The Roughest Draft(48)

Nathan walks inside, the rubber soles of his running shoes noisy on the floor. The sound clatters into the house when he closes the front door. He heads for the stairs, hardly giving me a glance.

“I left a plate for you on the counter.” I don’t know what impulse compels me to call out. If he wants dinner, he’s a grown man. He’ll figure it out. It’s not my responsibility.

He doesn’t look over. “Right. Thanks,” he says.

He’s sweaty, flushed, obviously in a terrible mood. I should let him go upstairs, let everything remain unspoken, undisturbed. I don’t. “Nathan.” I hate how high my voice comes out. “I owe you an apology.”

He pauses. Then he steps off the first stair, facing me, saying nothing.

I continue with effort. “I shouldn’t have”—Oh god, why did I do that?—“touched you like I did. It was unprofessional. I’m sorry.”

What I’ve said is the closest we’ve come to discussing what’s wrong between us. I could feel what Nathan was thinking when I held the back of his neck, reckless—I could follow him to the place his mind was going, because mine was going there, too. It’s like some sort of destructive sun, millions of miles from us and still hot enough to scorch.

I’m dreading his reply. His expression is indecipherable when it comes. “It’s fine,” he says. “No big deal.”

Somehow, it’s the least satisfying thing he could have said. I nod, the words not sitting right with me. Shutting my book, I realize a second too late that I’ve forgotten to put the bookmark in the pages. Nathan notices. I don’t give him the opportunity to comment. “I’ve developed a theory,” I begin, my voice carrying confidence I don’t feel. “What you write can influence how you feel or what you think. Like write a sad scene, and you might find yourself depressed. Write something with joy and humor, and you might feel happy—for a little while. It’s not real. That’s important. It’s just a temporary feeling. Literary transference.”

I know the term from psychology classes I took in college. We read about how a person might project feelings or beliefs pertaining to one person onto someone else. I’ve thought about it for years now in relation to writing. Even when I used to write by myself, I would sink into the headspace of my characters. With Nathan, with any cowriter, it’s natural to project feelings that belong on the page onto a person.

Nathan hasn’t moved from the stairs. He places one elbow on the railing, his posture relaxing.

His gaze does not. And I wait, because I know what he’s about to ask.

“Why are you telling me about literary transference right now, Katrina?” I recognize the way his eyes have pinned mine. He knows why. He just wants to hear me say it.

I won’t give him the reaction he’s hoping for. I don’t hesitate. “Writing sexual content would naturally have the effect I’m describing,” I say. “Especially when you’re writing that content with or near . . . someone else.” I manage not to rush the final words even though I want to.

Nathan half smiles. Sweat slides down his face, his neck. I know him well enough to recognize the calculation in his movement when he removes his shirt to wipe his forehead.

I’ve seen Nathan’s chest. Many times. We’ve swam in oceans on two continents together, sunned in deck chairs in Capri. I wasn’t really looking the other day when we went in the pool. In fact, with my back turned, I was consciously not looking.

Now is different. Nathan’s in shape, which is no surprise. He has the resources, the time, and the discipline to be. I’m trying to focus objectively on these facts, except I’d forgotten the perfect geometry of him over the past four years. My mouth is dry, my face hot. I can’t stop staring, remembering how close we were earlier.

His eyes sparkle, not the sparkle of sunlight over water or stars scattering the sky. There is nothing gentle or inviting in the look he gives me. It’s closer to flint sparking steel in the seconds before flame.

“You’re telling me writing our sex scene made you feel how, exactly?” he inquires. “I’m quite curious.”

I hold my head high. “My point is,” I say hotly, “it doesn’t mean anything.”

Nathan laughs. He steps backward up the stairs. “Work hard on that theory?” he asks. “I hope it helps you sleep tonight. You can tell yourself whatever story you want, Katrina. You’re a writer.” His mirth is dry, devoid of generosity or good nature. Spinning on his heel, he continues up the steps, footfalls heavy on the hardwood.

I slump back on the couch, feeling defeated. I’d meant my apology to Nathan genuinely, no matter the stiff unpleasantness of some of our exchanges since the café. His rejection hurts in ways I don’t want to acknowledge, not when they so obviously reveal how uncomfortable I am with everything spoiled between us. What’s more, he’s grabbed the shield I’ve used to fend off questions I’m tired of confronting—like where exactly my decision to lean over the table had come from—and thrown it into the ocean.

No, I think to myself. I won’t give him that satisfaction. I shove my bookmark carelessly into the pages of the book I wasn’t reading. Upstairs, I hear the hiss of Nathan’s shower. When the images come to my mind of him undressing, stepping into the steam, I let them. I don’t care if he smirks or plies me with glib questions. I’m right. This is only the fevered product of our writing. Transference.