While I’ve known deep down it irks him I gave up writing, he’s never pressed me on it. Until now, anyway. As my partner, if not my agent, I assumed he understood. I head for the kitchen, needing aspirin.
“I’ve had a call with Liz,” he says.
It halts me. Liz is the editor at Parthenon Books who bought Connecting Flights and Only Once. When she and I last spoke, I told her I was taking time off from writing. I round on Chris, not liking his fixed stare. He’s serious. “Oh yeah?” I ask hesitantly.
“I raised the possibility—”
“Why?” I cut him off. “There is no possibility.”
“You’re technically under contract with Parthenon,” he replies, like I hoped he wouldn’t. When Parthenon bought Only Once, it was a two-book deal, meaning they also bought another yet-to-be-written book from me and Nathan and paid us an advance. We discussed ideas, worked up a synopsis, but we never wrote the book. Parthenon never pushed because the advance was next to nothing compared to the huge earnings of Only Once.
They’ll never cancel the contract, I know they won’t. Only Once continues to pull in good sales, though not quite like they once were. While the film in development with Miramount probably won’t ever happen—they often don’t, Chris cautioned me—it would return Nathan and me to prominence. Parthenon doesn’t want to pass up the possibility.
Nevertheless, our deal has left Nathan and me and our publisher in a complicated, motionless dance. They won’t force us to write. It’s not unheard-of for successful authors to take several years between books, and there’s no writing police they could have bang down our doors demanding pages. Nathan and I won’t cancel the contract, for different reasons. Nathan is a workaholic and would never pass up the opportunity to write something. I haven’t had the heart to tell my literary agent–fiancé it’s never going to happen. As long as the contract isn’t canceled, it’s left our publisher with the rights to the next Freeling–Van Huysen book. If there ever is a next Freeling–Van Huysen book.
“Fine,” I say, feeling less generous now. “Let’s pay back the advance.”
“Why won’t you just consider it?” Chris is using his phone voice, velvety and persuasive. He never uses it with me.
“Because I don’t want to.”
“What about me?” He’s no longer nonchalant. His eyes are hard and defensive. “I’m your fiancé. Do my feelings mean nothing?” Hearing raised voices, James Joyce, who was curled up on the foot of the couch, races from the room.
“Your feelings? On my writing career?” I fire back.
“We could use the money,” Chris says.
I laugh. He flew me to Paris in January for my twenty-eighth birthday. We’re having this fight in our wide-lawn house in Hancock Park with Chris’s Tesla out front. I didn’t grow up with money, and having it was never particularly important to me. It is, however, a side effect of having your work printed in thirty-five languages.
Chris looks uncomfortable, for once. “I’m not joking,” he says. “I made some investments assuming you’d get over this writer’s block.”
This is news to me. In the years since we moved in together, we’ve discussed our finances. We even share a financial planner. We have not combined my earnings with his, which means he could not have lost my money—so when he says we need the money, he means he needs the money. His confession is enough to bring me back toward the couch.
“Chris . . .” I say, knowing neither of us will enjoy what’s coming. “If you need, I could . . . write you a check.”
“Jesus, Katrina,” he snaps, right on cue. “I’m not a fucking charity case. I’m a literary agent who just needs to sell a book.”
“And that’s my problem?” While I’m concerned exactly what investments he’s made, right now, I’m pissed he’s putting the blame on what he’s calling my writer’s block.
“We’re getting married,” he replies. On the twelfth of never, I want to say. He continues. “It’s both our problem.”
I don’t bother confirming it’s definitely more his problem for frittering his money on his investments. “We’ll look at your finances. We can figure something out.”
Chris heaves a sigh. When he does, it’s like he releases his combativeness and poise. His next words come out almost understanding. Almost. “I know you don’t want to write anymore, but Katrina, this isn’t just your career. My career could be on the line. The agency expects me to make another huge sale, and they know you’re my fiancée. They think it should’ve been easy. I can’t keep coming back to them empty-handed.” It’s clear it hurts him to admit this. Chris isn’t a man used to falling short. “You would really help me,” he continues, louder. “Can’t we just discuss it? Get on the phone with Liz? I’ve already spoken with Nathan’s agent. He’s in if you are.”