I stand over the sink, closing my eyes. The slightest change.
Like going to sleep after staring at a picture of a girl smiling at you when you weren’t looking, then waking up and noticing her fucking shampoo.
Katrina’s voice from the dining table sounds small. “No matter what they tell themselves, Michael and Evelyn will always be attracted to each other.” I hate myself for wondering if there’s anything beneath her words. “But it’s purely physical,” she adds.
I return to the table, standing behind her while she types those thoughts in. “Which is a lie, of course,” I say.
She stiffens. Whether it’s at what I said or whether she’s startled by my presence, I don’t know.
“May I?” I ask. She yields the computer to me, and I stand over her while I type. I force myself to put the tension coursing through me onto the page. The exorcism feels good.
What’s more, the writing is good. It’s better than anything I’ve written today. I keep going, everything finally feeling clear, fluid, emotional. It’s working. Because of course it is, I remind myself. I’ve long known the best writing comes from truth.
Sliding the computer back to Katrina, I sit. I’m not nervous.
“Not bad,” she concedes, skimming the paragraphs.
“It’s good, and we both know it.”
I’m watching for it now, so I notice when she flattens the smile fighting to curve her lips. She starts typing. The minutes pass, the rhythm returning. When we exchange the computer, our fingers brush. We hardly have to speak while we write, our words joining in a perfect give-and-take. The whole time, I’m remembering how this is something I can never feel on my own. It’s part of what makes cowriting wondrous. In the years I was apart from Katrina, I’d forgotten the feeling, hadn’t permitted myself to miss it.
Worse, I know I’ll forget it once more when we return to our separate careers, our separate lives.
I watch the pages grow. Not mine, not hers—ours. It’s indescribable, even to me.
Katrina speaks the dialogue she’s writing for Evelyn. “I want you, but this isn’t love.”
I slide my hands over hers to give Michael his reply. I could never mistake one for the other. Not with you.
Michael pulls Evelyn’s lips to his, and for the first time, Katrina and I fumble. “The choreography . . . doesn’t work,” I say, figuring out the problem while I’m speaking. “Michael should stand so he’s on her level.”
Katrina slants me the look she does whenever she has no patience for my objections. “The choreography works fine. It’s sexy.”
“It’s not sexy—” I start to protest.
Katrina stands up. I watch, not understanding, while she moves to the other side of the table so we’re seated opposite each other. Then she climbs up on the bench on her knees, just like Evelyn. “Lean forward, please,” she instructs me.
I do, not daring to think about what’s happening.
Katrina places one hand on the tabletop for support, then leans herself fully over the table. I ignore the flash of nude bra I glimpse under the collar of her shirt. With her free hand, she cups the back of my neck. We’re close now. When her hair falls forward from her shoulder and brushes my face, I’m hit with the scent of her shampoo.
“Sexy, right?” Despite the smolder in her eyes, her voice isn’t inviting. It’s victorious.
The question opens floodgates in me. Feelings scream forth. I’m struggling under the inchoate rush, from the nearly impossible exertion of not saying everything I want to say. Please and why can’t we forget what happened four years ago and finally oh god, there are so much harder things than not writing well.
“Fine,” I say, my voice nearly a whisper. “Yeah, it is.” The table is digging into my chest, which I don’t say. It could not possibly be relevant.
Heart hammering, I suddenly want to forget everything I know about cowriting with her. I want to forget every friendly moment we’ve ever had, to banish every memory—because I know, with fucking certainty, this waits behind every good day with Katrina. This crush of feelings I can’t have. It’s exactly why I wrecked whatever friendship we were building on the way back from the café. Why I should be glad for our one last time. Because I would risk dying of thirst to save myself from drowning.
Her lips twitch. This time, she doesn’t hide her smile. It takes every ounce of strength in me to keep my hands flat on the table in front of me. I can think of too many places they’d rather be.