally never dead.”
I toss the throw pillow at him. This is why I need to talk to a straight woman right now instead of a gay man. Someone needs to tell me that Emmett might not be getting a signal or maybe he lost his phone or perhaps he’s stuck under a heavy piece of furniture.
But deep down, I know this is a Veronica thing.
It’s a shit’s getting real thing.
What we had over winter break really is over.
I have no idea what comes next.
My bedroom door opens, and Keiko walks out. She doesn’t stomp out—she wal
ks. Quietly. Thoughtfully. Her hair is platinum blonde now and she isn’t wearing any makeup, so I barely recognize her.
“Hey, Keik.” Jed holds up the nearly empty wine bottle. “Wine?”
“Hi! Are we being too loud? I love your hair.” Please don’t say anything mean to me.
She comes over to join us in the living room, sits cross-legged on the floor next to Jed, and rests her head on his shoulder but looks at me. “You guys are both wrong.”
“Oh, did you hear us talking?”
She doesn’t nod. She just says, “If shit’s gotten real, then this guy—who is a man—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 in The 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’s your reputation 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 say fuck in 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.”
“Anyway, I have a damn Pulitzer. You’re a New York Times best-selling author with a damn movie franchise. Fuck ’em. It’ll make our Wikipedia pages more interesting. We’ve both worked too hard to let a little scandal tarnish our reputations. Don’t you let this tarnish your relationship with Fiona.”
“I don’t plan to. Thank you. For understanding.”
/>
He reaches for his phone. “I will call Tom for you right now.”
“No. I don’t want you to get involved. I’ll email him to ask for a meeting. Before Veronica’s supposed to see him tomorrow.”
“I feel as though in some way I got you into this mess. The least I can do is help to iron things out for you.”
“I don’t blame you for this at all, Dad. If anything, the mess is what turned this love into a love story. Right?”
I get up from the sofa and hold my hand out to shake his. He stares at my hand, stands up, and comes around from behind his desk to give me a hug. The first real hug he’s given me, as far as I can recall, in thirty-five years. I’m too stunned to have an emotional reaction, but it doesn’t last long enough for me to lean into it.
When he pulls away, he mutters, “I’ll tell your mother about all this. You know she’s going to insist on having Fiona over for dinner very soon, right?”
I have to clear my throat before saying, “I look forward to it. Thank you.”
I wait until I’m in the car before pulling out my phone to email Delancey and find a series of text notifications from Fiona. Scanning the messages, it’s clear to me from the emojis and typos that she’s been drinking even before she informed me of this. I can’t wait to see her damn face.
ME: You’re a nutjob. I’m leaving my parents’ house in Connecticut now. I will text you when I get home. Try to sober up, will you? We need to talk.
ME: P.S. I also wanted to tell you this in person, but I ducking love you too.
42
FIONA
I’m really good at pretending to be sober.
I mean, I don’t even have to pretend, really. I took a nap after I ate and totally processed most of the alcohol from the three or four glasses of wine in my system. It’s one thirty and Emmett has texted me that he’s downstairs and we’re going to go for a walk. I’m all bundled up in my puffy coat and he’s all bundled up in his puffy coat and we’re like two sexy teddy bears hugging each other on the stoop.