The Roughest Draft(42)

He huffs. I don’t know if it’s a laugh or a noise of protest. Without further warning, he stands up and crosses the room, sitting down right next to me on the couch. He commences reading over my shoulder.

“How is this better?” Despite my consternation, I can’t help smiling a little.

“Katrina, please!” he implores me. “Read the scene and tell me how it is. Put me out of my misery.”

I wait hopefully for him to return to his chair. When he doesn’t, I realize I have no choice except to comply. “It’s . . .” I hesitate, fidgeting with the edge of the page I’m holding. “It’s hot,” I finish, not dishonestly.

Nathan snorts. Once more I diligently ignore his expression, his inevitable grin.

“I mean, the writing is great, too, of course,” I go on.

“Naturally.”

I fight the impulse to shake my head scornfully. I won’t give him the satisfaction. “But it’s—yeah, it’s effective.” I cross my legs. It’s a lot to read about Jessamine’s hands on Jordan’s body, her mounting pleasure, knowing every word was considered, chosen, and typed by Nathan.

“Effective,” Nathan repeats, evaluating. “It’s not the worst review a woman could give, although I usually aspire to amazing, even earth-shattering.”

Heat pounds in my cheeks. “Well, I don’t know what to tell you.”

“I welcome constructive criticism,” he replies immediately. “What would you prefer?”

I exhale, hoping it’s inconspicuous, hoping it hides how the pace of my heartbeat has picked up. The pages in my hands feel like they’re waiting for me. I have writing preferences—punctuations, word choice. And I have other preferences. “Me?” I ask. “Or Jessamine?”

He pauses, eyes fixed on me. “You.”

The word sounds larger than it is. I want to break our stare. I resist, holding his gaze. When I speak, my voice is steady. “I’d speed things up.” I’ve seen Nathan react with skepticism or disappointment when I’ve critiqued his writing. What passes over his expression now is something different.

“Not one for savoring it?” His voice is unreadable.

“The second time, yes. If there was one,” I say. “The first time . . . after all the waiting, I wouldn’t want to wait longer.” I swallow. “If I were Jessamine.”

Nathan’s the one to end our eye contact, clearing his throat. I’m instantly aware of how close we are. His shoulder is pressed into mine. When he breathes, I can feel his chest against my side.

What is this? I feel knocked off-balance, like I’m unsteady on my feet even though I’m sitting down. We’ve ventured into dangerous territory somehow, ignoring every sign we should stop. The worst part is, I don’t even know exactly what territory it is. Who are we talking about? Surely not ourselves. Not while Nathan’s married.

I reverse, hard. “I’m going to work on the scene where they’re caught,” I say, standing up.

The sentence douses the heat in the room. I’m indescribably relieved. Heading for the stairs with hasty steps, I’m nearly out of the room when I hear Nathan’s voice behind me. “Noted.”

I can’t help pausing. From the first step, I turn back. He’s exactly where he was, on the sofa, the pages sitting untouched next to him.

“What you said,” he continues. “It’s noted. I understand the feeling of having waited long enough.”

I study him for even the faintest indication of what’s going on in his head. His expression is restrained, lips closed, jaw set. His posture defensive. Everything about his demeanor is uncharacteristically withdrawn. Yet his gaze is searing.

I walk up the stairs without replying.





26





Nathan



? PRESENT DAY ?

I dunk my head underwater. The pool is perfect, refreshing on my skin while I float with my eyes closed, weightless in a dark world. Letting the seconds pass, I feel tension drifting out of me.

After arguing over a plot point for forty-five minutes, Katrina and I decided we needed time to cool off. Literally, in my case. Though frustrating, our fight was unexpectedly vintage. Classic Nathan and Katrina. We weren’t fighting over yearslong personal resentments or unresolved issues. No, this was just a fearsome, multiple-front campaign over whether to begin a chapter with conflict or more color of the character’s life. We each drew blood—Katrina claimed I wasn’t confident I could write something good enough to carry the opening, while I contended her idea was just plain boring.

It was obvious things wouldn’t improve from there. This fight, even when resolved, wasn’t going away. With each new paragraph, it would rear up once more, leaving us squabbling over creative positions neither of us really cared about, endlessly taking revenge for earlier wounds. It would have been unbearable. Worse, it would have been unproductive.

When we called off writing for the next hour, Katrina went up to her room. On my own in the dining room, I gazed out the sliding doors, this plan forming in my head. Neither of us has even dipped a toe in the house’s pool this trip, and some space from Katrina would certainly help.

I’m enjoying my solitude. Surfacing from my float, I start swimming short laps in the five-foot-deep pool. The exertion unwinds the pressure in my chest, and the mindless repetition of the exercise is giving me some much-needed mental remove from the fight.