I hide how the remark hurts me. Criticism from her stings in a way no other reader’s ever does. It’s payback, of course. My metaphor for her opening conversation. Not quite eye for an eye but close enough. “Delete it, then,” I say.
“Already did.”
The lightness in her voice is like footsteps over hot coals. We’re entering the most dangerous part of every fight. The part where the conflict could die out or, pushed further, erupt into something much worse. We’ve had screaming matches before. Katrina’s stormed out of rooms, her face flushed. I once slammed the door of my home office hard enough that the handle wobbled off. They’re ugly memories, scars we keep out of sight on other days. We’ve always come through them, always moved forward.
Marriage really isn’t the worst comparison. You can’t write with someone you’re afraid to fight with, and you can only fight fearlessly because you know at the end of the day, no matter what you’ve said, nothing can break you up. Still, fights pick up fuel from every conceivable source, drawing upon old grievances, misremembered slights, pet peeves that amount to nothing. I prepare myself for whatever is coming now.
Katrina opens her mouth. I’m ready to rise to whatever vitriol she has for me.
Right then, instead, all the fans in the room click off.
In the quiet absence of their hum, I look over my shoulder, checking the clock on the microwave. It’s dark. Power outage. “Well, balls,” I say. The fans were our lifeline. Without them, the heat is stifling. I face Katrina, expecting war, and I’m surprised when I find her smiling.
Just like that, I smile back.
I can’t help myself. My anger slips through my fingers like sand.
“Balls?” Kat repeats incredulously.
I laugh. “Yes, Katrina. Balls.”
Her grin cracks into a giggle, and the sound brightens the whole room. Standing, she sets her computer on the coffee table. “Time for a very frigid shower,” she says enthusiastically.
“Good thinking,” I reply.
She shoots me another small smile before heading for the stairs, all her anger forgotten. I could leave it there, sweep the fight under the rug like it never happened.
I don’t, though. I’m a married man, and in ways I’ve learned to treat Katrina like I would my wife. “Katrina.” She stills, turning to me. “Sorry for cutting the conversation,” I say. “If it’s important to you, we’ll put it back.”
Katrina softens, and I feel a weight lifted from my chest. “Apology accepted,” she says. “It’s fine. You can cut it.”
“Thanks,” I reply.
The pressure is gone. Despite the heat, the room feels like it’s opened up, offering room for fire to kindle. As my cowriter reaches the top of the stairs, she calls down to me. “When I’m out, let’s eat all our ice cream before it melts.”
“I love that plan,” I call back immediately. Returning to my computer, I smile. We’ll have many more fights before this book is finished, and each time, we’ll find our way through. Back to each other.
11
Nathan
? PRESENT DAY ?
For the next few days, our fights fuel our writing. Or really, the fights we’re not having. We give them to our characters, letting our own endless discord feed what Michael and Evelyn fling at each other. We put everything onto the page.
I don’t object to the method writing. It’s been my process pretty much forever. When I first started writing, I would craft my stories out of the stuff of prep-school stress, parental dissatisfactions, girls I couldn’t date, how the liveliness and liberation of college would feel. I just kind of went from there, writing my hopes and fears into fiction. Not only did it make for relatable prose, I knew deep down it helped me process. It was easier to channel my feelings into writing. Safer.
It was a lesson I learned early in life—speaking out when my father pressured me to be an investment banker only led to hours-long arguments that ended with him and me like bloodied boxers in our respective corners without a winner. Even with friends, saying the perfect stinging comeback out loud just felt mean. In writing, though? Perfection.
While perhaps not psychologically healthy, the process is productive. Katrina and I pour page after page of the book into our laptops, making remarkable progress even for us. We’ve produced thirty pages in the past three days.
We lead strangely luxuryless lives for people holed up in a gorgeous Florida cottage. We wake on the far ends of the house, listening—or I know I do—with embarrassing intensity for the sounds of each other rustling bedsheets, opening bathroom doors, turning on showers. There’s intimacy we no longer permit in seeing each other unshowered. We used to, on our retreats. I don’t let myself miss seeing Katrina’s pillow-creased cheeks, sleepy eyes, and the unruly shock of her hair spilling over her neck.