“This,” he says, “is very much the opposite of getting space.”
“I—” He’s still holding my arm. “How could I have possibly known you were here?” I manage.
Like he’s finally remembered himself, Nathan’s hand falls to his side. Then his face breaks into half a grin. “Well, this is ironic.”
“What are you even doing here?” I ask. I look down, searching for a shopping bag or book in his hands. Nothing.
“Signing Refraction stock.”
I sigh in frustration, shifting my gaze past him to where the grass meets the highway. “Of course you were,” I mutter. It is darkly comedic, how much this models our lives in miniature. Nathan and I somehow keep ending up on collision courses of one form or another.
“I’m . . . sorry?” he says. He doesn’t look sorry. He looks amused. “I’m done now, so feel free to carry on like you never saw me,” he continues.
I chew my lip, peering in the store’s front window, where hardcover mysteries and cookbooks stand on display. While I don’t really want to admit my hesitation, I know Nathan isn’t just going to walk away. “Well, I can’t now,” I say haltingly.
Nathan frowns. “Why not?”
“You probably introduced yourself to the bookseller,” I explain. “They just pulled up your catalogue.”
“Yes . . . ?” He leans on the step’s metal railing, in no hurry. I notice in his pocket the leather pouch in which he carries his signing pens.
I force patience into my voice. “They would’ve seen your back catalogue, the two books you wrote with a coauthor. If I walk in there right after you—” I gesture for him to fill in what would happen.
Something coy enters Nathan’s eyes. It’s playfulness with sharp edges, like juggling knives. “It’s like she might recognize you. God forbid, we’d have to sign some of our books together.”
“Not happening.” I meet his coyness with warning, which I hope he sees flash in my expression.
If my refusal wounds him, he doesn’t show it. In fact, he couldn’t look more relaxed, hands curling lightly around the peeling paint of the railing. “Well, I don’t know what to tell you,” he says.
I linger on the step, saying nothing. My chest feels clenched. I’m pissed. I know it’s irrational—Nathan couldn’t possibly have known this would be my destination, nor how his presence here would snarl my hopes for the day. Yet, here I stand, snarled. While he smirks with his sunglasses hanging from his shirt collar, the same defiance I felt in the pool seizes me. “I finished the book I was reading,” I declare. “I need something new.”
His grin hitching, Nathan is silent. Then his brow furrows. “You’re not seriously suggesting what I think you’re suggesting.”
“Please? Just go back in and get one book for me,” I implore. “Just one single book.”
Nathan breathes out through his nose. “Which book?” he asks flatly.
“Oh, I don’t know,” I reply.
“Katrina!” He pushes himself up from the railing. Hearing the exasperation in his voice, I have to swallow a laugh.
“Just go in there and tell me what they have,” I instruct him politely, starting to enjoy myself now. “I’m looking for something upbeat. Escapist. Romance, probably.” When he hesitates, I reach for his arm and pull him to face the entrance, feeling him shake with laughter.
Reluctantly, he disappears inside. I move a couple storefronts away, not wanting to be spotted. Hiding by the chain-link fence of the nearby boat dealership, in the shade of the tree on the street corner, I feel furtive. Secret Agent Katrina in denim shorts and sandals. It’s kind of ridiculous, and kind of fun.
After a few minutes, Nathan emerges from the bookstore, looks around for me, then jogs my way.
“So,” he begins, endearingly serious. “They have that new release everyone’s been talking about. The Client. Pink and yellow cover. They also have a new book in that historical romance series you used to read about the bastard princes. Oh, and one I’d never heard of but seems like your thing—a modern take on Middlemarch.”
My mouth opens and closes. I knew it would be fun making work for Nathan. What I didn’t expect was how good a job he’d do. It’s a sorely sweet reminder that Nathan used to be my best friend, the person I discussed books with more than anyone else in the world. Four years later, I thought those ties would have untethered. It means something to realize they haven’t, but I’m not sure what.