The Roughest Draft(81)

I dodge his gaze. “It doesn’t matter,” I reply, the first hint of harshness in my voice. “One day it won’t be. One day I’ll disappoint . . . everyone.”

I’m including myself in everyone. The public pressure of releases like ours is enormous, undoubtedly. But disappointing our editor or reviewers or readers is not the only fear I fend off when it chews my nerves raw. Writing is the only thing I’m special at. If I lose it, in a way, I’ve lost myself.

I watch Nathan realize this is a real conversation, not a passing worry. He faces me fully, returning his keys to his pocket. “Katrina, I’m not going to lie to you and say you’ll never disappoint anyone. You will. But you can’t live your life afraid of it.”

His words sound gentle, but even the gentlest press of a bad bruise feels like a blow. Without wondering if I’m being fair or understanding, I let defensiveness flare up in me. “Don’t act like I’m the only one who’s afraid,” I fire back.

He drops my hand. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he demands.

His demeanor says he knows.

“It means you hide in your writing. You told me you loved me in fucking fiction, Nathan. While you were married.”

There it is. The first invocation of the shadow that has covered our relationship—or lack thereof—for years. I thought I would regret this moment, thought I dreaded the shadow rearing into reality. I don’t. Despite how destabilized, how profoundly shaken, I feel, I’m glad I’m crossing into these waters.

“I didn’t hide,” he replies. “I knew you would understand, and you did. I bared everything in what I wrote. And you burned it, because it terrified you. You can’t turn this back on me. You’re the one who panicked because you wanted what I was offering you. If you lost it, it would hurt. So you chose to destroy it and pretend it didn’t exist.”

“I had to!” I nearly shout. I don’t care if my voice carries past the porch, don’t care if our neighbors hear the culmination of Nathan’s and my half-decade-long drama. Like someone’s ripped the door to my heart off its hinges, I want everything out in the open. Spoken, not written. “Your letter was . . . beautiful. Perfectly crafted. The best writing you’d ever done.”

He huffs a bitter laugh. “I didn’t realize that was a crime.”

My breath wavers. He really doesn’t get it, not even now. “I don’t want some perfectly crafted love story. I can’t live up to it! There’s no final page in life, no point where we kiss and everything is happily-ever-after. We can’t be contained in neat phrases or nicely designed covers. We’re not characters. We’re people. I couldn’t be with someone who only wanted the story version. I wanted—I want—something real, and I’m not convinced you can handle real.”

Rage flickers in Nathan’s eyes. It’s been some time since I’ve seen him look this way. He’s noticed the subtle shift in the conversation. We’re no longer only in the past. We’ve dipped our toes into the present, into the problems I know will follow us wherever we go from here.

“I did give you something real,” he returns. “I loved you. I still fucking love you. How can you tell me what I can’t handle? I know better than anyone that love is flawed. That it can break.”

I step farther from him, crossing my arms over my chest. He doesn’t move, feet planted on the house’s doormat.

“Here’s what you really don’t want to hear,” he goes on. “What we have is a fairy tale. It is a dream come true. And it’s imperfect. I wish you could understand it can be both. Fiction is fiction and it’s real. They’re not opposites. They live within each other.” His voice is raw, his expression naked. While anger is the fire in him, I recognize pain is the kindling. “The worst part is, I think you love me, too. I think you know we’re soul mates. But we’ll never be together as long as you’re afraid of your own happiness.”

The roaring in my ears overwhelms me. I was wrong when I imagined Nathan’s anger was a fire. It was a knife, one he’s stuck into the smallest, quietest part of my heart. He’s opened up the center of me, where I hide sad secrets even from myself. It hurts deeply, enough I can’t possibly keep up the conversation.

So I don’t. I turn around and walk right off the porch, into the evening.





57





Katrina



? FOUR YEARS EARLIER ?

I’m waiting for my date in one of the most obviously, intentionally hip restaurants I’ve ever been to in Brooklyn. The place has nothing on the walls, midcentury-modern furnishings in whites, grays, and light woods, moody electronic R&B pumping from speakers into the close-quarters dining room.

I focus on the details, hoping they’ll distract me. I should have canceled. My stomach is in knots, my head chaotic. I know I won’t enjoy myself—not when I’ll be spending every minute trying to vanquish the thought of Nathan’s New Yorker interview, which published earlier today. When it hit the internet, I told myself not to read it. Every minute since has been a test of strength, and I feel myself weakening.

I check my phone. He’s late.

Frustrated, I shove it back into my bag. They haven’t brought menus yet, which is unfortunate. I could have read the prices of every esoteric option before inevitably deciding on the one least likely to further upset my stomach. Instead, I dutifully refocus on the décor, my eyes jumping restlessly from corner to corner. I won’t have to wait long, I reason. It’ll be fine. What’s five, or ten, or even fifteen more minutes when I’ve spent the entire day resisting?