When we walk up to the café, the converted bungalow’s teal porch and pointed white roof stand out on the street. Inside, the place is perfect. They have everything conducive to daylong writing—wide windows, a large tea selection, lots of outlets. I sit next to Nathan while Harriet sits across from us, stealing inquisitive glances she thinks I don’t notice.
The afternoon has been jarringly pleasant. Harriet’s asked our advice on a syllabus she’s preparing, and I’ve managed to make conversation with the two people who months ago I never would’ve chosen to be in the same room with. Over his shoulder, I’m watching Nathan write. He’s in the middle of a sentence when I interject. “Wait, you need to—”
“Shit, you’re right,” he says.
He deletes.
“What about . . .” He refocuses the sentence.
“Yeah,” I say. “Just don’t forget to reference—”
He writes exactly what I was going to say.
Lifting his fingers from the keys, he smiles. “Not bad, right?” I roll my eyes and pull the computer in front of me.
“Wow,” Harriet says. I stop typing. When I look up, she’s staring, no longer hiding her interest. I realize she hasn’t worked on her syllabus for the past few minutes.
“What?” Nathan sounds uncomfortable, like he knows where Harriet’s comment is going.
“You two are . . . really getting along,” she replies. Her voice holds surprise verging on suspicion.
I feel Nathan stiffen next to me. “We’re trying,” I say, not knowing why my reply comes out defensive.
“Trying? Shit, you’re succeeding,” Harriet says. She narrows her eyes. “How?”
Nathan’s quicker to respond. “Does it matter?”
“I mean, no,” Harriet replies. “It doesn’t matter like world peace or feeding the hungry matters. I’m just desperately curious. You’re doing the thing where you read each other’s minds. Worse, you look like you’re having fun.”
When the cappuccino machine hisses, I flinch, startled. “We’re not having fun,” I clarify decisively. Nathan’s head turns slightly, but he says nothing.
“I figured you invited me today to be your buffer or something,” Harriet says. “I guess I was wrong.”
“I invited you because we’re friends,” Nathan says easily. Harriet eyes him a moment longer, understanding what I do. It’s a half response, direct yet incomplete, evading the real subject of the conversation.
Harriet lets him. Uncapping her pen, she returns to her syllabus.
I keep typing, my ears buzzing. I should feel proud we’ve fooled Harriet. Proud we’re finally working cohesively. It’s a good thing, I tell myself. But then why do I feel like I’ve broken the rules?
“No,” Nathan interrupts my writing. “？‘Always.’ Not ‘forever.’？”
He means word choice. I reread the sentence. Evelyn remembered those first private seconds right after they’d said “I do,” when they’d laughed with relief at surviving the hard part and all that was left was dinner and dancing and the love they’d feel forever. Had any of that changed? I grimace, knowing exactly where Nathan’s comment is going.
“？‘Love they’d feel always.’？” He emphasizes the final word, confirming my fears.
“Forever,” I reply patiently. “For the alliteration.”
Nathan’s voice remains light. “You have this grudge against the word always. You always have.” He flashes me his dimple.
I ignore the dimple, which was unfair. “Not true.” It was partly true. I can’t explain my hatred of the word, but I resent that he’s calling me on it.
“Katrina.” He puts his elbows on the table, pleading his case. “It completely changes the connotation. ‘Forever’ is about . . .” He grows contemplative, grasping for the distinction. “Forever is about reaching into the future, into years far away and unknowable. ‘Always’ is about every second of every day. It’s as far-reaching as ‘forever,’ it just starts sooner.” His eyes have fixed on mine. “The word is immediate and immortal. And better.”
No way. I’m not letting him off with some evocative Nathan Van Huysen speech. “Forever hits you instantly with its hugeness,” I fire back.
Nathan says nothing, studying me. Then he turns to Harriet.
“Not a chance,” she says, eyebrows rising. “I refuse to get involved. Work this out yourselves.” I swear I see a pleased gleam in her eyes. When I frown, she just shrugs.