The Roughest Draft(88)

We’re writing the ending together, the way we started this book, side by side, with one voice. I read over her shoulder while she works on the scene. I’m close enough I could kiss the curve of her neck, which I resist, like I have every day for the past three weeks.

Evelyn and Michael sign their divorce papers. They tell each other they love each other one last time. Then Katrina pauses, fingers hovering over the keys. Understanding she’s hit a creative wall, I wait while she gently hands over the computer for me to continue. I do, picking up the scene like I’m singing a harmony to what she’s writing. The characters kiss with real emotion—with all the feeling they have left.

Katrina reclaims the computer, seizing it compulsively. I have to smile. I will never not love seeing her inspired this way, like every inch of her is energy. She finishes out the final paragraphs, describing how Evelyn and Michael’s love has changed form, burned then dimmed, how it will never go out completely. How they’ll carry its embers with them even as they leave each other for good.

I watch her put down sentence after sentence, anticipation growing in me. The last weeks of writing have been wonderful in their way, full of collaboration, inspiration, and joy. Seeing Katrina every morning, her eyes gleaming with excitement for the work, making tea for her while she prints our pages, doing the dishes together with our inspiration playlist on. Lingering in the hallway each night once we’ve said good night, watching her smile softly while she shuts her bedroom door.

It’s been perfect in every way except for one.

Even now, we’re deliberately not touching—no elbows grazing or shoulders colliding accidentally. The intentional inches separating us feel charged, like there’s static electricity jumping the chasm, connecting us where physical proximity doesn’t. Whenever I’ve watched her bedroom door shut, it’s been the same. I find myself wishing I could kiss her good night. Sleep beside her. Feel her skin on mine. When this is done—only paragraphs left now—I’ll learn whether I’ve done those things for the last time.

She hits what I know is the final line, and a small gasp escapes her. Shooting her a quick grin, I move the computer over for my own contributions. While Katrina follows my work, nodding, I shift sentences, change emphases, break up paragraphs, and combine others. The whole process is silent, spoken only in the perfect understanding we have of each other.

“Is it—” Katrina starts.

“Done,” I finish.

Everything stops. Everything keeps going. While the ocean rustles outside, while someone’s wind chimes ring distantly, I sit, contemplating the closure of this story we’ve created. This time, I know, comes with the possibility of starting several other stories with Katrina.

Her grin fills her whole face. I know instantly, innately, where it’s coming from. She fought her way back to herself. I find I’m mirroring her expression, my cheeks aching.

“Let’s send it in,” she says excitedly. “We can explain it’s a very rough draft, and we know it’ll need more work.”

No way would I ever object. “Let’s do it,” I reply immediately. Once the draft is in, we can get to what really matters. It takes me two minutes to compose the email to Liz, my nervous excitement leaving a trail of typos I know Katrina notices. I attach the draft, the file named only Where We’ll End.

Before I hit send, Katrina puts her hand on my arm.

“I love you,” she says.

“I love you, too,” I reply. I meet her eyes. There’s nothing original in the declaration, nothing perfectly crafted, no elegant metaphors, no profound prose. It’s a sentence every writer has used, one every person has spoken. It’s ordinary, common. And it’s perfect. The sentence captures what I couldn’t in hundreds of my finest pages. I wouldn’t change a word.

I hit send. Katrina leans in, finally closing the fragile gap. She kisses me, a gentle press of lips. I’m washed clean of everything except the sensation. It’s not an answer, just a feeling.

“There,” she says softly. Her eyes shift to the computer. I catch something fleeting cross her expression. Not even I know her well enough to discern what it is. “It’s done. Our contract is complete,” she continues.

I realize we’re thinking the same thing. I’ve often felt with Katrina like I could read the pages of our story, following the plot from outside of myself. Right now is one of those moments. I’m struck by how similar the scene we’re living is to the one we just wrote. This could be where we end, if we want. We could walk away from each other like Evelyn and Michael, closing the cover on these chapters of our lives.

I desperately don’t want it to end here. The idea is a cold spike driven into the center of my heart. It renders me nearly breathless, leaving me grasping hungrily for whatever future will have her in it. This could be the end of everything.

“Fuck that,” I say, inelegant and sure. “I didn’t do this for the contract. I want you.”

I swear I see tears in Katrina’s eyes. She gives me the same half smile she did when I first ran into her six years ago. “Good.” Her voice wavers like her heart is full. “Because I’m not done writing our love story yet.”

When I kiss her, crushing her to me, losing myself in her scent and her skin and wanting every inch of her, it’s with the passion I’ve withheld for weeks—for years. It’s the kind of kiss that closes a book. But this time, it doesn’t.