The Roughest Draft(47)

“I—” Katrina swallows once more. “I’m here.”

“I discussed this with Chris, who liked the idea. He said I could bring it directly to you. There’s a journalist with the New York Times, Noah Lippman, who reached out to me interested in profiling you both. Your return to cowriting, et cetera, et cetera. He saw the Vanity Fair piece. If we position it right, this profile could announce your new book and promote Refraction. But of course,” she says, “it’s up to you both.”

I look to Katrina, certain I know how she’ll respond.

“Sure,” she replies. Her voice holds nothing except cordiality, like the question is insignificant. Like someone’s offered her sugar in her tea.

Jen is immediately thrilled, rattling off logistics with which I don’t keep up. I’m fixated on Katrina. Sure? To the New York Times profiling us? I don’t understand why she’s suddenly willing to go public with me. It’s possible it’s some vestige of our truce, some part of the fa?ade she insists we’re putting on, but part of me wonders if it’s because things have changed between us.

I mechanically say yes to dates, times, plans, then hang up. When I do, Katrina only excuses herself from the room. She walks out while I watch uselessly.

I feel the distance. For long minutes after she’s gone, I stare at the place where she leaned over the table, the skin on my neck growing hot where her hand was. I remember what I wanted, how she lingered too long, how close I was to reaching out for her. How inescapable the impulse was.

I wrap myself in the only consolation I have. It’s just instinct, the volatile side effect of our proximity. Purely physical, like Michael and Evelyn. It doesn’t have to be more.





29





Nathan


I push myself hard on my nightly run. I want my body exhausted, wrecked, empty of everything except the pain of exertion. When I hit my sheets, I want to collapse into sleep so hard I won’t remember whatever dreams I have about what happened with Katrina. They’ll come, I know, the visions seared into my head of her leaning over the dining table, her body low, her scent intoxicating. It’s one thing dreams have in common with writing—their tendency to betray me to myself.

The echo of my footsteps is the only sound on the dark street. I’ve run for hours. Finally, I let myself stop on our corner, lungs on fire, thighs screaming. I bend over with my hands on my knees and gulp for breath.

“You’re either training for a race,” I hear over my shoulder, “or you’re punishing yourself.”

It’s Meredith. I recognize the Southern lilt in her voice. Straightening up, I find her hefting a garbage bag out to the bin. Her slouchy, open-front sweater falls off one shoulder, exposing a deep V-neck. I know she’s joking, even though her words hit uncomfortably close to truth.

“Tough day at work,” I say noncommittally.

Meredith pauses for a moment, her gaze lingering on me. “I was just going to pour myself a drink. Want to join me?” she asks, making no effort to hide the implication in her voice. Everything she’s offering is out in the open.

I consider it, my chest heaving. If I’m searching for ways to forget everything I want with Katrina, this might be what I need. The night breeze rolls over me while I write the scene in my head. I say yes and she opens the wine and pours us glasses. I skipped dinner with Katrina, so I suggest we have something to eat. We heat up her leftovers or we order in. Either way, she ditches the sweater, and I slide closer to her on the floor, where we’re sitting because she doesn’t have chairs yet. I give her the chance to pull away. She doesn’t. I spend the night with her, working out whatever sexual frustration my run didn’t shake.

It’s tempting. Suddenly the idea of returning to the house with Katrina, of lying sleepless the whole night, waiting for tomorrow, sounds like hell. Why shouldn’t I say yes? I’m single, Meredith understands I’m not a long-term commitment—I’m only here for the summer. This would hurt no one.

“I’d like to,” I say. “But I can’t.”

Meredith looks slightly surprised. If she’s hurt, she covers the feeling well. She shrugs it off and smiles. “Well, if you change your mind . . .” She nods to her door. Pulling her sweater up over her shoulder, she heads back inside.

I watch her until her door shuts. While I hate myself for the night I refused, deep down, I know I had to. When my marriage ended, I promised myself I’d never be with someone when I wanted someone else.

On the empty street, I look in the direction of Katrina’s house, of the night I’ve chosen—the one that will go absolutely nowhere, that’ll leave me aching and sleepless.

I walk the rest of the way home, feeling the sting of every muscle I pushed too hard.





30





Katrina


When I hear his keys in the door, I’m embarrassingly relieved. Settling into the couch cushions, I pick up the book I tried and failed to read—the Middlemarch one Nathan bought me. I don’t want to look like I was just waiting for him to return, even though I was. Usually he runs and then we have dinner, but tonight he stayed out so long I finished half of the frozen kung pao chicken I picked up from the supermarket on our first day here.

It irritates me how worried I was while I waited. But underneath the worry, I’m shaken, confused. I know we crossed a line while writing. Crossed it into where, though, I don’t know.