Nathan half smiles. Sweat slides down his face, his neck. I know him well enough to recognize the calculation in his movement when he removes his shirt to wipe his forehead.
I’ve seen Nathan’s chest. Many times. We’ve swam in oceans on two continents together, sunned in deck chairs in Capri. I wasn’t really looking the other day when we went in the pool. In fact, with my back turned, I was consciously not looking.
Now is different. Nathan’s in shape, which is no surprise. He has the resources, the time, and the discipline to be. I’m trying to focus objectively on these facts, except I’d forgotten the perfect geometry of him over the past four years. My mouth is dry, my face hot. I can’t stop staring, remembering how close we were earlier.
His eyes sparkle, not the sparkle of sunlight over water or stars scattering the sky. There is nothing gentle or inviting in the look he gives me. It’s closer to flint sparking steel in the seconds before flame.
“You’re telling me writing our sex scene made you feel how, exactly?” he inquires. “I’m quite curious.”
I hold my head high. “My point is,” I say hotly, “it doesn’t mean anything.”
Nathan laughs. He steps backward up the stairs. “Work hard on that theory?” he asks. “I hope it helps you sleep tonight. You can tell yourself whatever story you want, Katrina. You’re a writer.” His mirth is dry, devoid of generosity or good nature. Spinning on his heel, he continues up the steps, footfalls heavy on the hardwood.
I slump back on the couch, feeling defeated. I’d meant my apology to Nathan genuinely, no matter the stiff unpleasantness of some of our exchanges since the café. His rejection hurts in ways I don’t want to acknowledge, not when they so obviously reveal how uncomfortable I am with everything spoiled between us. What’s more, he’s grabbed the shield I’ve used to fend off questions I’m tired of confronting—like where exactly my decision to lean over the table had come from—and thrown it into the ocean.
No, I think to myself. I won’t give him that satisfaction. I shove my bookmark carelessly into the pages of the book I wasn’t reading. Upstairs, I hear the hiss of Nathan’s shower. When the images come to my mind of him undressing, stepping into the steam, I let them. I don’t care if he smirks or plies me with glib questions. I’m right. This is only the fevered product of our writing. Transference.
It’ll fade.
31
Nathan
? FOUR YEARS EARLIER ?
It’s seven in the morning. I’m sitting grumpily on one of the striped towels we found in the house, squinting out over the ocean. Katrina’s next to me, putting on sunscreen. It’s humid—muggy, really—threatening the thunderstorms predicted for today. The beach, unsurprisingly, is empty.
My cowriter, having read the weather report, dragged me out of bed at five minutes to six, insisting we spend some time in the water before we’re cooped up indoors. I’m sandy wherever I even glancingly touched the beach—the tops of my feet, the edges of my hands. It’s everywhere. I don’t want to be here, under the clouds folding their ominous blanket over the sun. Even though it’s Sunday, I want to be in the house, writing.
We’ve spent the past two days on the same scene without any forward movement. The lack of progress frustrates me. I don’t just dislike writer’s block—I don’t believe in it. Writer’s block is nothing but the point where you’ve forgotten what your characters really want. The solution isn’t sitting on the Florida sand in the wet early morning, it’s getting back to work.
Something cold and slimy hits my shoulder, interrupting my rumination. When I look up, I find Katrina standing over me in her black one-piece, holding the sunscreen, which she just squeezed onto me.
Ruefully, I rub it in.
“Seriously? Moping while you’re here?” She spins playfully, throwing her arms out with enthusiasm. Stray curls of her hair flutter over her face. “With one of your favorite people,” she adds.
“I’m not moping,” I reply. “I’m brooding. It’s entirely different.”
Katrina laughs, her nose scrunching up in delight. Then she plasters on fake sympathy. “Right. So sorry,” she says.
Part of me wants to laugh with her, just a little. Instead, I push us stubbornly into the conversation I want to have. “What if we move the dinner scene. Maybe that’s the problem. It would take weeks of rewriting, but—”
Katrina tosses the sunscreen into my lap. “Nope,” she says. “I’m not discussing work with you today. Today, you’re not my writing partner, you’re . . .”