My eyes flit guiltily to Katrina, who looks unfazed if a little withdrawn, her lips lightly pursed. We’ve never openly addressed my New Yorker interview. I doubt we have to, really—I show her every day how far from a hardship working with her is. Some truths are so obvious they don’t need to be said out loud.
I lean forward on my elbows. We strategized for this subject. If we pretend the past never happened, the rest of the interview will ring false. “Look, it’s no secret Katrina and I haven’t always gotten along,” I admit frankly.
“No secret, no,” Noah replies patiently. “You both have, however, remained notoriously tight-lipped on the cause of your falling-out, despite . . . rumors.”
I glance at Katrina and find her head turned yet again toward the kitchen. Her jaw is rigid. I know her expressions well enough to discern her thoughts have fled elsewhere. I just don’t know where.
It feels like the floor is wobbling under me. Something is coming, but I don’t know what. Despite my unease, I can only carry out what we planned for the interview. “You’re asking if we had an affair,” I say. The words feel like chewing on gravel.
Noah laughs. “Well, now that you bring it up.”
In what I hope looks like innocent stretching, I nudge Katrina’s knee with mine. I don’t need her to rush to my defense. I just know I can’t be the only one quoted on this subject. The gesture works, with Katrina straightening in her seat and refocusing on the reporter.
“We didn’t have an affair,” she says. Something is different. Her intensity is of a sort I’ve rarely heard. “Nathan was married to a very real person. To erase her for scandal and book sales disgusts us both.”
Noah’s eyebrows rise. I feel mine do the same. “Fair enough,” he says. I watch him decide now is probably the moment he’s waited for. “Let’s set the record straight. You two never . . .” He waves his hand instead of finishing the sentence.
I fill in the empty space. “We were never together romantically.”
“Then I have to ask,” Noah says, “if feelings didn’t get in the way, what was the reason for your split?” The journalist’s gaze has sharpened. It’s not predatory, just focused. He’s nearing what he knows will be the real subject of his story.
Katrina’s hands smooth her skirt, her knuckles white. Watching her, I struggle to keep my expression unconcerned. With forced nonchalance, I deliver the line we prepared. “We needed to grow as artists independently for a while.”
“Of course. Tensions run hot, especially when success enters the equation,” Noah says smoothly. “But why refuse to appear publicly together?” He smiles kindly. Immediately, I know he’s prepared just the way we have. He’s going to keep pressing until he receives an interesting answer.
“Living with someone for months, working creatively with a deadline—I’m not going to say there wasn’t conflict,” I reply.
Katrina holds up a hand. Her eyes are hard and fixed on the wall behind which Chris is waiting.
I don’t know what she means until she speaks, her voice a stripped wire. “Nathan, I’m done. No more lies.”
I look over, confused. For the first time, I realize I’m genuinely nervous.
Katrina’s mouth is set. She stares Noah Lippman dead in the eye. “You’re the first person who’s ever asked me directly,” she goes on. “I’ve heard the rumors, I’ve had conversations around the subject. But never has anyone asked me outright.”
I feel like I’ve glimpsed a wave the moment before it crushes me.
“I’m asking you outright,” Noah says.
Katrina inhales and exhales. “Four years ago, I was in love with Nathan Van Huysen. We did not have an affair, but you can imagine how it would have been irresponsible to continue our partnership.”
The current pulls me under.
Noah watches her, openmouthed. Then he commences writing furiously. If Chris is still listening, he doesn’t make a sound.
I sit there saying nothing. The roaring in my ears is deafening. Katrina doesn’t look at me, like the confession wasn’t for me at all. It’s heart-stopping, hearing those words she’s never spoken. I never thought they were even possible, not with what she did to me. Confusion and joy threaten to tear me in two. She loved me.
Loved, past tense.
The follow-up question doesn’t come from my lips. It comes from Noah’s.
“You loved him four years ago,” he says. His eyes dart in the direction of the kitchen, to the fiancé listening in. “How do you feel now?”