The Roughest Draft(82)

But letting my guard down was the wrong move.

Before I know what I’m doing, my hands fumble for my phone again. I click through to the interview.

I devour every word, reading the New Yorker’s gaudily old-school font like it’s my death sentence. Nathan could have written this himself, I observe ruefully—the eloquent literacy with which the story sets up its premise, the former cowriter now striking out on his own. They’ve even got one of the New Yorker’s trademark caricatured renderings of their subjects. I wish I could say it looks ridiculous, but it only looks like him. His spry swoop of hair, his sharp chin, some crackle in his eyes even the casual drawing couldn’t help capturing.

Minutes pass. I keep reading.

The restaurant disappears while I immerse myself in the interview, hearing Nathan’s voice through the screen. When I reach the end, I robotically close the tab and shut off my screen. I return my phone to my purse, feeling cold in my fingertips. I don’t reread the story.

Writing Only Once was one of the worst times in my life. Katrina Freeling is a genius, but I’m not sure the genius is worth the torture of working with her.

The words should hurt. I know it’s what he meant—to hurt me. Yet when I wait for the pain, it doesn’t come. Maybe it’s because I know I deserve what he said. Maybe the worst wounds don’t hurt until the shock wears off. Maybe I’m just numb.

“Sorry I’m late.”

I look up. Chris stands over me, one hand on the back of my chair, smiling. I force my expression into pleasantness and tilt up my head when he leans down to kiss my cheek. In the moments while he sits down opposite me, I work up a smile of my own. “It’s no problem,” I say.

“How are you? You look beautiful.” He studies me with intent eyes. Chris likes me, some voice in my head says with surprised clarity. Nathan had been right. I push the memory away, irritated to have thought of Nathan.

“I’m great,” I lie. “I’d say you clean up well yourself, except you always look sharp.” This part is not a lie. Chris does look good. He’s a man of broad shoulders and clean lines, which tonight fit perfectly into his obviously tailored gray blazer and white dress shirt. It’s a simple look, and it succeeds in its understatement.

I’d invited Chris to dinner on a whim, one I didn’t know until now whether I’d regret. We were texting last weekend, me with the TV on, some innocuous HGTV show to stave off my boredom. My loneliness, too. He made a publishing industry joke, and . . . I don’t know. When a little light flickered into my mood, it was enough. Nathan will think I did it to hurt him. I don’t think I did.

He grins, pleased by my compliment. “Can I just say how thrilled I am we’re finally doing this?” he asks.

I hope my eyes shine back at him. Seeing him has steadied me some. I’ve stopped focusing on the interview. With the candle glowing in the middle of the table, I feel something new, something I could get used to. It’s not the empty calm of every day in the months since I returned from Florida without Nathan. It’s different. This feels firm under my feet instead of like floating in endless fog.

“Me, too,” I reply. I think I mean it. This is going to be better, I tell myself.

It has to be.





58





Nathan



? PRESENT DAY ?

With our fight echoing in my ears, I don’t follow Katrina off the porch. I don’t even watch her stalk off into the sunset, doing what she does. Pushing us apart for flimsy, worthless reasons and hiding from the damage. Instead, I head directly up the stairs, hitting each step heavily. Whether I’m running from or chasing my feelings, I don’t know.

I ignore the discomfort of being in this house without her. It’s our space but not mine. Even though I’ve been living here for two months—waking up in the bed down the hall, brushing my teeth over the sink— right now, I feel like I’m intruding. The windows feel watchful, like they’re looking in instead of me looking out.

While the sunset is starting to shock the sky orange, I reach my room. It’s instinct to drop into my chair and open my laptop. I’m ready to write everything raging in me, to put this heartache into words. To process and move through these feelings using this psychological bloodletting onto the empty white page. I open the document with ritual focus. Preparing myself, I fix my eyes on the unwritten first line.

I can’t put my fingers on the keys.

I just can’t do it. Resistance I’m unfamiliar with holds me in place, keeps me from writing. This hurt is mine and Katrina’s. It belongs only to us. No one else. For once, I want to live the pain instead of dressing it in fictional clothing. It might heal cleaner. It might make me better.

Resigned, I close my computer and sit alone with the wound in my heart.





59





Katrina


Under the red sunset, I step out of my car. The beach opens in front of me. It’s the same one where Nathan and I got rained on four years ago, where I realized how much I wanted him to kiss me.

Pulling off my shoes, I walk onto the soft sand. It pools over my toes welcomingly, like it remembers me. The wind plays weakly with my hair. I drop down, sitting with my knees bent, hating how pleasant the evening is. There’s no sign of storms. The few clouds in the sky have caught the violent colors of the sunset, gashes of pink on an orange backdrop. It’s perfect.