I face Nathan. “Rock paper scissors?” I offer hopefully.
Nathan eyes my dryly. We have, on occasion, used the playground game to settle writing disputes. Right now, however, Nathan doesn’t put his fist forward.
Instead, he stands up. “I have a better idea.”
I watch uncomprehendingly, dread filling my chest. The feeling heightens when, without hesitation, he stands up on his chair.
“Oh my god,” I say. “Get down from there.”
He flashes me the dimple again. “Excuse me, everyone,” he says loudly to the room, surveying the café. I stuff my hands in my lap, knowing I won’t like whatever he’s going to do. “I need your help settling a score.”
Heads swivel in his direction. I hear whispering, undoubtedly people wondering why this strange man is standing on a chair. Nathan doesn’t look bothered.
“We’re writing a book. Raise your hand for the sentence you prefer.” He’s exuding his characteristic charm, and I can see some of the skeptical cafégoers drawn in. “？‘The love they’d feel always,’ or ‘the love they’d feel forever.’ Show of hands for ‘always.’？”
He waits, expectant. No one raises their hand.
“Come on,” he implores the crowd, his voice enticing. “My partner and I can’t agree, and we have to go home together tonight. Don’t make us fight about this over dinner.”
A laugh escapes me, and I immediately clap a hand over my mouth, earning glances from Nathan’s audience. A man in a fishing vest raises his hand, followed by the two teenagers in the back. Seeing them, Nathan jumps a little in excitement and nearly falls, his chair wobbling under him. I laugh louder now, not hiding it.
Nathan notices. His eyes flash to me, his lips forming half a smile. “Show of hands for ‘forever’？” he requests, his gaze still on me.
More hands rise. With surging satisfaction, I look around at my new constituents. The elderly couple near the coffee counter appear fully committed. Both the baristas prefer “forever.” The thirtysomething woman working on her computer is raising her hand without looking up from her screen. I’ve won. Nathan hangs his head dejectedly.
“I’ll accept the judgment, though I do not like it. Thanks, everyone,” he says, stepping down from his chair. When he sits next to me once more, he looks exhilarated.
“Wait, seriously?” I say. “You’re going to do my word just because four people in this café raised their hands?”
“I said I would, and so I shall,” he replies with mock gravitas. His eyes sparkle.
I laugh again, unable to help myself. “You’re ridiculous.”
“This surprises you?” he returns immediately.
I only shake my head, chiding, and return to the computer. The hint of my smile lingers on my lips. Focus fails me—I reread our last sentence over and over until I feel Harriet’s eyes on me. When I look up, she’s staring. There’s no mistaking what she’s thinking, and now, I have no defense. This time, I didn’t just look like I was having fun. I was.
21
Nathan
We leave the café around sunset. Harriet headed out an hour ago, shaking her head while Katrina and I discussed the scene we were working on.
It was a good day, in every way I measure a day. Katrina and I finished the scene we had scheduled, and what we wrote was excellent. What’s more, we enjoyed ourselves. Harriet wasn’t wrong—when Katrina and I collaborate well, finishing each other’s sentences isn’t the half of our synchrony. We finish each other’s phrases, motifs, nuances. My uncle, who rowed for Harvard, would describe the feeling of the whole crew finding their collective rhythm, gliding over the water with flawless force. It’s how I feel on Katrina’s and my good days.
We walk home, enjoying the first cool of the evening. I wish I could bask in the orange and pink sky or the pride in what we wrote. Instead, my stomach is knotted. The day was too pleasant. It scares me. I know where patterns of days like today lead, and I won’t return there.
Katrina walks next to me, the hem of her white cotton dress fluttering in the breeze, revealing glimpses of her calves. She looks contentedly down the road, her eyes drifting like she’s lost in her imagination, her lips half open. The silence is comfortable, which is why I need to ruin it.
“Why are you marrying him?”
I know immediately I’ve shattered our growing camaraderie. It eases the tension in my stomach. Katrina’s eyes slant to me. She doesn’t slow her steps, her sandals crunching on the sandy pavement.