Those weren’t dates, though. Dates hold intention. They’re not just occasions—they’re declarations. I’m interested. Romance hides in every quiet pause, every noticed glance.
Or, sometimes, it doesn’t hide. It’s out in the open right now, in the way I hold Katrina’s hand over the table, the way I catch her lingering glances, the way I spontaneously lean forward to kiss her after dessert. We’d been to Knot and Key before （the small seafood restaurant in our neighborhood）， because we’ve gone to every restaurant within walking distance. Last time, we bickered in the dim candlelight over plot points in Only Once, and I had the clam chowder. Tonight, suffice to say, I did not have the clam chowder.
I memorize each detail of the night. Katrina in her black dress, the oil paintings of the ocean, the netting on the walls for our decorations. In every caress I give her hand, every second I stare into her eyes, I feel like I’m asking if she really wants this. In every smile she sends me, she says she does. I want to believe her.
But the past is here, with us now. Scars don’t stay closed in such matters. They’re waiting to be reopened, ready to bleed over everything nearby when they do. Part of me wants to ignore it. To pretend it never happened, to retreat into the safety of this perfect present. The other part doesn’t want to have doubts with Katrina. I don’t want to be with her and fearing the day those old wounds tear into us.
I need to know. It’s nothing I’ll ever figure out on my own, no peace I’ll ever find without pushing us both, without putting the questions in front of Katrina. I need to risk her reaction. To risk her setting everything we have on fire once more.
On the walk home, the breeze cooling us in contrast to the heavy-scented warmth of the restaurant, I lead her a different route. The sun hasn’t yet set. I feel curiosity in her demeanor until we reach my destination. She tenses, waiting a few steps from me.
We’re in front of the independent bookstore. The one where we ran into each other weeks ago. Expecting her reaction, I speak gently. “Let’s go in.”
“I’m sure they’re closing,” she replies hesitantly.
“So we’ll be quick.” I don’t pause before what I say next, my real purpose. Doing everything I can to project nonchalance, I pull her hand gently toward the store. “Come on,” I say, my voice light. “We’ve never signed Only Once together.”
This is honestly sort of impressive, when I give it thought. We managed not to sign one single copy of our international bestseller together. But then, the post-release promotional rollout of Only Once was pockmarked with stubborn refusals and mutual hostility. Whenever there were signings or book festivals, one of us would agree to attend, and the other would summarily decline. I’m anticipating the way Katrina falters in the doorway, her hand pulling free from mine. The last time we were here, she wouldn’t even go inside for fear of being recognized with me. Now I’m asking for even more.
I don’t let her hesitation slow me down. I’m not waiting. While I wish we were walking home, too, I told myself on the way to dinner I wouldn’t waver. Katrina is either in or out. One day, today or tomorrow or the next, we’ll have to either face what we’ve done or hide from ourselves forever. Only one path has a future.
I walk into the store without her.
Holding my breath, I wait. I study the store to distract myself until I hear the door open behind me.
When I feel Katrina by my side, relief cascades over me. I hold out my hand, which she takes with damp fingers.
“I just like being a reader in bookstores,” she says, sounding nervous. “Not an author.”
“How exactly do you plan on publishing another book, then?” I face her, half smiling. I’m going for levity, even though it’s sort of a serious question. From Kat’s expression, I know she does not feel the humor. She chews her lip, her eyes like clouds over the ocean. I realize it’s because she hasn’t thought that far into the future. I’m somewhat sorry I made her. Somewhat not.
We reach the fiction section, where—there it is, still face-out. We stand in front of the shelf, saying nothing. It’s the closest we’ve ever been to our past. It sits there innocently, a physical reification of what we did to each other. Four hundred and thirty-six pages of fraught memories, this small window of white type on dark blue framing different versions of ourselves.
I feel the book wedging between us, bringing back the fever in which we wrote it. The day it rained at the beach, the night we finished, the fire. It’s suffocating. I feel Katrina lean away from me. The book’s presence is palpable, imposing. I’m desperate to cut through it, forge my way back to her.