The Roughest Draft(28)

I woke him up when I delivered them this morning. He came to the door hair tousled and shirtless and tried to act like he’d already been awake.

“What exactly have you been up to this morning?” I’d asked him.

“Writing,” he’d said.

“Writing shirtless now?”

I couldn’t help but catch the blush that entered his cheeks. “For your information, I’d write shirtless all the time if I could.” He was inventing it on the spot. I knew because for the past couple of weeks, I’ve watched him for hours a day come up with clever replies and remarks for our characters. I’d recognized his spitballing face immediately and undeniably, even though it didn’t usually come with red cheeks.

“What’s stopping you?” I’d asked, eyebrow raised.

He’d shifted his shoulders. I hadn’t lingered on his chest. If I had, I would have noticed it wasn’t writerly in the stereotypical sense. I’d been to his apartment and seen the expansive, modern gym in his building, not to mention worked around his nightly runs for as long as I’d known him.

“Concern for my beloved cowriter, of course,” he’d replied with a grin, dimple winking.

The memory makes me smile. I glance over, finding him still deep in his markup of my pages. “Surely what I wrote isn’t that bad,” I chide, completely free of resentment or sensitivity. I’d be more self-conscious if I didn’t completely trust Nathan. It’s like we’re one voice sometimes, one mind. I wouldn’t feel self-conscious reading my own writing. Nathan reading my writing hardly feels different.

Nathan looks up. “It’s great,” he says, and I know he means it. I feel warmth illuminating every inch of me, and it’s not the sun. It never ceases to surprise me how easily Nathan gives his praise. He could view others with the indifference privilege usually provokes. Instead, it’s like the generosity of his circumstances has instilled generosity in him. He compliments me daily, and whenever I look into his eyes the way I am now, it is impossible to doubt he’s genuine.

“Then what are you making so many changes to?” I crane my neck playfully.

“I want it more obvious how bewitched Jordan is with Jessamine,” Nathan says. “I know they just met, but he should feel like it’s . . .” Nathan pauses like he’s choosing his words carefully. He looks out over the yard, over the technicolor green of the grass and upturned fuchsia faces of the hibiscus. “Like his eyes, his mind, are drawn to her in every unconscious moment,” he finishes.

It’s disarming when Nathan says things like this. It makes me feel like Melissa is a lucky woman. I’ve only met Nathan’s wife a few times, which I figure is because Nathan is hesitant to cross his personal and professional lives. Over those few dinners—one where Nathan cooked in his apartment, one at the cozy Thai place near mine—I wondered if Melissa would be cagey or judgmental of her husband’s female collaborator, sizing me up. Instead, on top of her stylish blond hair and perfect makeup, she was nothing but warm, funny, and generous. She’s probably on the receiving end of plenty of Nathan’s poetic devotions. Of course, I’m lucky, too—because they end up in our books.

“If it’ll help you write faster, feel free to remove your shirt,” I offer.

He barks out a laugh, and I know we’re both remembering the moment we shared this morning.

“Excuse me,” Harriet says indignantly from beside me. “I do not consent to seeing Nathan shirtless. Take that shit back to your bedroom.”

“Bedrooms!” I reply immediately, emphasizing the plural.

Harriet rolls her eyes. I check Nathan’s reaction furtively, wanting to know if he’s bothered by Harriet’s comment. He’s already returned to writing in the margins of my pages, lost in thought. Shaking off the question, I return to my screen. It’s just how Harriet is, I remind myself. She makes innuendos about me and Nathan every now and then, just a running joke. Nothing more. If there were even the hint of feelings between me and Nathan, they’d never progress past hidden unanswered questions. Nathan is married, which I respect—or I would if his marital status was even relevant to me. Which it is not.

I force myself to focus. Rereading my previous lines, I continue working on the scene I was writing until I feel Nathan’s eyes on me. When I look up, he’s staring. He smiles sheepishly when I catch him. His gaze returns to his page, mine to my computer. Yet, fingers on the keys, I can’t think of what to write. Nothing comes. Minutes pass, and once again I feel Nathan’s eyes on me. This time, I don’t look up.

Finally, Nathan stands. “Done,” he says. “Swap?” I nod eagerly, and he walks over with the pages he was working on. When he holds them out, I grab them with curiosity I don’t hide, passing over my computer in exchange without complaint. He returns to his chair, and with the immediate ease of years of writing every day and years of writing with me, he picks up the scene where I left off.

I feast my eyes on what he’s written for me. His scrawl is everywhere, lively, insistent, leaping from line to line with unmistakable passion.

What he’s done with the scene steals my breath. There’s new yearning in Jordan’s perception of Jessamine. Nathan’s colored his every description of her like he’s drinking in the details.

Yet it’s not Nathan’s prose I find breathtaking, not this time. It’s how he’s written Jessamine sitting just like I am, one leg folded beneath her, wearing exactly what I’m wearing. Desperately, I rationalize his choices. It’s just easier to describe something you’re looking at rather than inventing it. It doesn’t mean anything more than that.