It’s tempting. Suddenly the idea of returning to the house with Katrina, of lying sleepless the whole night, waiting for tomorrow, sounds like hell. Why shouldn’t I say yes? I’m single, Meredith understands I’m not a long-term commitment—I’m only here for the summer. This would hurt no one.
“I’d like to,” I say. “But I can’t.”
Meredith looks slightly surprised. If she’s hurt, she covers the feeling well. She shrugs it off and smiles. “Well, if you change your mind . . .” She nods to her door. Pulling her sweater up over her shoulder, she heads back inside.
I watch her until her door shuts. While I hate myself for the night I refused, deep down, I know I had to. When my marriage ended, I promised myself I’d never be with someone when I wanted someone else.
On the empty street, I look in the direction of Katrina’s house, of the night I’ve chosen—the one that will go absolutely nowhere, that’ll leave me aching and sleepless.
I walk the rest of the way home, feeling the sting of every muscle I pushed too hard.
30
Katrina
When I hear his keys in the door, I’m embarrassingly relieved. Settling into the couch cushions, I pick up the book I tried and failed to read—the Middlemarch one Nathan bought me. I don’t want to look like I was just waiting for him to return, even though I was. Usually he runs and then we have dinner, but tonight he stayed out so long I finished half of the frozen kung pao chicken I picked up from the supermarket on our first day here.
It irritates me how worried I was while I waited. But underneath the worry, I’m shaken, confused. I know we crossed a line while writing. Crossed it into where, though, I don’t know.
Nathan walks inside, the rubber soles of his running shoes noisy on the floor. The sound clatters into the house when he closes the front door. He heads for the stairs, hardly giving me a glance.
“I left a plate for you on the counter.” I don’t know what impulse compels me to call out. If he wants dinner, he’s a grown man. He’ll figure it out. It’s not my responsibility.
He doesn’t look over. “Right. Thanks,” he says.
He’s sweaty, flushed, obviously in a terrible mood. I should let him go upstairs, let everything remain unspoken, undisturbed. I don’t. “Nathan.” I hate how high my voice comes out. “I owe you an apology.”
He pauses. Then he steps off the first stair, facing me, saying nothing.
I continue with effort. “I shouldn’t have”—Oh god, why did I do that?—“touched you like I did. It was unprofessional. I’m sorry.”
What I’ve said is the closest we’ve come to discussing what’s wrong between us. I could feel what Nathan was thinking when I held the back of his neck, reckless—I could follow him to the place his mind was going, because mine was going there, too. It’s like some sort of destructive sun, millions of miles from us and still hot enough to scorch.
I’m dreading his reply. His expression is indecipherable when it comes. “It’s fine,” he says. “No big deal.”
Somehow, it’s the least satisfying thing he could have said. I nod, the words not sitting right with me. Shutting my book, I realize a second too late that I’ve forgotten to put the bookmark in the pages. Nathan notices. I don’t give him the opportunity to comment. “I’ve developed a theory,” I begin, my voice carrying confidence I don’t feel. “What you write can influence how you feel or what you think. Like write a sad scene, and you might find yourself depressed. Write something with joy and humor, and you might feel happy—for a little while. It’s not real. That’s important. It’s just a temporary feeling. Literary transference.”
I know the term from psychology classes I took in college. We read about how a person might project feelings or beliefs pertaining to one person onto someone else. I’ve thought about it for years now in relation to writing. Even when I used to write by myself, I would sink into the headspace of my characters. With Nathan, with any cowriter, it’s natural to project feelings that belong on the page onto a person.
Nathan hasn’t moved from the stairs. He places one elbow on the railing, his posture relaxing.
His gaze does not. And I wait, because I know what he’s about to ask.
“Why are you telling me about literary transference right now, Katrina?” I recognize the way his eyes have pinned mine. He knows why. He just wants to hear me say it.
I won’t give him the reaction he’s hoping for. I don’t hesitate. “Writing sexual content would naturally have the effect I’m describing,” I say. “Especially when you’re writing that content with or near . . . someone else.” I manage not to rush the final words even though I want to.