The idea of losing him and us is exhaustingly painful, which is why I chose to ignore it until now. With our financials in front of me—documenting our life like photographs or love letters—I feel like I’m finally viewing honestly what Chris and I have, weighed down by the baggage of success. Of whatever Chris inherited from his frustrating family. Of me and Nathan, if I was honest. Except “baggage” shouldn’t be the metaphor for this sort of thing, because you can put baggage down. When you’re weary or your hand hurts, you can say “wait up” and drop the baggage to the ground until you’re ready to carry on.
I don’t think you ever get to put these kinds of problems down.
They’re less like unwieldy luggage and more like the ugly furniture gifted by your in-laws you have to keep in view because they might come over and check. While you grow used to the puce leather chair and the lamp inherited from Grandma’s old home, you wish deep down they were gone and know they never will be.
Chris and I have ugly furniture with each other. Years of it.
There’s one thing that would fix this. All I need to do is write one book. Well, one book with Nathan. Nevertheless, just one book. I could do it in two months, if I pushed myself.
Two months to save my relationship.
I’m contemplating the passage of time when there’s gentle knocking on the door behind me. I turn to find Chris entering. He’s holding the bookstore bag I realize I left in the living room, and flowers. White roses. Chris understands the value of a cliché. He lingers near the doorway, looking sculpted out of clay instead of stone, his imposing form soft instead of uncompromising.
“I’m really sorry, Katrina,” he says. “I didn’t mean what I said. You don’t have to write if you don’t want to.”
He hands me the flowers and places the bag on my desk.
His voice is reluctantly reassuring when he continues, like it’s not easy for him to say his next words. “I’ll call Liz and tell her it’s not happening.”
I look up, meeting his eyes. There’s contrition in them, effort he’s making for Katrina his fiancée, not Katrina the writer. I wonder how long it’ll last.
Still, it’s real. Just the fact he’s offering to call Liz and rescind something he desperately wants on my behalf shows he genuinely loves me.
And without Chris, what does my life even look like? He was by my side when I had nothing. The night we first slept together was the day Only Once was released. He kept me grounded, helped me navigate the stratospheric path from published author to household name. The truth is, his fraternity-president features hide streaks of uncommon patience and gentle care, though I haven’t felt them lately. He even managed to make good days out of the hardest time of my life. In the post–Only Once year, I remember weeks when I felt guilty for doing nothing the entire day except read or nap. Those nights, Chris would spend dinner discussing every detail of whatever I was reading with such focus I couldn’t help looking forward to reading more, and telling him more the next night.
He’s been good to me. He’s been there for me. We might have some ugly furniture, but the house we’re building still feels like it could be home.
What’s more, I’ve invested in our relationship, the way Chris has in his flagging financial portfolio. I never expected I would pin so much hope to getting married, but in the years since Chris proposed to me, it’s what I’ve had. Without wanting to publish my writing, the life I’m building with Chris has become the shining milestone I’m pushing for, the north on my compass.
If I give two months—two wretched months, but just two months—I’d be pointed north again.
“No,” I say softly.
The decision is made in my mind. The hard part is saying it. Chris watches me, waiting.
“I’ll do it,” I get out.
His expression shifts immediately. In it I see joy I haven’t in months. “You’re sure?” his voice wavers.
“I’m sure.”
I feel everything but.
He drops to his knees in front of me. Even on the ground, with me in my desk chair, he’s exactly my height. He kisses me in a way I hardly recognize, his lips rushing to meet mine, his hair brushing my temple. I drink in the smell of him deeper even than I’m consciously intending to. The feeling is heady. His kiss is not perfunctory, not even desirously expectant. It’s immediate. Intimate. And heartbreaking. The reminder of how he never kisses me this way is faint, yet insistent. I push it away, because this is how it’ll be now that I’m writing the book.