I find my thoughts pulled off track by her words, derailed by the force of what she’s reading. I let myself enjoy the new path she’s cutting in my head, the characters she’s rendering, fully formed and captivating, the voice she wields with refined precision. I shouldn’t be surprised her writing is so like herself, or what I’ve seen of her so far. So far. It’s my silent, unconscious promise to myself.
She finishes, her final sentence echoing in my ears. The room claps, but Katrina’s not focused on them. Her eyes find mine, her smile challenging.
But I don’t need daring. Not now. I raise my hand immediately. If I read, I can ask her her thoughts. If I’m really lucky, I’ll captivate her enough that she’ll read more of my work. On my way to the front of the room, our shoulders brush as I pass her. I’ll read my writing for the whole room, because she’s in it. Because really, I’m only reading for one person.
Katrina Freeling.
63
Nathan
? PRESENT DAY ?
There’s curiously little ceremony in finishing a novel. In most cases, they end like they began. There’s no fanfare, no applause, only swelling emotion hidden beneath more ink on more pages just like the rest. Maybe your coffee gets cold, maybe you don’t check your phone or your email for a while. Otherwise, the world continues to turn, while your personal, private story ends.
Katrina and I write the final chapter of Where We’ll End sitting next to each other on the dining table bench. It’s half past noon. The day is gorgeous, sunlight searing in our windows from the pale sky. My coffee is, in fact, cold. I know I won’t remember these details. I never do. When I’m writing, I imagine the end of each story so vividly, there’s no surprise when, finally, it comes. It’s how endings should work. In some ways, you should know them from the very first page. They’re the culmination and subversion of everything proceeding, the satisfaction of expectations and the joy of the unexpected.
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.