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?”
Nathan laughs lightly, more to himself. “Were we ever a secret?”
“Only to ourselves,” I say.
“So when I propose to you,” he says, “should I do it in a bookstore?”
I nearly stop on the sidewalk. My mouth drops open a little. Nothing comes out. I close it, then start over. “Hilarious,” I say, studying him. He’s serious, despite having wrapped the question in a joke. I know because, while he’s playing casual, he’s watching me too intently.
“What about in the finished copies of our book?” he asks, once more serious and not.
I’m only just holding onto my composure, joys I couldn’t possibly catalogue crashing over me. “Our book about divorce?” I remind him.
“Good point.” He pauses, his eyes drifting contemplatively. Unsatisfied, he turns to me. “Care to brainstorm this with me?”
I shove him, delighted. “I will not cowrite your proposal with you.”
“Damn,” he says ruefully. “Well, I’ll figure something out. Soon.” His gaze darts to me on the final word, watching for my reaction.