“You won’t regret this,” he whispers, withdrawing. “You’re a writer, Katrina. You just need to get back to the page.”
I nod, overwhelmed. “What about you? Are you sure?”
He studies me, searching. “Of course,” he says, sounding confused.
“You don’t . . .” I hesitate. I hate even introducing this into the conversation. But I know what’s coming, and I want him to be prepared. “You don’t care about the rumors about me and Nathan?”
Chris pauses, then laughs, short and unbothered. I feel the warmth left on my lips fading. I don’t know what reaction I wanted him to have, but it’s not this. “You mean am I worried you had an affair and you’ll pick it up again?”
“It’s what everyone will say when this gets announced,” I explain. I wonder why I even need to. Why he needs me to walk him through what would worry the average man in his position.
His face hasn’t changed, incomprehension and humor playing a discordant duet. “I don’t care what people say. Whether you and he had a fling in the past, it’s not for me to object to. We weren’t together. As for this book, I trust you,” he says reassuringly.
The floor feels firmer under me. If this wasn’t the reaction I wanted, why not? He’s being mature, non-territorial, respectful of my professional relationships and romantic history.
“Besides,” he continues, “I understand writing a book with someone is intense.”
His eyes have an indicative flicker. I’m not following.
“You two will share a lot.” He speaks slowly, deliberately. “I don’t . . . have a problem with that. You’ll do what you have to do. Finishing the book is what’s important.”
What was indicative in his eyes has hardened into meaning. In one dizzying moment, I understand what he’s implying. I was giving him credit moments ago, admiring his reserve and respect for me. It’s a little less laudable, him not minding if I have an affair in the name of writing one more goddamn novel.
I almost want to question him on it, clarify he wouldn’t actually “not have a problem” if I fucked Nathan Van Huysen. But I think I wouldn’t like the answer.
He kisses me once more, which I hollowly reciprocate, and gets up. From the door he grins, clearly not noticing how dazed I am.
“Hey, over dinner,” he says, “why don’t you show me some of those wedding venues?”
I hardly process the invitation, one I would have welcomed enthusiastically yesterday or this morning or whenever. Not now.
I nod, wanting to cry. I wonder if being cheated on feels like being given license to cheat. Chris smiles once more, noticing none of this, then shuts the door behind him.
Mechanically, I cross the room. I pick up the bookstore bag and pull out the copy of Refraction, watching my fingers run over the raised lettering of Nathan’s name.
Then I open the back flap, where I find his author photo. It’s not the one from Only Once, and he’s visibly three years older. The changes are subtle, but I take in every one of them. The narrowing of his face, the definition of the edges and angles, the reservation in his eyes.
He’s looking into the camera. Looking right at me. It’s the expression I’ve seen a hundred times, when he’s listening to my ideas, drawing them in, improving them.
I close the cover and walk over to the boxes of books in the closet, where I place the new purchase on top of the copy of Refraction I already owned.
6
Nathan
It’s minutes until the conference call, and I’m expecting an email from Jen informing me Katrina’s called the whole thing off. Of course, I’ve been expecting that email for the past two days. The morning after I met with Jen, while I walked through LaGuardia to my gate, she wrote me confirming Katrina was in. The next day, a conference call was scheduled with Parthenon.
The fact that I haven’t heard from Katrina herself even once is what has me doubting this will ever happen. The point of this call is ostensibly to discuss ideas, yet the coauthors haven’t communicated enough to pick a genre. Granted, I haven’t exactly reached out, either. I fed myself bullshit reasons whenever I considered contacting her. She could’ve gotten a new cell number. She could’ve changed her email. For a fiction writer, I came up with pretty unconvincing excuses.
The email doesn’t come. I’m on my couch in my condo in Chicago, the white room quiet. It’s undecorated and impersonal, except for the books everywhere. Floor-to-ceiling shelves holding my collection of fiction, memoirs, history. They, and the complete absence of anything else noteworthy in my apartment, are reminders of how this—writing—is everything I am. When I found my craft, I clung and clung and clung to it, until it clung to me, intertwined with who I was. And now I have no way of existing outside of it.