“I hated the cover when I saw it,” I say.
She startles. It’s exactly the effect I’d hoped for. When her eyes find mine, there’s not just curiosity in them. There’s the faintest flicker of something else. She knows what I’m doing, because she knows me. “Really? Why?” she asks.
“It just wasn’t what I’d envisioned,” I reply. I’d hoped for black-and-white photography. Thin type. I’d imagined this book and its promise tirelessly enough that I’d created in my head every detail of the cover.
Katrina lifts her gaze from me, reluctantly bringing it to its new destination. The book. She steps closer to the shelf, to the copies face-out. We’re surrounded by pastel walls and plush carpet, yet her movement has the caution of someone reaching the end of a diving board. I exhale just a little, not loudly enough for her to hear my relief.
“It’s the perfect cover,” she says quietly.
I draw back, genuinely curious. I never knew she loved the cover. But then, there’s plenty I don’t know, painful swaths of memories we’ll never make together. I don’t know how Katrina responds to reader questions. I don’t know if she ever read our reviews or what she thought of them. There’s so much I don’t know.
But I might have the chance to find out. This seemingly casual conversation is proof. We’re doing this. We can invite the past back into our lives in these little pieces. It doesn’t have to destroy us.
“I know that now.” My voice softens. “But at the time . . . nothing looked the way it was supposed to.”
Katrina says nothing. She stands there, unmoving—like she’s okay.
“Let’s bring these up front and sign a few,” I say.
Her reply is immediate. “No.”
While quick, it’s not quite convincing. It’s instinct, not intention. I don’t know how I know. I guess it’s my considerable new experience with Katrina when she’s really pissed off or resistant. This window isn’t closed. “Katrina, we wrote this. We created it together. Why do you hate it?” I ask.
“I don’t. I don’t . . . hate it.” She fidgets, touching her hair, shifting the shoulder strap of her bag. “I just . . . Here.” She reaches into her purse and pulls out a pen. “Let’s sign it and leave it without saying anything. Someone will find it. It’ll be a surprise. A secret.” Something wild has caught the edge of her voice. It’s half excitement, half desperation.
She holds out the pen.
I pause. It’s not the scene I wrote in my head when I led us in here. But it’s something. I nod, taking the pen from her. Grabbing the copy from off the shelf, I open the front cover, where I place the signature I’ve scrawled on thousands of pages exactly like this one.
This time, I leave room for Katrina. I return the pen to her. She waits, the felt tip lingering in midair. Then something in her solidifies. Swiftly, she adds her own mark to the page, the tips of her K crossing into my name.
We hear footsteps approaching, and Katrina snaps the book closed. She shoves it onto the shelf. I can’t help smiling. The whole thing is ridiculous, imagining someone catching us defacing our own book. If someone did question us, we would literally just point to our pictures on the back cover. They would probably move the signed copy to the front. Hell, it would probably be the same kindly bookseller I met weeks ago.
But I don’t say any of that. I walk quickly out of the store, following a giggling Katrina, even letting myself glance over my shoulder for fabricated interlopers. When we get outside, I double over laughing. Partly from how ridiculous we’re being, partly out of relief. We faced a big piece of our past, looked it dead on. It feels like one step into the future.
56
Katrina
We walk home, the sun starting to set, the sky marbling with pale yellow. Shadows stretch long on the sidewalk. When we reach our porch, I wait while Nathan unlocks the door. I know what he was doing in the bookstore. Know why he was doing it, too.
I can tell he’s comforted by how our visit to the bookstore went. Which doesn’t frustrate me, exactly. I’m just worried he’s not being realistic. If he thinks signing a single copy of our book will repair the enormous rift in our past . . . Well, I’m not looking forward to him figuring out it won’t. Our history is ugly. It’s huge. It’s daunting.
It’s why I don’t follow when he walks into the house. I linger on the porch, the humidity enveloping me like a blanket, but not a comfortable one—the point when it’s covered you for long enough you start to feel feverish.