“I love him.” Her voice is frigid.
Good. I need to remember this is here, always under the surface of our performed friendship. I can fake it however long I need if I don’t forget what’s real. It’s not like I believe her, of course, which I don’t say. It’s reassuring, the idea we might lie to each other again.
Because she is lying. Some people wear relationships like cozy sweaters. Others wear them like chains, others like armor. Katrina wears hers like a heavy coat, restrictive, even uncomfortable, if protective from the cold outside world. It’s not quite love, even though it’s not quite the lack thereof.
Pursing her lips, she doesn’t let me respond. “Why’d you get divorced?” she asks, clearly wanting to level the playing field. “Did Melissa leave you because of the rumors?”
She doesn’t specify which rumors she means. There’s no need. “No,” I reply curtly, enjoying the combativeness. “She didn’t leave me. I ended it.”
Katrina is silent. For a reckless second, I want her to ask why. I want the question dangling in front of me like a garish pi?ata. I want the chance to give in to every impulse, to completely wreck everything between us, to destroy even the possibility of finishing this book. To quit pretending we could ever be friends.
She doesn’t ask why. She doesn’t say anything the rest of the way, and neither do I.
22
Katrina
Since our walk home from the café, it’s been five figurative degrees colder in the house. I know what Nathan was doing, and furthermore, I get it. I’d fallen into old feelings, old emotional cracks I thought I’d paved over. Watching him up on his chair, I felt like I was watching the Nathan who lit up our festival panel events or made our workshop friends laugh. I won’t pretend I’m not a little grateful he pushed us apart.
I’m hopelessly conflicted—I don’t want to be here, writing with Nathan in our house, and I do want to, because returning home would mean facing Chris’s and my poor financial picture and the probable ruin of my relationship.
I have so much practice wanting and not wanting at once.
On Sunday, we give ourselves the day off from writing, the way we used to. We’ve always insisted we need the time to rest and do research. In the past, that looked like outings to the beach, but neither of us broached that possibility today.
While I was reading on the porch in the morning, Nathan had jogged out in running shorts, hardly pausing long enough to wave goodbye before starting off down the block. I tried to settle back into reading, but I couldn’t. I didn’t want to be cooped up in this house, waiting for Nathan to return. I grabbed my bag, and I started walking.
Harriet’s house is fifteen minutes from ours. When I march up the front steps, I’m sweating from the humidity. I knock on the white wood and wait. I would have texted, except I deleted Harriet’s number in a rage years ago, and if I’d asked Nathan for it, I would’ve had to endure his prying questions on why I no longer had it.
Right when I’m starting to turn around, Harriet answers the door.
“I was wondering when you’d turn up,” she greets me. Her ebony hair is down, falling over her black Cocteau Twins shirt.
“Have a minute to talk?” I ask.
From behind the screen, Harriet studies me for a moment. Finally, she swings open the door. I walk in, noticing immediately she’s remodeled the place. It looks less Florida-quirky, more simplistic. Gone is the retro leafy wallpaper, in its place white walls, dark wood furniture, and marble sculptures. It’s a reminder that not everything has stayed the same in four years.
The other reminder is how Harriet crosses her arms and frowns at me. “No Nathan today?” she inquires. It is not a cheerful or casual question.
I don’t bother answering. “You were out of line,” I say instead. I’m not talking about the café, and she knows it.
Harriet’s eyebrows rise. “Really? Isn’t this conversation a little late?”
“If you don’t want to have it, I’ll walk out right now,” I reply. I give her a look that says the rest. And we’ll never move past this.
Harriet sighs, long and drawn-out. Not exasperation. Resignation. “Fine,” she says. “Let’s do this. You think I was out of line? I was your friend. I was trying to help you.”
“How exactly? By ruining my partnership? My career?” I don’t hesitate in replying. I’ve had half a dozen versions of this fight in my head in the shower. While I never thought I’d have them in person, I hadn’t considered returning here, being in proximity with more pieces of my past than only Nathan Van Huysen.