Noticing I haven’t joined him inside, Nathan pauses, facing me.
“I don’t hate Only Once,” I say. “It’s a wonderful book. I’m proud of it.”
“Okay . . .” Nathan hasn’t lowered his keys. They shift in his fingers. Waiting for me to continue, he looks comfortable but cautious.
“But whenever I think of it, I’m reminded of how much everyone expects of me. I just wish I didn’t feel constantly in competition with myself.” I swallow, wishing saying the words made me feel better. It doesn’t. It just makes them feel more real.
Nathan takes my hand, looking relieved. I’ve seen so many sides of him. The guilty husband, the intense creative, the cocksure literary celebrity. The openheartedness in his expression right now is so profound, so loving, it hurts. “You’re not. Besides”—he smiles—“I have to tell you, what we’re writing now is just as good. Maybe even better.”
I dodge his gaze. “It doesn’t matter,” I reply, the first hint of harshness in my voice. “One day it won’t be. One day I’ll disappoint . . . everyone.”
I’m including myself in everyone. The public pressure of releases like ours is enormous, undoubtedly. But disappointing our editor or reviewers or readers is not the only fear I fend off when it chews my nerves raw. Writing is the only thing I’m special at. If I lose it, in a way, I’ve lost myself.
I watch Nathan realize this is a real conversation, not a passing worry. He faces me fully, returning his keys to his pocket. “Katrina, I’m not going to lie to you and say you’ll never disappoint anyone. You will. But you can’t live your life afraid of it.”
His words sound gentle, but even the gentlest press of a bad bruise feels like a blow. Without wondering if I’m being fair or understanding, I let defensiveness flare up in me. “Don’t act like I’m the only one who’s afraid,” I fire back.
He drops my hand. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he demands.
His demeanor says he knows.
“It means you hide in your writing. You told me you loved me in fucking fiction, Nathan. While you were married.”
There it is. The first invocation of the shadow that has covered our relationship—or lack thereof—for years. I thought I would regret this moment, thought I dreaded the shadow rearing into reality. I don’t. Despite how destabilized, how profoundly shaken, I feel, I’m glad I’m crossing into these waters.
“I didn’t hide,” he replies. “I knew you would understand, and you did. I bared everything in what I wrote. And you burned it, because it terrified you. You can’t turn this back on me. You’re the one who panicked because you wanted what I was offering you. If you lost it, it would hurt. So you chose to destroy it and pretend it didn’t exist.”
“I had to!” I nearly shout. I don’t care if my voice carries past the porch, don’t care if our neighbors hear the culmination of Nathan’s and my half-decade-long drama. Like someone’s ripped the door to my heart off its hinges, I want everything out in the open. Spoken, not written. “Your letter was . . . beautiful. Perfectly crafted. The best writing you’d ever done.”
He huffs a bitter laugh. “I didn’t realize that was a crime.”
My breath wavers. He really doesn’t get it, not even now. “I don’t want some perfectly crafted love story. I can’t live up to it! There’s no final page in life, no point where we kiss and everything is happily-ever-after. We can’t be contained in neat phrases or nicely designed covers. We’re not characters. We’re people. I couldn’t be with someone who only wanted the story version. I wanted—I want—something real, and I’m not convinced you can handle real.”
Rage flickers in Nathan’s eyes. It’s been some time since I’ve seen him look this way. He’s noticed the subtle shift in the conversation. We’re no longer only in the past. We’ve dipped our toes into the present, into the problems I know will follow us wherever we go from here.
“I did give you something real,” he returns. “I loved you. I still fucking love you. How can you tell me what I can’t handle? I know better than anyone that love is flawed. That it can break.”
I step farther from him, crossing my arms over my chest. He doesn’t move, feet planted on the house’s doormat.
“Here’s what you really don’t want to hear,” he goes on. “What we have is a fairy tale. It is a dream come true. And it’s imperfect. I wish you could understand it can be both. Fiction is fiction and it’s real. They’re not opposites. They live within each other.” His voice is raw, his expression naked. While anger is the fire in him, I recognize pain is the kindling. “The worst part is, I think you love me, too. I think you know we’re soul mates. But we’ll never be together as long as you’re afraid of your own happiness.”