Wild emotion seizes me. Whatever she was writing, it wasn’t a rejection. I can read it on her face. I know what I’m feeling. I know what it demands. Following the impulse, I reach for her hand.
She squeezes my fingers firmly. Then she pulls her hand free with an apologetic smile.
“But first, I want to finish our book,” she says.
The skin of my hand is cool where her fingers left mine. I study her expression, surprised by the subject change. She’s indecipherable. “I don’t understand,” I say gently, recognizing how unusual this is with the person whose mind I’ve learned to read.
“I want to show you I can finish it. I want to show myself. I need to face this, Nathan,” she replies. She doesn’t sound scared, just determined.
I nod. It’s wonderfully easy, following Katrina wherever she leads. “I’ll write anything with you,” I say.
She smiles, the expression seeming to radiate through her. “Thank you.” Saying nothing more, she starts to turn to her computer.
“And us?” I ask.
She stills. Her features cloud. Nevertheless, I see her struggling to look past the clouds instead of staying lost within them. “I have to know there is an us outside of writing. With Chris I was the bestselling-author trophy fiancée. I need to know you want to be with me, not just a cowriter who will help your career.”
I take my time before replying, understanding what she means. There’s never been me and Katrina without our writing career. Writing is our entire life together. But while I may have fallen in love with Katrina through our writing, it wasn’t because of the copies I thought she’d sell. It was because I saw her in her words. That’s why I love her. And I want to prove it to her.
“Katrina, we can walk away from the book,” I say, and it feels easy. “You’re worth more to me than a book deal. Than a lifetime of them.”
“No.” The immediacy and quiet resolve of her response surprises me. “I want to finish the book,” Katrina continues. “It’s important to me.”
While unpacking this vibrant change in her is tempting, I can feel our conversation has momentum I don’t want to lose. Instead I refigure my idea. “So . . . so we separate them. The writing, and us. We finish the book first. We put us on pause until we do.”
This is not easy for me to say. The thought of holding myself back from Katrina for even one minute more—to say nothing of the remainder of our word count—is painful. It’s the right decision, though.
“If you want this, then we start us as us, not as cowriters,” I conclude.
I’m comforted when relief mingles with the caution in Katrina’s eyes. “That means no putting into our writing everything we’re not saying to each other,” she warns me with a half smile. “No angry edits. No late-night love letters written in someone else’s voice.”
I hold my hand over my heart, returning her smile. “I promise,” I reply. “When I want to say something to you, I’ll say it to you. When the book is done.”
“I look forward to it.” She seems forlorn for a moment. I feel the same way. It’s a short goodbye even though neither of us is leaving. Then something new catches her eyes, making them sparkle. “How quickly do you think we can write this ending?”
A small laugh escapes me. “I’m not sure.” The coming weeks stretch before me in my head. I foresee eight-hour writing sessions, working breakfasts, bleary-eyed evening edits. If I thought I worked compulsively before, it’ll be nothing compared to what’s to come.
If I thought I was grateful for my partner before, it will be nothing compared to what’s to come.
“I’m glad there’s two of us, though,” I say.
Katrina meets my eyes. “Me, too.”
61
Katrina
We devote ourselves with newfound vigor to finishing the book. Weeks go by. We write by day, edit by night, punctuating our routine with dinners with Harriet and walks to get much-needed caffeine.
We don’t kiss. We don’t even touch. It’s hard sometimes—when I stand in Nathan’s doorway to trade pages, my memory will return to his bed, or when his shirt rides up while he’s stretching, I have to sit on my hands. I’m not ungrateful for the clarity of purpose it’s given our work, though. We write for ourselves, not for each other. Of course, there’s no keeping your soul out of your prose entirely. Nor would I want to read writing with no personal imperative. But there’s a difference between letting your feelings and realizations inform your words and writing the secret messages of your heart with one reader in mind.