My head jerks up. He not only called Liz, but he’s reached out to Nathan? I feel betrayed. Worse, I feel put in the exact position Chris wants me in. It’s becoming increasingly clear everything about this conversation was orchestrated, designed for me to have zero say.
“I. Don’t. Write. Anymore,” I say, putting space between each word. “Find a new client.”
My remark has the intended effect, I note half guiltily. His face reddens—he’s obviously remembering Vincent Blake’s fresh rejection. He’s silent for a long moment, and I start to leave.
“How about a new wife?”
I whip to face him. The floor feels unsteady. The sunlight streaming in our wide windows is harsh, dizzying. My face heats with shock and hurt. “What?”
Chris, to his credit, looks pained. “Shit. I—I didn’t mean that. It’s just— You know I love you. I love everything about you, and part of you is a writer. I guess I miss that part.”
I have to give him credit for the line. It hurts in every single way. I know I shouldn’t be admiring my fiancé’s dialogue when he’s suggesting he’ll leave me—I guess it’s the writer part of me.
Refusing to let my eyes water, I walk from the room.
4
Nathan
I’m stuck. On my screen, the cursor waits insistently, mocking me. I’ve been sitting in front of my computer for two hours, and I’m in the exact same place in my manuscript I was when I started this morning.
Ordinarily, an empty hotel room would present ideal writing conditions. I roam my eyes over its features for the hundredth time, hoping I’ll find inspiration hiding in the heavy curtains, the crimson carpet, the distraction-free white sheets of the bed. Since my meeting with Jen, I haven’t been able to write a single word. The idea of working with Katrina is messing with my head.
Not that it’ll ever happen. Jen will call tomorrow and say Katrina refused, and we’ll find another way to sell my next book.
Which is why I don’t understand why I can’t write. I can write no matter what’s going on in my life. The night I was hospitalized with the flu, I wrote. The night my dad died, I wrote. The night Melissa and I decided to get divorced, I wrote. It’s like breathing. Right now, I’m choking.
The idea of Katrina saying no isn’t what paralyzes me. It’s the idea of her saying yes. I can’t even imagine it. Even while editing Only Once, we were only exchanging perfunctory emails every few days. When the book was released, we didn’t even do one promotional event together. It probably contributed to the book’s success, honestly. After the New York Times piece on the end of our partnership, everyone wanted to hunt the novel for clues of what happened between us. As if the truth could’ve been in those pages.
I close my computer, defeated. The clap of the screen is harsh in the quiet hotel room. I pull out my phone, contemplating calling my ex-wife and quickly deciding it’s not a good idea. Conversations with Melissa only leave each of us renewed in our respective resentments. Instead, I call a number I haven’t dialed in years.
Harriet’s voice picks up on the fourth ring. “Nathan Van Huysen. An honor,” she says sarcastically, just the way I’d remembered.
“It’s been a while, Harriet.”
“Four years,” she replies, in light singsong.
I smile. It’s how Harriet Soong is. She enjoys ribbing her friends, colleagues, even instructors almost as much as she loves immersing herself in the Southern Gothic mysteries of the novels she writes.
“Yeah, um,” I say. “How’ve you been?”
“Shit, sure.” I practically hear her shrug over the phone. “Let’s catch up, like it’s not a completely fucking weird thing to do right now. I read your new book. Refraction,” she says dramatically. She pauses, and I find I’m still grinning, even knowing what’s coming. “Your worst yet,” Harriet informs me.
“Well, I’ve set the bar high,” I shoot back.
Harriet laughs, and it’s fortunately not scornful. I half expected she’d just call me a selfish asshole and hang up. I mean, she still might—I’m just glad she hasn’t yet. “You haven’t changed,” she says.
“Parthenon wants me and Katrina to write another book.” The words fall out of my mouth, like I can’t hold them in any longer.
There’s a pause on the other end of the line. “So you’re calling me, when we haven’t so much as emailed in years.” I hear her voice shift into seriousness.