“I didn’t mean you had to get out.”
“It’s fine,” I say. “I just need some space. Besides, there’s something I want to do in town.”
Katrina, either mollified or silently stewing, doesn’t reply. Toweled off, I walk past her. Her eyes remain glued to her book, which I notice is flecked and warped with pool water.
I can’t help myself. “Your book is getting wet,” I say flatly.
Finally, she glances up, and I’m inexplicably glad to find humor warring with irritation in her expression. She kind of wants to laugh. As I walk inside, I smile. Soon enough, we’ll be back to normal, or what passes for normal for us.
I head up to my room, where I change into my clothes. Pausing in the mirror, I slick my wet hair back in a way I’m not too humble to admit looks good, then grab my keys. I make the ten-minute drive to the local independent bookstore, my rented Porsche purring down the quaint streets. When I park, I pull from the glove compartment the pouch of Sharpies I never travel without and stride in.
The bookstore is exactly like I remember from Katrina’s and my frequent trips here while we wrote Only Once. The scent of pages and wood greets me. The postcard rack, the doormat, everything feels like home.
It’s one of my favorite parts of being an author—introducing myself to booksellers and readers. Maybe it makes me vain, although it’s not the attention I’m after. Or, not entirely. It’s getting the chance to hear from real people who’ve found themselves in my words. It reminds me of the point of what I’m doing. Writing can feel like a solitary, sometimes lonely profession, even with a coauthor. But it’s not. My pages connect me with unseen strings to readers I often never encounter. I love chances to meet them—to pull those strings into the light.
I head deeper into the store, looking for the clerk. I find her shelving in the Young Adult section.
The short, middle-aged woman straightens up when I pause nearby. “Hi,” she says. “Looking for something?”
“Actually, I’m an author. I was hoping I could sign some stock.” I glance past her, worry flashing in me for a second. I hope they even have Refraction. There’s an adage in publishing—a signed book is a sold book. Right now, I’m desperate to help Refraction’s sales numbers however I can. This is the career I’ll return to after Katrina, and signing copies is probably slightly more helpful than carrying my laptop poolside.
“How wonderful. Let me see if we have any of your books in stock right now. If not, I’ll order them in for you to sign later.” She sounds genuinely enthusiastic. Adjusting her glasses, she studies my faces. “What’s your name?”
I stick out my hand, flashing her the dimple. “Nathan Van Huysen.”
27
Katrina
I lasted ten minutes without Nathan. Standing in the pool on my own quickly felt oppressive, suddenly changing the sunlight from warm and invigorating to muggy and sharp. My mind kept running roughshod over the question of where he’d gone, so casual and decisive, leaving just me in our quiet backyard.
I was jealous—not of him spending time somewhere other than with me, but of him having somewhere else to spend it. I’m starting to feel like my whole life right now revolves around Nathan and writing this book. I have nothing of my own. Reading poolside with my elbows on the concrete was enough temporarily to distract me, until I finished my book. Then, nothing, except the painfully gentle lapping of the water.
Defiantly, I lifted myself onto the patio. I was not going to mope in the pool until Nathan returned. If he could go do whatever he was doing, live a life outside our writing, so could I. Finishing my book gave me the perfect way to start.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m dressed, my hair still in a half-wet bun, and parking on the street in Key Largo’s small commercial stretch. The day feels bright once more, full of possibility. I focus on the sights, the sounds, the dry grass under my sandals, the palm fronds swishing in the clear sky. I’m not even wondering what Nathan’s up to.
Walking toward the neighborhood’s only independent bookstore, I start thinking about what new books I might want. Maybe to other people, finding a new novel to read isn’t necessarily an entire life, but to me, it’s something.
As I’m reaching for the door, it swings open, and a man walks out, nearly colliding with me.
I stumble—and his hand is on my arm, steadying me. Finally, I find my footing.
And then I look up.
“Nathan?”
We study each other, motionless, on the small front step. Nathan’s hand doesn’t leave my elbow, probably just out of surprise. He’s slicked back his hair. It does look kind of good.