The Roughest Draft(72)

50





Katrina



? FOUR YEARS EARLIER ?

When Nathan returned from his run, his hair windswept, he rushed upstairs. I couldn’t help smiling. It was perfectly Nathan. The night we turn in something huge, he’s springing upstairs to start something. I recognized the fresh frenzy of inspiration in him. I’ve seen it in the seat next to mine on international flights, on mornings when he stands in front of his computer, coffee untouched on the counter, in his pajamas, too consumed by his ideas to move. It’s incredible, if also unnerving.

I didn’t hear from him for the rest of the night. When I return upstairs from grabbing a glass of water before bed, I notice his door ajar, his light still on. It’s nearly eleven—I was reading, engrossing myself in one of the books I’d packed but not found the time to open.

Past the door, I see half of him. He’s hunched over his desk, writing under the yellow light. I notice he’s not on his computer. His hand flies over the page of the leather-bound journal he uses for brainstorming and freewriting whenever he’s working through something big.

I knock lightly on the door, which swings open. “You seem inspired,” I say.

He straightens up. When he spins to face me in his chair, I falter. His expression is unusually electric, even for Nathan. “Yeah . . .” he says. “Just finishing something. Are you going to sleep?” He seems to force his words past ideas or feelings moving impossibly fast.

I don’t know how to read his demeanor, whether he’s distracted or excited or nervous. Why he would be nervous, though, I can’t figure.

“I’ll stay up for a bit,” I say uncertainly.

“Good. Great,” he says emphatically, like my response was very important. “Wait one second.” While I linger in the doorway, he returns to his journal, where he scrawls one more sentence then caps his pen. I’m confused when he rips the page out, tearing it carefully so the edge is neat.

Stunned silent, I watch him stand. He looks the page over briefly before his eyes find mine. The molecules in the room seem to still while he walks the single sheet over to me. For the next few seconds, we face each other, saying nothing. I have the wild impression he might kiss me.

He doesn’t, of course. In one rushed movement, he shoves the page into my hand. “I’ll be up for a little while,” he says. “If you want to . . . discuss this.”

I nod, searching his expression. Something is different. I feel I’m on the edge of a precipice I can’t see, just waiting to step into open air. Whatever waits past the drop I know instinctively is nothing Nathan will say out loud. He’s returning to his desk, closing his journal.

The single page feels hot in my hand.





51





Katrina



? PRESENT DAY ?

I’ve been sitting in the swing on the front porch for the past hour, watching the road. Chris has come and gone. He took his ring with him.

When he got here, we walked into the front room, where we sat in some sort of mutual understanding that our conversation wouldn’t be fit for the friendlier, more private rooms of the house. My bedroom was his bedroom no longer.

I was prepared for the conversation to be unpleasant. It was, but not in the ways I’d expected. Chris had donned professionalism like a shield. Sitting up straight, his large frame nearly filled the front window. While my shorts and shirt were nothing out of the ordinary, I noticed how precisely he’d dressed, a lightly patterned button-down under his linen blazer. The only cracks in the fa?ade were the dark rings encircling his eyes when he removed his gold sunglasses.

He wasn’t emotional. He didn’t try to change my mind. Voices were never raised. It hurt a little, how he wouldn’t even fight for me. But he hadn’t fought for me in years. If he had, we’d be married, or maybe just happier. I definitely wouldn’t be in Florida, writing a book with Nathan. It’s pointless to imagine the possibilities.

When Chris and I had said everything we needed to say, the room went quiet. He stood up from the couch. I walked him to the door, where I gave him the ring with dry hands. Not following him onto the porch, I let the screen door shut behind him.

For someone who’s explored divorce and infidelity plenty in fiction, I was surprised to feel like I learned something from the end of my engagement. But I did.

I learned sometimes relationships don’t die. They just don’t grow. Kept from sunlight, from nourishment, they never flourish. Nothing is different today from how Chris’s and my relationship has been for years. He was an easy presence in my life, someone who gave me the appearance of contentment. A walking résumé for a husband. He was successful, handsome, and smart. He was involved in my career—which wasn’t hard since he was my agent. Above all, I knew he would never leave me.

I didn’t know then what I do now. Never leaving someone isn’t the same as loving them.

I lean into the swing, letting my head rest on the cushions, soaking in the sun. More conversations are coming, past curves in the road I can already make out from here. About our house in Los Angeles, what involvement he’ll have in my literary career, the untangling of four years of life with another person. The prospect doesn’t worry me, doesn’t wind knots into my stomach or leave my muscles sore from stress. Chris was a future when I felt like I had none. Now I’m realizing I have as many futures as I want. I’m free to focus on one I’ve chosen, not one I’ve clung to like a life raft.