“Of course,” Liz replies easily. “You know why your readers loved Only Once, though. You write romance.”
I don’t reply, not wanting to encourage the idea. I proposed a break-up book. Then Katrina inserted a very good idea involving very minimal romance. The more Liz says, the more I see my break-up book filling up with stolen glances, brushing hands, tender embraces. Kissing.
“Even if the ending is bleak,” Liz continues. “It’s not like you gave your characters a happily-ever-after in Only Once. The story was full of longing, though. In this book, emphasize this passion you’re proposing. Find the romance.”
Find the romance. Find the romance with Katrina. Yes, I’ll just climb Mount Everest when I’m done.
“Right,” Chris speaks up. “Definitely. We have to deliver on the brand.”
I’m silent. So is Katrina. I’m not going to be the one to object, not if she won’t.
Jen jumps in, sparing us. “I think the most productive thing right now is to let Nathan and Katrina begin their process. Once they have more to work with, we’ll get back on the phone and figure out next steps.”
“Yes, of course,” Liz replies immediately. “Have you two planned your writing retreat yet? Where’s it going to be?”
I decide to hold the line right here. I’m not saying a damn thing. It’s on Katrina to field this horrifying question. The silence stretches, the phone line crackling with more than static. Finally, I win. “We haven’t discussed it,” Katrina says, her voice wire-sharp.
“I know you’ll have a wonderful time,” Liz says, and for the first time I wonder if my editor is not that bright. “Call whenever.”
“Thanks,” I reply.
“Bye, Liz,” Katrina says.
We hang up. It feels like retreating. I’m reeling from the conversation—Katrina and I just pitched the book we’re writing together without exchanging one word with each other. We haven’t even discussed how we’re writing the book. It hits me, we said we would finish the first draft in two months. While the difficulty of my working relationship with Katrina is very real, our deadline is very real, too.
I do the only thing I can think to do. I call Jen.
“Hey,” she says when she picks up, sounding upbeat. “I think that went great, don’t you?”
I ignore the question. It’s for the best. “Can you call Chris and find out Katrina’s schedule? When does she want to do this?”
“You don’t want to call her yourself?” I hear Jen judging me.
“Not particularly.”
“Nathan, you’re going to have to speak to her while you write this book.”
“This isn’t writing,” I point out. “It’s scheduling. Can you just tell her I’ll meet her wherever, whenever?” It won’t make a difference. Katrina could want to write this book on the pearly sands of Aruba or in line at the DMV. I’d have an awful time regardless.
Jen sighs, loud and laborious. “I’ll talk to Chris. But I will not babysit you while you refuse to communicate with your coauthor. You will go on this retreat, and you will be professional.”
“I understand,” I say earnestly. “Thanks, Jen.” I hang up.
Walking upstairs, I replay the conversation in my head. Liz’s parting words echo in my ears. I know you’ll have a wonderful time. Despite myself, they make me laugh.
7
Katrina
Being in this house feels like having a fever. The warm Florida light outside is too bright, the humidity too heavy. Every detail of the place is vaguely unpleasant—the teal-painted hardwood floors, the wicker furniture, the shutters cutting up the view from every window. Even the fish in the painting in the hall watches me from its frame like it’s dissatisfied.
It’s been two weeks since the phone call with Nathan, our editor, and our agents. Two weeks since Chris and Jen worked out the timing for this retreat. No one wanted to delay, not even me. Arrangements were made, flights booked, the house prepared. The whole time Nathan and I exchanged not one single email.
I’m in the living room now, computer on the white coffee table, trying to brainstorm. It’s a funny word, brainstorming. When creativity’s going well, it feels intuitive, easy. Not today. The storm in my thoughts is part of the problem. It’s shaping up into a hurricane, Nathan and Chris and this dreaded book and the next two months in Key Largo threatening to whip the doors from the hinges in my mind.
Of course, it’s not only personal problems getting in my way. I’m out of practice. I haven’t written fiction in over three years. The instincts feel dull, sluggish with disuse. I don’t have time for sluggish. I refuse to spend even one unnecessary minute in this house.