But I made this choice, I remind myself. Even here, fingertips on the keys, Nathan mere minutes away, it’s hard to remember exactly why my relationship is worth this. I have to hold my resolve. I take a deep breath, close my eyes. Ideas, burry and indistinct, shift into focus, sending signals down my arms, to my hands, ready for the blank page.
I type one letter and the doorbell rings.
Closing my computer, I iron out the waver in my fingers, embarrassingly relieved to have staved off writing. I rise to my feet, turning with trepidation toward the door. In the windows, shuttered in shocking sky blue, I can see the shape of Nathan. His suitcase next to him on the porch. It feels unreal, having this person who, for four years, I’ve only seen in memories and side-by-side photos in book reviews stand in the flesh ten feet from me.
I walk slowly into the front room. With a deep breath, I open the door.
? FOUR YEARS EARLIER ?
On the front porch, the sunlight warms my skin wonderfully. It’s sweaty in Key Largo, but not in the ways I mind. Not the sweat of walking in the city in your heaviest coat, or of elevators in summer. Florida’s is like after-sex sweat.
My flight got in before Nathan’s, and I went to the rental house early to check the place out and claim my bedroom. In the small Italian villa we rented last year, Nathan grabbed the master bedroom for himself, and I was left with the twin bed and the lime-green wallpaper. I couldn’t object, not when Nathan paid for that trip on his own. I tried to thank him for it, and he just looked at me and frowned. “What else would I spend it on?” he asked. I thought it was a ridiculous question. He had a wife, who probably would have loved a trip to Italy. But I didn’t press. How Nathan managed his marriage was his business.
He’s not paying for this trip, though. Pride swells in my chest at the thought. We’ve made actual money from our first book. Not life-changing money, which is fine. Florida-retreat money is exciting enough.
While I wait, ideas whirl in my head. I’m itching to get started, but I don’t. Not without Nathan. The last time I wrote without discussing the direction with him, he read the pages and came up with an inspired improvement in fifteen minutes. I had to start over from scratch. Instead, I’m reading one of the books I found in the house’s library. It’s historical romance, and I’m loving it, unsurprisingly.
Finally, Nathan’s ridiculous rental car rolls up in the driveway. It’s a Porsche, per usual. He has the top down, his hair wind-tousled. I watch dryly while he leaps out. “Reading already?” he calls up to the porch, eyeing me. It’s a running joke of ours—in every spare moment I have, I’m reading whatever’s in reach. Even if it’s a stack of moldy newspapers from 1995 I found in the attic.
“Would you rather I’d started writing without you?” I reply.
He grabs his luggage from the trunk, two suitcases and the leather shoulder bag I know carries his laptop. “What, cheat on me?” He smiles like he knows I never would. “Of course not. Though it would be rather thematic.”
“Life imitating art,” I say.
He hauls his luggage up the porch steps, eyes flitting over the white wooden columns, the sky-blue shutters, the bougainvillea. “I’ve had some thoughts on the flight on how to move up the first act ending,” he comments casually.
“I’m shocked.”
“It drags,” he insists.
“It doesn’t. Give readers some credit.”
“Oh, not this again.” Nathan looks impatient, but I know he enjoys the back-and-forth. We both do.
I shut my book and stand up in front of him. “Emotions need time to simmer,” I say firmly.
Nathan watches me, and I know he’s not convinced. “Let’s at least wait until we’re inside before we start arguing.”
I shrug. “You brought it up.”
He sets one suitcase down and reaches forward, kissing my cheek in greeting. The gesture is instinctual, something he inherited from his wealthy family. Still, it’s sweet, especially when he smiles. “Good to see you, Kat,” he says softly.
“You, too.” I follow him inside—stepping one foot over the threshold onto the teal hardwood floor. “Like I was saying, I want fifty pages before the act end. No fewer.”
Nathan laughs, his voice echoing in the empty house.
? PRESENT DAY ?
When I open the front door, I feel like time has reversed. Nathan waits on the porch, looking exactly the same. Same perfect posture, same shoulder bag, even the same Porsche parked in the same driveway. If I were in the mood for humor, I would find the contrast with my rental car—the first dented Hyundai they rolled off the lot—somewhat comical. But I’m not.