The fear was what caught me in the women’s restroom of one of LA’s film and TV agencies, where I was pitching Only Once for development. It was an important meeting, hence my flying out, and on the same day as one of Nathan’s divorce mediations, hence his not. The restroom was entirely white stone, like a spaceship or something. The lights were iridescent. When I stopped in front of the sink, feeling the sweat sliding down my sleeves, the idea of charmingly reproducing our pitch points overwhelmed me. I worked to even my breathing, and I . . . couldn’t. Then I was crying, hiccupping, gripping the sink like the seat of a crashing plane.
I called Chris. Not out of some instinct for his comfort or whatever. We weren’t dating, wouldn’t be for several months. I just wanted to cancel the meeting. Pretend I had the flu, or wasn’t stomaching the sushi from the reception dinner with Hollywood agents the night before. I didn’t care. I guess he heard the waver in my voice or the sob waiting in my throat because he spoke calmly instead of wondering why I wanted to cancel. He said, Today isn’t your entire life. Today is one day of your job. Do your job the best you can, then do the next thing. Okay?
In short, it worked. I did what he said. I did the meeting. I called my Uber. In my hotel I wrote four interview question responses I hadn’t finished. I had a sandwich. I read Celeste Ng’s new book and focused on her use of prepositional phrases. When I got in bed, I felt calmer, more cohesive. The next day, I did the same thing.
Chris made me feel like I could be okay. I wanted very much to return to being okay and with him, I could. In the years that followed of his encouragement, patience, and support, I was, or close.
I wondered if Nathan would’ve done the same. I’ll never know.
I love vanilla ice cream. I do.
Right now, however, my fiancé is watching me with impassive, resentful eyes. “Why would I think you respect me, Katrina?” It is pointedly rhetorical. “You won’t let me sell books for you,” he continues.
The realization dawns on me where this conversation’s headed. “Chris, I don’t have books for you to sell. If I did, believe me, you’d be my pick. You’re always my pick,” I say delicately, struggling to keep my voice in a reasonable register. He only rolls his eyes. It’s what pushes me over the edge. I stand up, yanking my jacket from the couch cushions. “My decision to stop writing has nothing to do with you. You know that.” Irritation wraps around my words. His audacity, that he would make this about himself, is unnerving.
“You have ideas, though,” he says as I walk over to the hall closet and shove my jacket inside. The hangers rattle, and I still them with my free hand.
“Nothing I want to write,” I say, holding in my indignation. It’s not untrue, though I know I’m hiding the nuances of the problem. I’ve had concepts for new novels, characters I’ve daydreamed of. I just don’t know if I want them published.
While I’m more confident I could face the fear I felt when Only Once was coming out, I’m not certain I want to. Not certain it’s worth it. I enjoy my life. I enjoy perusing wedding venue possibilities and presenting the occasional writing workshop for an MFA program or high school class. I enjoy the freedom I have to read, even to outline in my head or draft pages nobody’ll ever read. I don’t know if I want to catapult myself once more into the heights of publishing, only to wrack myself with the fear of falling.
I face Chris on the other end of the room, finding him watching me. He’s discarded his laptop next to him. “Why are we even talking about this?” I’m getting the uneasy feeling this conversation was planned, scheduled into his day with his other meetings and obligations. Lunch with editor. Call with Vincent. Guilt-trip fiancée.
Chris is a chaser, which I do respect in my partner, the way he will fix his gaze on the horizon until the sunlight sears his eyes. He comes from high-pressure parents who live outside New York City in a house with a stone driveway. Every minute of his childhood was spent in competition with his older and younger brothers, and I remember Chris telling me he and his siblings were the only kids whose parents would bring them to back-to-school nights so the Calloway children could hear their teachers’ feedback in person. Psychotic.
The problem is, Chris wants me to chase with him. Chase bestseller lists, chase publishing prizes and other prestigious recognition. Chase a solo career. For me, the stability I found in our relationship was the destination. For him, it was only one stop on the journey somewhere shinier and sleeker and more.