The Roughest Draft(18)

Her freckled cheeks don’t flicker. She’s like ceramic. “Well, I heard I was torture to write with,” she says. I’m genuinely surprised to hear the edge in her voice.

I figured it was coming, I just didn’t expect we’d have this discussion on our very first night. Regardless, I have no response—or none I want to say out loud. Instead of the truth, I settle for the easy rejoinder. “Remains to be seen.”

I watch this frustrate Katrina. She shifts in her seat like she’s unconsciously trying to escape her fury. “I’ve heard a lot of things in the past four years,” she starts, her tone light, like this is just conversation. I know it’s not. Nothing is ever just conversation with Katrina, no word wasted. Everything’s the setup to some ending she’s been crafting since the beginning, perfect yet unpredictable. I brace myself when she continues. “I’ve heard I’m a whore who repeatedly tried to seduce you, then quit writing when I couldn’t get you to leave your wife.”

I flinch. Not figuratively. I literally feel my face flinch. It’s an ugly rumor, and it hurt when I first read it for numerous reasons. Whatever our present situation, I respect Katrina. I used to call her a friend. It’s not just repulsive, it’s wrong. Nobody who knew her could ever say she tried to seduce me.

Nevertheless, I can handle Kat’s retorts. I wrote with her. I know exactly how to parry them. “Funny, because I heard my wife walked in on us fucking, which is why I’m divorced,” I say. “You know what my favorite is, though?”

It’s Katrina’s turn to say nothing.

“I heard I had an affair with you because I wanted to be a better writer. To write infidelity from”—I draw out the word—“experience.”

Katrina’s neck reddens. I understand her visceral reaction. I really do hate this rumor in particular. The idea that I could discard Melissa in service of some artistic bullshit is stomach-turning. I know I made mistakes in my marriage. But Melissa was a human being to me, one I loved. Just not well enough.

“I heard you left your wife because you were in love with me.” Katrina’s on her feet, her plate clenched in her hand. I’m unprepared for the blow. It’s a painful punch to a tender part of me.

“I heard you slept with Chris to hurt me.”

The words fly out of my mouth. Katrina’s chest heaves under her shirt. I feel my own breath racing sharp and shallow. Whatever this fight was, it’s just split like a lightning-struck tree. The damage is fast, irreversible. I wish I’d said nothing. Catastrophe like this is better left for my writing.

Katrina, unmoving where she stands, exhales a short laugh. Now I prepare myself. Years of writing with Kat have left me with a catalogue of everything I know about her. I know she’s persistent, unwilling to give up when she feels she’s in the right. I know she’s incredibly smart and capable of using her smarts like a surgeon’s scalpel or a heavy instrument depending on what the situation requires. Right now, I know I’m going to be on the wrong end of one or the other.

“Of course, none of it’s true,” she says, her tone goading, like she wants to hear me disagree with her.

“Of course,” I reply.

We watch each other from the ends of the kitchen.

“Look.” The softest note of concession enters Katrina’s voice. “Neither of us wants to be here. There’s no use discussing it. We just have to write the book,” she finishes.

I nod. It’s what I told myself upstairs. We just have to write the book. Katrina’s eyes shift from me, and in her expression, I see mirrored my own sudden weariness of this conversation.

She goes on. “So, unfortunately, we’ll have to outline the story together. Then we can write from the comfort of completely separate rooms”—I nearly permit myself to smile, until she continues—“and trade pages.”

I won’t tolerate the suggestion. “No.”

“What do you mean, no?” Her eyebrows do their bunching thing.

“I’m not trading pages with you.” I pin her eyes with an unwavering stare. I know she reads the dare in mine. I won’t say it. Will you? Katrina’s the only person who knows there’s a damn good reason we shouldn’t trade pages. She knows where it led us. I practically smell charred paper, and I imagine Katrina’s mind is in the exact same place.

“What else would we do, Nathan?” She sighs, frustrated. “Write everything together? Or perhaps I’ll write the first half and you’ll write the second, and we’ll put them together without reading the other’s. That’d turn out well.”

“I don’t care,” I reply. “We’re not trading pages.”

The waves crash in the distance, the rush and roar carrying in through our doors. Katrina pauses, her expression inscrutable. “Fine,” she says, her voice returning to the practiced evenness it had when I first arrived. “We’ll write every word together.”

The idea thrills me a little, though I don’t want to rationalize why. I’m surprised it’s the option she chose. It means the quality of the book is important to her. What’s more, not pressing me on trading pages is the closest she’s come to acknowledging what she did. It’s both what I want and exactly what I don’t. If this were fiction, I could craft the ending I wanted. In life, it offers an equal chance of destroying me.