Suddenly, with the speed of inspiration, Nathan reaches forward. He seizes my computer without my having the chance to stop him.
The next instant he’s typing—a flurry of fingers and keys. I lean over his shoulder to read whatever’s possessed him, ignoring our new proximity. If his font size weren’t eleven, I wouldn’t have to leave only millimeters between my chest and the flat plane of his upper arm.
Nathan’s writing from the perspective of Evelyn, our main character. On her way home, she’s pulled over to the side of the road. Cars fly past her. It’s late at night. She’s just blown a tire, and she’s waiting for roadside assistance. She’s nervous, hands in her—
Hands in her lap, slick with sweat.
It hits me with the force of the cars hurtling past Evelyn what Nathan’s doing. He noticed me hiding my hands, and he’s chosen to write my discomfort into our first official page.
He keeps going. Evelyn’s phone rings in her hand. Her husband’s name displays on the screen. Michael. She laughs to herself—she hadn’t even thought to call him.
When Michael speaks, I know what he’s going to say.
“Hey, babe. How’s it going?”
I watch, helpless, while Nathan renders the conversation in excruciating detail. While the words are Chris’s and mine, the voice is Nathan’s. He’s good, horribly good. He writes with psychological insight and literary intensity, and I feel naked from how perfectly he portrays exactly how I felt in every moment. Evelyn deciding not to tell her husband what she’s dealing with, keeping her fears to herself, realizing she doesn’t want to share everything with him.
He nears the end of the conversation. Michael asks Evelyn if she needs anything from him, once again echoing Chris word for word. I hold my breath while Nathan writes.
Instead of, “No. Nothing,” like I said, Nathan deviates.
The night no longer felt unruly when Evelyn looked out her window. It felt welcoming, the anonymity of the empty sky almost comforting. Evelyn had the impression it was inviting her gently to do what she knew she had wanted to for a while. Into the quiet of the car she spoke four little words.
“I want a divorce.”
Nathan stops typing.
He turns the computer toward me, like I wasn’t reading over his shoulder. “It’s an improvement, right?” he asks, his voice like a loaded gun.
I don’t flinch. I don’t flush. My face is empty of expression. I wish I could say it’s because I’m impassive enough, self-possessed enough for Nathan’s provocations not to reach me. It’s not, though. I’m simply too shocked for emotion. Shocked he’s starting out this invasive, messing with me in pages we’re meant to produce together. From grade school, I remember the moment a pliant rubber dodgeball hit me in the face on the playground. It’s how I feel now.
But Nathan doesn’t get to write my relationship.
I hold on to this truth. I nurture it. I stoke the small fire it sets in me. It is, I realize, what infuriates Nathan. He could imagine Chris and me splitting dozens of times on the page. In reality, it would change nothing.
I grab the computer. Knowing he’s watching me, I carve into his prose, changing, rearranging, embellishing. On the empty canvas of Evelyn’s husband, Michael, I draw Nathan. I have Evelyn describe him as the kind of narcissist only generations of wealth and elite education can breed.
I give him a Porsche. I give him a dimple.
Finally, I face what I’ve done in Nathan’s direction and watch him read it. I relish the small flickers in his expression. Unlike me, his face shows . . . everything. He doesn’t miss a single stinging reminder it’s him I’m writing in. When I figure he’s close to finishing. I ready myself for criticism, arguments, remarks about Chris.
Instead, he leans back from the screen and, smugly, he smiles.
“Now that’s a start,” he says, his eyes locked on mine.
10
Nathan
? FOUR YEARS EARLIER ?
It feels like it’s five hundred degrees in here. Even with every fan on, the day just won’t cool down, heat emanating from every surface in the house like we’re writing inside our own private sauna. I’ve changed my shirt once, and I’m starting to sweat through my new one. Katrina’s faring no better, sitting with her legs crossed on the floor, moisture glistening on her shoulders and the end of her nose. She’s pulled her hair up into a rare ponytail.
She speaks without lifting her eyes from her computer screen. “Did you make the change we discussed to chapter two?” Her voice holds the faintest hint of condemnation, like she’s ready for me to admit I got swept up in another idea and haven’t done it yet. It’s not unreasonable— there have been times I’ve neglected some minor edit in favor of chasing inspiration forward.