The Roughest Draft(15)

Jen sighs, loud and laborious. “I’ll talk to Chris. But I will not babysit you while you refuse to communicate with your coauthor. You will go on this retreat, and you will be professional.”

“I understand,” I say earnestly. “Thanks, Jen.” I hang up.

Walking upstairs, I replay the conversation in my head. Liz’s parting words echo in my ears. I know you’ll have a wonderful time. Despite myself, they make me laugh.





7





Katrina


Being in this house feels like having a fever. The warm Florida light outside is too bright, the humidity too heavy. Every detail of the place is vaguely unpleasant—the teal-painted hardwood floors, the wicker furniture, the shutters cutting up the view from every window. Even the fish in the painting in the hall watches me from its frame like it’s dissatisfied.

It’s been two weeks since the phone call with Nathan, our editor, and our agents. Two weeks since Chris and Jen worked out the timing for this retreat. No one wanted to delay, not even me. Arrangements were made, flights booked, the house prepared. The whole time Nathan and I exchanged not one single email.

I’m in the living room now, computer on the white coffee table, trying to brainstorm. It’s a funny word, brainstorming. When creativity’s going well, it feels intuitive, easy. Not today. The storm in my thoughts is part of the problem. It’s shaping up into a hurricane, Nathan and Chris and this dreaded book and the next two months in Key Largo threatening to whip the doors from the hinges in my mind.

Of course, it’s not only personal problems getting in my way. I’m out of practice. I haven’t written fiction in over three years. The instincts feel dull, sluggish with disuse. I don’t have time for sluggish. I refuse to spend even one unnecessary minute in this house.

But I made this choice, I remind myself. Even here, fingertips on the keys, Nathan mere minutes away, it’s hard to remember exactly why my relationship is worth this. I have to hold my resolve. I take a deep breath, close my eyes. Ideas, burry and indistinct, shift into focus, sending signals down my arms, to my hands, ready for the blank page.

I type one letter and the doorbell rings.

Closing my computer, I iron out the waver in my fingers, embarrassingly relieved to have staved off writing. I rise to my feet, turning with trepidation toward the door. In the windows, shuttered in shocking sky blue, I can see the shape of Nathan. His suitcase next to him on the porch. It feels unreal, having this person who, for four years, I’ve only seen in memories and side-by-side photos in book reviews stand in the flesh ten feet from me.

I walk slowly into the front room. With a deep breath, I open the door.


? FOUR YEARS EARLIER ?

On the front porch, the sunlight warms my skin wonderfully. It’s sweaty in Key Largo, but not in the ways I mind. Not the sweat of walking in the city in your heaviest coat, or of elevators in summer. Florida’s is like after-sex sweat.

My flight got in before Nathan’s, and I went to the rental house early to check the place out and claim my bedroom. In the small Italian villa we rented last year, Nathan grabbed the master bedroom for himself, and I was left with the twin bed and the lime-green wallpaper. I couldn’t object, not when Nathan paid for that trip on his own. I tried to thank him for it, and he just looked at me and frowned. “What else would I spend it on?” he asked. I thought it was a ridiculous question. He had a wife, who probably would have loved a trip to Italy. But I didn’t press. How Nathan managed his marriage was his business.

He’s not paying for this trip, though. Pride swells in my chest at the thought. We’ve made actual money from our first book. Not life-changing money, which is fine. Florida-retreat money is exciting enough.

While I wait, ideas whirl in my head. I’m itching to get started, but I don’t. Not without Nathan. The last time I wrote without discussing the direction with him, he read the pages and came up with an inspired improvement in fifteen minutes. I had to start over from scratch. Instead, I’m reading one of the books I found in the house’s library. It’s historical romance, and I’m loving it, unsurprisingly.

Finally, Nathan’s ridiculous rental car rolls up in the driveway. It’s a Porsche, per usual. He has the top down, his hair wind-tousled. I watch dryly while he leaps out. “Reading already?” he calls up to the porch, eyeing me. It’s a running joke of ours—in every spare moment I have, I’m reading whatever’s in reach. Even if it’s a stack of moldy newspapers from 1995 I found in the attic.

“Would you rather I’d started writing without you?” I reply.

He grabs his luggage from the trunk, two suitcases and the leather shoulder bag I know carries his laptop. “What, cheat on me?” He smiles like he knows I never would. “Of course not. Though it would be rather thematic.”

“Life imitating art,” I say.

He hauls his luggage up the porch steps, eyes flitting over the white wooden columns, the sky-blue shutters, the bougainvillea. “I’ve had some thoughts on the flight on how to move up the first act ending,” he comments casually.

“I’m shocked.”

“It drags,” he insists.

“It doesn’t. Give readers some credit.”

“Oh, not this again.” Nathan looks impatient, but I know he enjoys the back-and-forth. We both do.