The Roughest Draft(43)

Until I reach the end of the pool on my fourth lap. I lift my head up from the water to find Katrina walking onto the pool deck.

She’s wearing only her bathing suit. The blue one-piece hugs her hip bones and chest with hungry, sleek precision. Her hair is up in a casual bun on the top of her head. Sunglasses hide her eyes, which I’m certain haven’t landed on me even once.

Book in hand, she slips into the opposite end of the pool.

I exhale, trying to recapture the relaxation I just felt. Katrina flips open her book, which she rests on the concrete edge of the pool. Her back faces me, blue straps stretching an X over her shoulder blades like a treasure map, or a warning.

Without acknowledging me, she lifts one wet hand out of the pool to recklessly turn the page.

I dunk myself under once more, pushing off firmly from the pool wall. Not even half a lap in, I start considering bringing my laptop out to my end of the pool. I could work on one of my other books. I probably should work on one of my other books, in fact. When this is over with Katrina, I’ll have to return to my own career.

“Are you planning on splashing the whole time?”

Katrina’s voice stops me midstroke. I pause, dropping my feet in the middle of the pool to gaze over at her. She has the gall to come out here while I’m using the pool then insinuate I’m the one interrupting her?

I raise an eyebrow. “Am I distracting you?” I ask facetiously.

“A little,” she replies.

I stare, searching for self-consciousness in her tone and finding none. It’s almost humorous. The point of this hour, though, was to avoid petty fighting, so I stay silent.

She glances over her bare shoulder at me, which only makes the lines of her shoulder blades sharpen. I can’t help following the fabric of her suit under the crystal-clear water to her legs, all the way down to where she stands on pointed toes on the bottom of the pool.

I look away. The fifteen yards of water separating us was not the distance I had in mind. Without splashing, I wade over to the concrete edge, where I haul myself out of the pool. While I’m reaching for the towel I left on one of the deck chairs, Katrina’s voice floats to me through the warm humidity.

“I didn’t mean you had to get out.”

“It’s fine,” I say. “I just need some space. Besides, there’s something I want to do in town.”

Katrina, either mollified or silently stewing, doesn’t reply. Toweled off, I walk past her. Her eyes remain glued to her book, which I notice is flecked and warped with pool water.

I can’t help myself. “Your book is getting wet,” I say flatly.

Finally, she glances up, and I’m inexplicably glad to find humor warring with irritation in her expression. She kind of wants to laugh. As I walk inside, I smile. Soon enough, we’ll be back to normal, or what passes for normal for us.

I head up to my room, where I change into my clothes. Pausing in the mirror, I slick my wet hair back in a way I’m not too humble to admit looks good, then grab my keys. I make the ten-minute drive to the local independent bookstore, my rented Porsche purring down the quaint streets. When I park, I pull from the glove compartment the pouch of Sharpies I never travel without and stride in.

The bookstore is exactly like I remember from Katrina’s and my frequent trips here while we wrote Only Once. The scent of pages and wood greets me. The postcard rack, the doormat, everything feels like home.

It’s one of my favorite parts of being an author—introducing myself to booksellers and readers. Maybe it makes me vain, although it’s not the attention I’m after. Or, not entirely. It’s getting the chance to hear from real people who’ve found themselves in my words. It reminds me of the point of what I’m doing. Writing can feel like a solitary, sometimes lonely profession, even with a coauthor. But it’s not. My pages connect me with unseen strings to readers I often never encounter. I love chances to meet them—to pull those strings into the light.

I head deeper into the store, looking for the clerk. I find her shelving in the Young Adult section.

The short, middle-aged woman straightens up when I pause nearby. “Hi,” she says. “Looking for something?”

“Actually, I’m an author. I was hoping I could sign some stock.” I glance past her, worry flashing in me for a second. I hope they even have Refraction. There’s an adage in publishing—a signed book is a sold book. Right now, I’m desperate to help Refraction’s sales numbers however I can. This is the career I’ll return to after Katrina, and signing copies is probably slightly more helpful than carrying my laptop poolside.

“How wonderful. Let me see if we have any of your books in stock right now. If not, I’ll order them in for you to sign later.” She sounds genuinely enthusiastic. Adjusting her glasses, she studies my faces. “What’s your name?”

I stick out my hand, flashing her the dimple. “Nathan Van Huysen.”





27





Katrina


I lasted ten minutes without Nathan. Standing in the pool on my own quickly felt oppressive, suddenly changing the sunlight from warm and invigorating to muggy and sharp. My mind kept running roughshod over the question of where he’d gone, so casual and decisive, leaving just me in our quiet backyard.

I was jealous—not of him spending time somewhere other than with me, but of him having somewhere else to spend it. I’m starting to feel like my whole life right now revolves around Nathan and writing this book. I have nothing of my own. Reading poolside with my elbows on the concrete was enough temporarily to distract me, until I finished my book. Then, nothing, except the painfully gentle lapping of the water.