The roaring in my ears overwhelms me. I was wrong when I imagined Nathan’s anger was a fire. It was a knife, one he’s stuck into the smallest, quietest part of my heart. He’s opened up the center of me, where I hide sad secrets even from myself. It hurts deeply, enough I can’t possibly keep up the conversation.
So I don’t. I turn around and walk right off the porch, into the evening.
57
Katrina
? FOUR YEARS EARLIER ?
I’m waiting for my date in one of the most obviously, intentionally hip restaurants I’ve ever been to in Brooklyn. The place has nothing on the walls, midcentury-modern furnishings in whites, grays, and light woods, moody electronic R&B pumping from speakers into the close-quarters dining room.
I focus on the details, hoping they’ll distract me. I should have canceled. My stomach is in knots, my head chaotic. I know I won’t enjoy myself—not when I’ll be spending every minute trying to vanquish the thought of Nathan’s New Yorker interview, which published earlier today. When it hit the internet, I told myself not to read it. Every minute since has been a test of strength, and I feel myself weakening.
I check my phone. He’s late.
Frustrated, I shove it back into my bag. They haven’t brought menus yet, which is unfortunate. I could have read the prices of every esoteric option before inevitably deciding on the one least likely to further upset my stomach. Instead, I dutifully refocus on the décor, my eyes jumping restlessly from corner to corner. I won’t have to wait long, I reason. It’ll be fine. What’s five, or ten, or even fifteen more minutes when I’ve spent the entire day resisting?
But letting my guard down was the wrong move.
Before I know what I’m doing, my hands fumble for my phone again. I click through to the interview.
I devour every word, reading the New Yorker’s gaudily old-school font like it’s my death sentence. Nathan could have written this himself, I observe ruefully—the eloquent literacy with which the story sets up its premise, the former cowriter now striking out on his own. They’ve even got one of the New Yorker’s trademark caricatured renderings of their subjects. I wish I could say it looks ridiculous, but it only looks like him. His spry swoop of hair, his sharp chin, some crackle in his eyes even the casual drawing couldn’t help capturing.
Minutes pass. I keep reading.
The restaurant disappears while I immerse myself in the interview, hearing Nathan’s voice through the screen. When I reach the end, I robotically close the tab and shut off my screen. I return my phone to my purse, feeling cold in my fingertips. I don’t reread the story.
Writing Only Once was one of the worst times in my life. Katrina Freeling is a genius, but I’m not sure the genius is worth the torture of working with her.
The words should hurt. I know it’s what he meant—to hurt me. Yet when I wait for the pain, it doesn’t come. Maybe it’s because I know I deserve what he said. Maybe the worst wounds don’t hurt until the shock wears off. Maybe I’m just numb.
“Sorry I’m late.”
I look up. Chris stands over me, one hand on the back of my chair, smiling. I force my expression into pleasantness and tilt up my head when he leans down to kiss my cheek. In the moments while he sits down opposite me, I work up a smile of my own. “It’s no problem,” I say.
“How are you? You look beautiful.” He studies me with intent eyes. Chris likes me, some voice in my head says with surprised clarity. Nathan had been right. I push the memory away, irritated to have thought of Nathan.
“I’m great,” I lie. “I’d say you clean up well yourself, except you always look sharp.” This part is not a lie. Chris does look good. He’s a man of broad shoulders and clean lines, which tonight fit perfectly into his obviously tailored gray blazer and white dress shirt. It’s a simple look, and it succeeds in its understatement.
I’d invited Chris to dinner on a whim, one I didn’t know until now whether I’d regret. We were texting last weekend, me with the TV on, some innocuous HGTV show to stave off my boredom. My loneliness, too. He made a publishing industry joke, and . . . I don’t know. When a little light flickered into my mood, it was enough. Nathan will think I did it to hurt him. I don’t think I did.
He grins, pleased by my compliment. “Can I just say how thrilled I am we’re finally doing this?” he asks.
I hope my eyes shine back at him. Seeing him has steadied me some. I’ve stopped focusing on the interview. With the candle glowing in the middle of the table, I feel something new, something I could get used to. It’s not the empty calm of every day in the months since I returned from Florida without Nathan. It’s different. This feels firm under my feet instead of like floating in endless fog.