The Roughest Draft(13)

“Nathan, hello.” I recognize my editor’s voice. Elizabeth Quirk, publisher of Parthenon Books, plays the eccentric New York editor to perfection. She wears thick plastic glasses and elaborate shawls, and cups of coffee cover her desk. It’s an act, or half the picture. She is ruthlessly entrepreneurial, and I respect her despite my frustration that she’s rejected my solo proposal, which has landed me in this position with Katrina. “Have you recovered from your tour?” she inquires.

“You know me,” I respond shortly. “Always eager to start the next book.”

“Indeed. We love that,” Liz replies magnanimously. I know she won’t bring up the book Parthenon passed on. We’re just going to pretend there’s no bad blood between any of us. Not between me and Liz, and certainly not between me and Katrina. “Well,” Liz continues, “I can’t tell you how excited everyone is in-house about this project.”

Right on cue, the line beeps. The voice I hear next is Chris’s. “Chris and Katrina here,” he says. I hate how he strings their names together like it’s second nature. I hate how he says his first. Hearing him reminds me of phone calls four years ago where he’d give us half-assed ideas, and Katrina and I would only need to exchange one look to know we were going to ignore him.

I wait for Katrina’s voice.

Everyone does, for a second. When it doesn’t come, Liz chimes in. “Katrina! I was just telling Nathan and Jen how excited everyone is for this. It’ll be the literary event of the year.” I have to roll my eyes. Even if we might be the literary event of the year, publishers love to promise you everything. No one ever really knows until the book is on shelves.

Chris laughs, and it’s gratingly evident he’s having the exact opposite reaction. He sounds self-congratulatory, presumptuous. I find my mind straying to my now-shelved thriller manuscript. In it there’s this supporting character, this fumbling douchebag of an FBI agent who interferes in the central pair’s life. I’ve named him Dean, but character names are easy to change. “Glad to hear it,” Chris says. “We all know Nathan and Katrina will deliver something fantastic.”

Once again, his fiancée’s name second. When we were both his clients, it invariably went the opposite way. Katrina was the one he showered with praise, with special interest. Even then, it was unmistakable why. I guess it worked in the end.

Jen interjects now. If Liz’s voice is syrup, Jen’s is something stiffer and more refreshing. “I’d love to discuss the timeline. What’s Parthenon want for deadlines and publication?” Thank god for my agent. Of everyone on this call, she’s the only one I trust.

“For a book this big? I see no reason to delay,” Liz says. “So let me turn that question around to the authors.”

The line falls silent. I find myself waiting, expecting. Wondering when Katrina will speak up. The combination of hope and dread makes me drum my pen on the pages of my leather-bound journal. Katrina’s voice never comes.

The pause expands, and I recognize it’s not only Katrina holding out. I could chime in right now. Why I haven’t is complex. It’s part competition, not wanting to look like the more compliant, eager one in this unhappy reunion. Underneath my petty resistance, though, there’s a detestable current of fear. If I speak, I’m pushing through choking curtains of things unsaid four bitter years in the past.

It was four years ago, I remind myself. Grow up, Nathan. I won’t throw away my career because I don’t want to talk to Kat.

“Well”—I bluster in what I hope comes off confident—“we wrote the first draft of Only Once in three months.” There. I spoke first. Surely Katrina will take her victory and deign to join the discussion.

She doesn’t.

“Three months,” Liz repeats. I hear the impatient undercurrent in her voice. She’s wondering the same thing. Where the hell is Katrina? “Then build in time for revisions, copyedits, promo. Honestly, I’ll bump another title and we could have this on our list for next year. But I certainly don’t want to rush you.”

“Katrina would like to do this quickly as well,” Chris interjects. “Two months is the goal.”

It wreaks havoc on my blood pressure. Is Katrina even on this call? What if Chris speaks for her throughout the entire process? It would be unbearably tedious, not to mention personally unpleasant. If I have to draft this entire book through Chris, I might finally discover the cure for my love of writing. I could become the investment banker my father wanted me to be.

“Well, we’re on the same page, then,” Liz confirms, the flint in her voice echoing my own misgivings. “I’d love to hear what Katrina and Nathan are thinking for the book’s premise.”

I pause—this would be the point for Katrina finally to enter the conversation. I give her a second. When once more she’s silent, something in me snaps. Clearly Katrina doesn’t care about this. Why she’s even doing the book is a mystery, but an unimportant one. I do care. Fuck investment banking. If Katrina won’t participate, I’ll lead. I’ll do the whole thing if I have to.

“Before Only Once came out, we were working on an idea centered on a young couple going through a divorce,” I say. It was one of the proposals Katrina and I put together for our follow-up to Only Once before our partnership imploded. It was a good pitch, despite being weirdly prophetic. I never expected to be divorced by twenty-eight. Melissa certainly didn’t.