The Roughest Draft(19)

“But we’ll skip the outline,” Katrina says suddenly.

I straighten. “You’re not serious.”

“We’ll break the story while we write,” Katrina explains. Her sharp shoulders have lost their tension out of what I’m guessing is exhaustion.

“We’ve never done it that way.” We’ve published two books together, started several more. Each time, we outlined in the same room, then traded pages we’d written separately. It hurts remembering how fun it was, the small smiles we’d exchange when handing off something we were particularly proud of, the game I’d play in my head predicting what comments she’d have. It was exhilarating, until it wasn’t. The process we’re proposing now will break everything.

“I think we both know writing this book won’t look like writing our others,” Katrina says. “We’ll write a rough draft working from the proposal we did four years ago, then separate while we edit. It’ll shorten the time we’re together.”

“Do I even have a choice?” The question comes out sarcastic, though it’s not like I have a better idea.

The resentment in Katrina’s eyes dims. “Of course you have a choice,” she says. Vulnerability has replaced the venom in her voice. “You can bow out. Cancel the book.” It’s not a challenge. Not an ultimatum. She’s pleading.

Four years ago, I would’ve cared. But it’s not four years ago. “If you want out, call your fiancé,” I say.

Katrina’s expression stiffens. I practically hear her holding in her anger. The enjoyment I get out of watching her is guilty, but I savor it, anyway. She made this bed for herself. I’m going to indulge in the sight of her lying in it.

She puts her dish in the sink then starts to walk out of the room. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning for page one,” she says.





9





Katrina


Our drinks have gone cold. The foam on Nathan’s cappuccino has collapsed into milky beige, and the only thing left in my mug is the soggiest of tea bags. I hate the obvious metaphor in them. Once the cups were warm, caffeinated, full of the promise of the morning. Now they’re sad and empty, and we’ve gotten nowhere.

Nathan and I sit two feet from each other on the dining table bench, my computer open between us. It is not a companionable two feet. Not the two feet of people relaxing on the couch in front of the TV or waking up together in a queen bed. It’s the two feet of students taking college exams next to one another, quiet and competitive, or of patients in the urgent care waiting room not wanting to catch whatever horrible disease the other has.

We’re quiet. The only noise in the expansive dining room is the echoing rustle of the ocean and the whir of the overhead fan fighting the humidity. We came down here to write. One coffee, one tea, two bagels, and three hours later, the only thing we’ve done is format our document.

Nathan clears his throat.

I shift in my place, the skin peeking out of my shorts unsticking painfully from the painted wood. I wait for him to say something, not sure I’d prefer hearing him speak to this tortured silence. Finally, I force a sentence out. It feels like exercising sore limbs, stiff and stinging. “Were you going to say something?”

Nathan glances over, looking very who, me? Yes, Nathan, you. The only other person confined in this pastel prison with me.

“Oh,” he says, sounding somehow indignant. “No.”

I say nothing. Silence reclaims us, stretching wider and wider. Obviously, a huge part of the problem is our inherit discomfort with each other. Every word is a battle to even speak when I’d rather scream or hop on a plane to somewhere far from Nathan Van Huysen. Sitting here, just feet from him, feels viscerally wrong.

But I’d be lying if I told myself our fractious partnership was the entire problem. Part of it doesn’t even reach Nathan. It’s the nervous turbine humming to life within me, the fear of knowing I’ll be putting down words destined for print and for readers probably worldwide. My words. Words that might not compare to Only Once. The feeling burrows into my chest, tightening my breath. When sweat springs to my fingers, I bury my hands in my lap so Nathan won’t notice.

The ringing of my phone saves us.

I reach with unhidden desperation for the black plastic case vibrating on the wood. With immediate and aching relief, I see Chris’s name on my screen. My fiancé. The person who knows how to help me.

“Hi,” I say, sounding strangled.

“Hey, babe.” Chris’s voice is unwavering. The opposite of mine. “How’s it going?” Nathan’s scowl is reflected in the computer screen, black now from disuse. With how quiet the room is, I have no doubt he can hear every word from Chris.

“Oh, it’s . . .” I want to get up, walk out of the room, tell Chris it’s horrible, it was a mistake and I feel sick and I’m a fraud and no one should ever want another book from me. Then I think of returning home, of Chris’s quiet disappointment, of the widening chasm dividing us. “Good,” I say. “Great, actually. We’re really getting somewhere.”

Nathan’s eyebrows rise. He’s no longer feigning discretion, his gaze glued to me. I turn away, facing the wall and the potted fern.

“Fantastic.” Chris pronounces the first two syllables emphatically. I’m reminded of politicians or football sportscasters. “I knew you could do it. You’re talented, Katrina. You’re goddamn talented.”