Now.
I’ve never felt so much of her, felt so close to her. Everywhere we meet, my skin is feverish. She enfolds me, leaning into this moment, joining us.
I feel like my very soul is on fire.
? FOUR YEARS EARLIER ?
I hear Katrina’s door open and close. Everything in me coils, winding up for whatever will happen next. In every second, my hopes leap from impossible highs to crashing lows. Every creak of the house or whisper of the wind feels somehow significant, either warning or promise. I wish I knew which.
I wait for her to slide something under my door. Or to knock. Or to say my name. Whatever form my fate will be delivered in. In the near silence, my room feels like a prison, my fears and desires fighting to escape the four walls. With every passing second in which nothing comes, it gets harder. Finally, when four minutes have gone by, I stand up. I wonder if she’s left the house. Feeling restless, like I have to know, I walk to my door.
When I reach the stairs, I smell it.
The earthy warmth of kindling, the faint whisper of smoke. The smell of fire.
When I hear something crack—the sound splitting the quiet of the house—I hit the stairs, my feet thundering down the steps. I recognize the light vermillion glow dancing garishly on the wall.
I feel like I’m watching myself, like I’ve flipped forward in the pages of my own life. I’ve read this part. I know what happens next. I’ve spoiled the ending.
Katrina is kneeling in front of the fireplace, her hands empty, her eyes fixed on the golden parchment curling and catching flame in front of her. The heat consumes what I’ve written, welcoming it into the fire. She faces me, her expression empty. I meet her stare, and an entire conversation is spoken in utter silence. She doesn’t want me. She hated what I wrote to her, enough to destroy the words instead of just disregarding them.
No, that’s not right.
I feel a separate fire catch in me. Because I understand what’s truly happening here. If Katrina felt nothing for me, she would just say so. We would want to have conversations, figure out how to navigate our writing career going forward. She might even want to be friends. There’s only one reason to burn what I’ve written. She’s betraying herself. To destroy what I wrote could only mean she doesn’t want to face what it makes her feel. Because she does feel something. But she would rather hide, would rather pretend the words we’ve exchanged this summer were only a game.
It leaves me physically ill. This is the woman I love, who I think might love me. Who’s chosen to hurt me instead of confronting our feelings honestly.
Without speaking, I walk upstairs. With even, efficient movements, my heart hammering, I open the drawers of my dresser, shoving my belongings into my bag. I know I’m leaving possessions behind, but I don’t care. Returning downstairs, I feel every second hitting me with force. There’s nothing impulsive or instinctive in my decision. I’m conscious of the finality of my every step, the permanence of this choice.
When I pass through the living room, I don’t look Katrina’s way. She doesn’t say anything, doesn’t try to stop me. I walk out of the house, leaving whatever was between us to crumble into ash.
? PRESENT DAY ?
I’m coming to life in ways I never have, ever. I move with Katrina, or we move with each other, or—I don’t know, not now, when I feel like my consciousness has shattered into pieces, each one charged with sensation.
It’s impossible to focus on every part of her. I’m forced to experience them in a kaleidoscope of moments, her leg rising while she rolls her hips forward, my hand grasping her thigh, then her head tipping up, leaving me opportunity to press my lips deep into her neck, her scent overwhelming.
I pull back. Our hands move to the pillows. Our fingers interlace.
While I look into her eyes, I know she is spread out underneath me. Her stomach, stretching uninterrupted to where we meet. Her legs, entwined with mine. The knowledge without the visual—I continue staring into her dark irises—is intoxicating in its own way. I press my forehead to hers, watching her eyes close while her fingers dig into my hands.
I don’t know what the fuck we were saying, synonyms and workshopping in her just sexy note. I’m speechless. Katrina is speechless. We’re just rhythm, instinct, heat. It’s ironic, a couple of romance writers rocked so far out of ourselves we have no words. Nevertheless, it’s what’s happening.
She moves on top of me, my hands reaching urgently for her in the moment we lose contact. When she sinks down on me, I know I can’t draw this out as long as I want. This view overwhelms me.