I destroyed all the drafts I had. I’m certain Katrina did as well.
Knowing something survived, I’m unable to settle myself. The questions plague me. Which scene is it, festering on the dining table? What moment of our lives was preserved?
Head on the pillow, I negotiate with myself. I have to know which pages Harriet kept. I won’t read them. I swear I won’t.
With my deal struck, I swing my legs out of bed. I don’t check the clock when my feet hit the floor. I know I wouldn’t like the three numbers—I’m certain it’s three—staring up into the darkness. Walking lightly downstairs, I wince with each creak of the floorboards. The last thing I want is for Katrina to know this kept me up.
I feel my way into the kitchen, my eyes adjusting to the darkness. When I reach the table, I search for the pages.
There’s only smooth wood under my fingertips, cool to the touch.
Instantly, I know. They’re gone.
It’s calming, I realize. Katrina surely trashed them. I’m oddly comforted, knowing I’ll never have to face whatever memories were woven into our handwriting. My chest lighter, I head for the stairs, feeling like I’ll finally be able to sleep.
But when I reach my room, I’m forced to a halt. Down the hallway, past my door, there’s light under Katrina’s.
I feel pulled. Hands of a frustrating force I would hesitate to deem fate drag me down the hallway, putting me in front of her room. With every footstep I war with myself and lose. I wait in front, conscious of the intimacy of standing outside a woman’s door in the middle of the night.
After anguished minutes, I fight to draw up my courage. Eventually, I win, my knuckles rapping on her door. In the ensuing pause, I recognize my victory will be Pyrrhic. What could I hope to gain from a conversation with Kat at one in the morning?
Finally, Katrina opens the door. In the uneven light coming from the only lamp on in her bedroom, I note she’s wearing striped shorts and a tank top, which hangs on her lithe frame with grace I wouldn’t have imagined possible for pajamas. Her hair is the way I remember from early mornings years ago, the brown waves wound over one shoulder, brushing her collarbone and below. Her eyes are wary, questioning.
Past her, the pages are splayed open on her bed.
“You took them,” I say.
It’s a stupid observation, the kind I wouldn’t permit my characters to speak because it moves nothing forward, reveals nothing. I’m trapped here now, though. Trapped here with my words, trapped here with the woman who can see through them.
“Nathan, it’s the middle of the night.” While Katrina’s putting on impatience, I know she’s faking. I hear her guarded hesitance. “Why are you here?” The uncertainty in her eyes changes into realization, and she continues. “You went looking for them.”
“I wasn’t the only one,” I say, matching her feigned confidence syllable for syllable. It’s not hard, I find, like an after-hours rehearsal of the performance we put on for each other every day of writing.
Katrina huffs. “Don’t bother yourself with them. There’s nothing in these pages.”
She’s lying. I can read her, the flickers in her expression, the way she plays with the ends of her hair. “What scene is it?” The question comes out of me with a breathlessness I know betrays my interest. I don’t know what the point of hiding my reaction would be, though. It’s not like Katrina can’t read me the exact same way.
She looks away. “An unimportant one.” She’s definitely lying. The flickers of indication in her expression leap into flames. Her cheeks redden. She swallows. Her reactions only heighten my furious curiosity. Now I have to know.
“You don’t want to give them to me,” I say, understanding. “Do I need to remind you it’s my handwriting you’re reading?”
Katrina retreats deeper into her room, positioning herself in front of the bed. There’s protectiveness in the gesture, like she’s putting herself in my way. “Nathan, they’re meaningless. I just wanted to read them to judge what Harriet was saying.”
It’s nearly a convincing explanation, except why would she need to judge Harriet’s feedback in the middle of the night? I walk into her room, highly aware I’m stepping onto dangerous ground. “If they’re meaningless,” I venture, “why can’t I have them? What’s in the pages, Katrina?” I’m coming closer, right up to her, while she stays still.
She lifts her chin up subtly, combative. “Nothing real. It’s just fiction,” she says, practically exhaling. “Fiction.” She repeats the word like it carries enormous weight, or like she wishes it did.