“Hence my bailing.” I start to slip past her out of the room.
Her voice stops me. “You’re not curious?”
I pause, curious, just not in the way she means. “Now you’re trying to get me to stay? Pick a theme—” I leave off the sentence, realizing I don’t know her name.
She sticks out her hand. It’s delicate, her nails unpainted. “Katrina Freeling,” she introduces herself.
“Nathan Van Huysen,” I supply, taking her hand. Her fingers grasp mine with brisk firmness. Not every handshake is indicative of the person, but this one, I think, is. It’s just like the portrait of this girl I’ve sketched in the past thirty seconds. Everything with her is intentional, thought-out, direct.
“I’m not trying to convince you. The couch is legally mine now,” she informs me. I have not stopped smiling for several moments now, I note. She goes on. “I just wonder why you’d come to a writers’ workshop to hide in your room.”
“I’m not hiding. I’ll be writing,” I clarify. “Which, if I’m not mistaken, is what you’re supposed to do at a writers’ workshop.”
“Writing what?”
I blink, once more struck by her directness. There’s no prejudgment in Katrina Freeling’s expression, no competitiveness like I’ve seen in many of my peers today. She’s just interested. “You haven’t heard enough pitches today?” I press her lightly.
“I guess not,” she replies, her eyes sparkling. “What’s your book?” she asks. It’s familiar shorthand, the favorite question of publishing people. The business card of this world.
“Nothing yet,” I confess. “Just thoughts, feelings. I’m hoping to find a story here.”
“Ah.” Her voice is playfully pitying, yet I know she means no offense.
“Ah what?” I narrow my eyes, still smiling.
“You don’t have something good enough to read out loud.”
“Yes, I do!” I laugh. I feel it’s important she knows this.
She puts one finger to her chin, faux-contemplative. “If only there was a forum in which you could prove such a statement . . .” Mischief catches her grin. I recognize her joke for what it is. She’s daring me to stay. In response, I cross my arms over my chest, pause, then look past her into the room.
“Someone’s taking your seat,” I inform her. “You better go explain your— What was it? Legal entitlement to the sofa.”
She looks over her shoulder, where one of the guys from the back of the room is settling onto the couch. Her eyes returning to me, she shrugs. “Oh well. Guess I’ll stand.” One of her full eyebrows raises lightly. “You better get out quickly, though, before they start.”
I see one of the fellows step up to the front of the room. Katrina’s right. I don’t have long. “What are you going to read?” I find myself asking.
She smirks. “Nathan, if you’re curious, you’ll just have to stay.”
I scoff in the same unserious way she looked pitying of me earlier. “You overestimate my curiosity.”
“Do I?” she replies immediately. “Let’s find out.”
With remarkable timing, the fellow who’s standing up calls for silence. I purse my lips, feeling pulled in opposite directions. If I return to my room, I could get so much done. It’s the perfect amount of time to get down the scene idea I had on the drive up. I should slip out—if I stay, I’m trapped here for probably hours. But . . . the girl watching me not inconspicuously keeps me here, stuck in place. I promise myself I’ll wait until she’s read, then I’ll leave. I’ll duck out to go to the bathroom, and I won’t return.
Except when they start taking volunteers, Katrina doesn’t raise her hand. For the next torturous hour, she continues not raising her hand while I endure uncomfortably personal essays and alternating purple and pretentious prose. Finally, like she’s decided I’ve served some sentence, Katrina walks to the front, throwing me a wink on her way.
She starts reading, and she’s effortless, fearless. I’m a little surprised to discover her short story is a love story right in the literary-commercial sweet spot. It’s not unlike the kind I write. Not unlike it at all.
I’m enraptured. I soak in her every word, hearing how similar it is to the styles I love but with Katrina’s own personal flair elevating it. While she reads, I have the surprising urge to hand her everything I’ve ever written and beg her for feedback. Suddenly, peer criticism can’t come soon enough. She has exactly what I’ve been looking for. If she could teach me or even—