Like she’s realized she’s still touching my neck, just inches from me, her expression goes bashful. She leans back, swallowing.
I want to grab her hand and pull her to me. Then, I don’t know.
I don’t get the chance. Between us, my phone vibrates on the table, humming loudly on the wood. When I glance down, Jen’s name is illuminated on the screen. Instinctually, my eyes flit up to Katrina’s. She looks desperate for me to pick up. So I do. “Hey, Jen,” I say, sounding the farthest thing from casual. “What’s up?”
“Nathan. Hi. I have an opportunity here,” Jen says. Right to the point. “Is Katrina nearby?”
“Yeah. She’s right here.” I put the phone on speaker.
I feel pulled into the past, like nothing’s changed, like years haven’t gone by. I’m living the replica of every other phone call Katrina and I took just like this one, leaning in with the phone on speaker to hear everything together. Listening to Chris or our publisher while ignoring the uncommon closeness.
“I—” Katrina swallows once more. “I’m here.”
“I discussed this with Chris, who liked the idea. He said I could bring it directly to you. There’s a journalist with the New York Times, Noah Lippman, who reached out to me interested in profiling you both. Your return to cowriting, et cetera, et cetera. He saw the Vanity Fair piece. If we position it right, this profile could announce your new book and promote Refraction. But of course,” she says, “it’s up to you both.”
I look to Katrina, certain I know how she’ll respond.
“Sure,” she replies. Her voice holds nothing except cordiality, like the question is insignificant. Like someone’s offered her sugar in her tea.
Jen is immediately thrilled, rattling off logistics with which I don’t keep up. I’m fixated on Katrina. Sure? To the New York Times profiling us? I don’t understand why she’s suddenly willing to go public with me. It’s possible it’s some vestige of our truce, some part of the fa?ade she insists we’re putting on, but part of me wonders if it’s because things have changed between us.
I mechanically say yes to dates, times, plans, then hang up. When I do, Katrina only excuses herself from the room. She walks out while I watch uselessly.
I feel the distance. For long minutes after she’s gone, I stare at the place where she leaned over the table, the skin on my neck growing hot where her hand was. I remember what I wanted, how she lingered too long, how close I was to reaching out for her. How inescapable the impulse was.
I wrap myself in the only consolation I have. It’s just instinct, the volatile side effect of our proximity. Purely physical, like Michael and Evelyn. It doesn’t have to be more.
29
Nathan
I push myself hard on my nightly run. I want my body exhausted, wrecked, empty of everything except the pain of exertion. When I hit my sheets, I want to collapse into sleep so hard I won’t remember whatever dreams I have about what happened with Katrina. They’ll come, I know, the visions seared into my head of her leaning over the dining table, her body low, her scent intoxicating. It’s one thing dreams have in common with writing—their tendency to betray me to myself.
The echo of my footsteps is the only sound on the dark street. I’ve run for hours. Finally, I let myself stop on our corner, lungs on fire, thighs screaming. I bend over with my hands on my knees and gulp for breath.
“You’re either training for a race,” I hear over my shoulder, “or you’re punishing yourself.”
It’s Meredith. I recognize the Southern lilt in her voice. Straightening up, I find her hefting a garbage bag out to the bin. Her slouchy, open-front sweater falls off one shoulder, exposing a deep V-neck. I know she’s joking, even though her words hit uncomfortably close to truth.
“Tough day at work,” I say noncommittally.
Meredith pauses for a moment, her gaze lingering on me. “I was just going to pour myself a drink. Want to join me?” she asks, making no effort to hide the implication in her voice. Everything she’s offering is out in the open.
I consider it, my chest heaving. If I’m searching for ways to forget everything I want with Katrina, this might be what I need. The night breeze rolls over me while I write the scene in my head. I say yes and she opens the wine and pours us glasses. I skipped dinner with Katrina, so I suggest we have something to eat. We heat up her leftovers or we order in. Either way, she ditches the sweater, and I slide closer to her on the floor, where we’re sitting because she doesn’t have chairs yet. I give her the chance to pull away. She doesn’t. I spend the night with her, working out whatever sexual frustration my run didn’t shake.