The Roughest Draft(59)

When she crosses her arms over her chest, I know the gesture is not idle. It’s defensive. We’ve hardly spoken since Sunday. No whisper of discussion about the club or the pages I gave her. No mention of what I firmly refuse to call a kiss despite our lips meeting. It wasn’t a kiss. It was a collision. Now, it’s like none of it ever happened.

I received her comment in my edits and understood exactly what she was saying. Katrina loves to pretend that what we communicate in our writing isn’t real. It’s easier for her, safer, free of guilt or responsibility or other heavy realities. It just couldn’t be more wrong. Writing is where our—where everyone’s—purest truths lie. On the page, thoughts and feelings can be expressed without interference, without ineloquences or fear or fumbling. There’s no room for turning back or losing your nerve. Only one thing remains—what you want to communicate.

Katrina can tell herself things would be different if I spoke my feelings instead of writing them. But it’s not true. She knows how I feel. How I felt. I was never unclear. Her choices were her own.

Harriet sighs, returning me to our interview. “Okay,” she says. “Something easier, then. What’s your new book about?”

“Divorce—” Katrina starts to say.

She’s cut off when keys rattle outside. The front door unlocks, and Chris walks in. He’s holding a leather duffel I suspect he picked out on Rodeo Drive. The precision with which he’s obviously chosen everything he’s wearing screams vanity. The linen jacket, the gold-rimmed sunglasses, the soft leather loafers. He looks just like I remember. The visceral dislike I feel is not easy for me to repress, so I don’t.

“Chris,” Katrina says, startled. Watching her hastily recompose herself, I can only think of every way Katrina’s told me he’s hurt her. “You didn’t tell me you landed. I would’ve picked you up from the airport,” she says.

“It’s fine.” Chris sounds unbothered. “I had a car drive me.”

“Oh,” Katrina says, sounding empty.

“Don’t let me interrupt.” Chris drops his duffel by the stairs, flashing his megawatt smile.

When I first met Chris Calloway, I was giddy with excitement. Every writer in my position has and would have felt the same way. Signing with an agent is where getting published starts, and Chris wasn’t just an agent. He was the rising star at one of the most prestigious agencies in New York. Katrina and I were overjoyed.

Which was how I knew I wasn’t just out of sorts when I swiftly realized I couldn’t stand him. Katrina and I had had our introductory call, received our offer of representation, and signed our contract. We met Chris for drinks at O’Neill’s, which felt spectacularly professional and real. My enthusiasm wore off with every name-drop, every career accomplishment, every question he directed only to my pretty, impossibly polite cowriter. Over the past four years, I’ve wondered if the Chris I knew was merely youthful and high on success, and if career stability and dating Katrina evened him out.

Looking at him now, I doubt it.

“You’re not interrupting,” Katrina replies. “We’re not writing right now. You remember Harriet?” She gestures to the literal human being I’m pretty sure Chris didn’t even notice. “She’s helping us prep for the interview.”

Chris glances at Harriet. While his smile stays fixed, I doubt I’m the only one who notices how fake it is. “Harriet, of course.” He pauses. “I hear you’re teaching now?” The judgment in his voice is unmistakable. It doesn’t surprise me to know Chris is the kind of guy who considers education to be “flunking out” of publishing.

Harriet plasters on an equally fake smile. “I am.”

“That’s terrific. Fantastic,” he says with ridiculous enthusiasm.

“I hear you got a Peloton,” Harriet says.

Chris’s eyes narrow. This is why I love Harriet. Instead of letting him stoke his sense of professional superiority, she’s left him struggling to work out exactly how he’s been insulted. Which is why I can’t help myself—I laugh.

His eyes fall on me now. He’s dropped every pretense of pleasantry. “Nathan. Great to see you again. How have you been?”

I hold the ugly gaze peering out of his handsome face. “Terrific,” I say. “Fantastic. You?”

He walks over to sit on the arm of Katrina’s chair, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Couldn’t be better. Please”—he waves into the room—“continue.”

Is he serious? I can’t continue this pretend interview with Chris fucking watching. Katrina, who’s shrunk in her seat, undoubtedly feels similarly. She looks up, imploring. “You don’t want to go up to our room?” she asks him. The reminder they’ll share a bed tonight makes me clench my jaw.

“I want to see some of this first,” Chris replies firmly.

Either he doesn’t notice how his response upsets Katrina, or, likelier, he doesn’t care. She faces Harriet, looking frayed. “What was the question?” she forces out.

“The book you’re writing now,” Harriet prompts, uncharacteristically gentle. She knows there’s something unpleasant going on here.

“It’s about divorce,” I cut in. “Katrina and I have respectively had our fair share of romantic ups and downs.” I fire Chris a pointed glance, finding his lips curled in a cold smirk. “We wanted to get personal, delve into some of our experiences in separation and the end of love.”