The Roughest Draft(89)

This time, it’s only the beginning.





Epilogue





Katrina



? THREE MONTHS LATER ?

It’s five minutes past when I should have shut my computer. I’m rushing to write down new ideas, hardly hearing the rolling rhythm of my fingers flying over the keys. When we turned in Where We’ll End, I wondered in the dark corners of my mind whether new stories would find me. It’s something I discuss with my therapist, with whom I scheduled those weekly visits. So far, though, they have. I’ve woken up most days with them in my head. Right now, I know if I don’t get my ideas down before I leave, I’ll be distracted in the meeting I’m about to be late for.

Pausing momentarily, I pull up the sleeve of my black turtleneck, which I’ve paired with the long skirt I bought for today’s meeting. It’s the kind of outfit I wouldn’t have worn in Los Angeles, where fall is really just summer dressed in different colors. The kind of outfit I missed when I moved.

I race the clock in the corner of my screen, wanting to capture one more thought. My words come crisp, clear, luminous onto the page. It’s one of those creative moods I know I need to chase when they come. In the midst of my rush, I hear the bedroom door open behind me. Familiar footsteps pad down the hall, toward the office where I’m working.

“I’ll never write again, she once said,” I hear from the doorway.

I face the direction of Nathan’s voice. He’s framed in the entryway, and he looks disarmingly handsome. He’s shaved for the meeting, something he doesn’t often do because he thinks his usual stubble looks writerly. His tan from Florida has faded. He doesn’t look worse for it. In fact, they could put him in catalogues for the gray cowl-neck sweater he’s wearing.

I meet his gaze. “If I gave it up for real, would you still love me?”

He crosses the room, giving me my answer in a long kiss. “You already did for four years, and I didn’t stop loving you.”

“You did not love me those four years.” I laugh, leaning into him while he moves lower to kiss my neck.

“I did,” he insists. “Come on, Kat, would I make this up? It’s terribly cliché. Carrying a torch while I pretended I was over you? If I were rewriting the story of our romance, I’d be more original.”

I grin, giving into his doting logic. Whether it’s true isn’t important. It’s a good story, and one we’ve both chosen. Fiction doesn’t only come from life. Sometimes, it’s the other way around.

It’s been three months since we left Florida, since I packed up my life in Los Angeles and Nathan his in Chicago. We live in Brooklyn, where we should have been together from the start. Sharing a career and a life isn’t easy. We fight, we let creative differences spill into hurt feelings, we work hard to repair what we mess up. It’s no fairy tale, no succinct happily-ever-after. But it’s worth it.

Nathan checks his phone. “Shit,” he says, straightening up. “We should’ve left by now.”

Closing my computer, I sigh, guilty. We’re headed to lunch with our publisher and Jen, who now represents us both. Officially, we’re celebrating. The New York Times profile came out this week, announcing Where We’ll End and featuring our interview. Neither Nathan nor I have read it. The email sits unopened in my inbox. We don’t need to read whatever rumors Noah Lippman has decided to stoke or dispel. We know the truth now, the one that’s only for us.

I slide on my boots, then follow Nathan to the door. He stops to pet James Joyce, who’s presently nuzzling Nathan’s shin. I swear, the only one more infatuated with this man than me is my cat.

On the sidewalk, I breathe in deeply, enjoying the New York fall rushing into my lungs. I missed this, like so much of my life. We’ll return to Florida soon, though, to write the proposal for the next book we hope to sell. We’ll stay in the house—once our prison, now our refuge, memories living in layers within the walls. We’ll see Harriet. I can’t wait.

While the wind shakes the red trees outside our place, Nathan puts his arm around me. He pulls me close. “Should we get a cab?”

“Can we walk by the bookstore first?” I ask. We picked this apartment because it’s a two-minute walk from one of our favorite independent bookstores.

Nevertheless, Nathan looks incredulous. “Katrina! We’re going to be so late.”

“On the way back, then,” I concede.

Nathan eyes me, saying nothing. I don’t pout, though I’d really hoped we could slip into the store. Even so, I know Nathan senses my disappointment. Of course he does. He stares into people’s souls for a living. “In and out,” he says, relenting. “As fast as possible.”

I kiss his cheek, excitement lifting me onto my toes. “I’ll tell Jen we’re running ten minutes late. Just, so many books came out this week I want to read. There’s—”

“The new Taylor Quan and the Cassandra Ray Smith,” Nathan finishes. His grin lingers on me a moment too long. “What if someone recognizes us in there?”

I tighten my grip on him. “Then we’ll sign some books and confirm we’re together,” I say easily.

Nathan raises an eyebrow. “Confirm we’re together?”

“Do you want to stay a secret?”