I rub my eyes and open them, the tiles taunting me. If I really want this prison sentence to be only two months, I can’t keep hiding in the shower. Plus, I feel my stomach growling. I turn off the water and walk into the bedroom in my towel, the humidity keeping me from drying off. Every inch of the room is hatefully familiar. The ubiquitous white shutters, the bed in the center with the blue comforter, the cream-colored wardrobe. I figure Chris bought the furniture with the house to keep everything the way Katrina remembered, and Katrina, having no interest in this place, never bothered to change it.
Pulling clothes from my suitcase, I dress quickly. While I do, I counsel myself in my head. Working with Katrina will be difficult. But writing? Writing is like breathing. I can put down three thousand words in a day when I need to. Right now, I need to. Which means there’s only one thing to do.
Keep breathing.
These thoughts push me out of my bedroom with some semblance of vigor. When I walk downstairs, I ignore memories of the last time my footsteps thudded down them. I ignore the glimpse I get of the fireplace in the living room, its ominous mouth open like it’s mocking me.
Entering the kitchen, I catch the scent of seawater from the open sliding doors. The back of the house opens onto the deck with the swimming pool and then, past it, the ocean, the grass of the yard ceding unevenly to sand and surf. I remember looking up from our computers, watching the moonlight shimmering on the waves. It’s nighttime now, and the moon is nowhere to be found, obstructed underneath clouds. There’s only the endless inky roll of the water.
Katrina’s sitting at the bar, her back to me. She’s eating frozen pizza she must’ve heated up while I stalled in the shower. It’s the kind we shared dozens of times on the nights while we wrote Only Once.
Something in the simple, solitary meal is disarmingly human. She’s not the figure I’ve shaped in my head to near-mythic proportions, the knot snarling the strands of my life. She’s just Katrina, having dinner. Her hair unruly in the humidity, her blouse untucked from her white shorts.
Hearing my footsteps, she waves in the direction of the pizza on top of the stove. “Help yourself,” she says.
I remember the cupboard that holds the dishes. Which is vexing. I’ve lived in my condo for two years and still I find myself opening the wrong drawers on occasion. Here, every detail is inscribed into instinct. I pull down one of the ceramic plates with the blue trim, serve myself two slices of pizza, then turn, leaning on the far counter to face Katrina. The kitchen island is the breaker in the ocean between us.
I say nothing, waiting for her to speak.
Finally, she does. “Let’s get the planning out of the way.” Her face is expressionless. She’s got remarkable eyebrows, perfect dark curves prone to twitching up when she’s joking or bunching when she’s thinking. Right now, they do neither. They’re unmoving, just like the round, bee-stung lips she’s pursing while her brown eyes watch me. “I assume your writing process hasn’t changed?”
“No,” I reply. “Yours? I heard you were retired.” I can’t help the judgmental emphasis on the final word. It pissed me off when I learned she’d retired. Quitting writing with me was one thing. While I didn’t like it, I understood it. Quitting writing entirely infuriated me. It felt dishonest. It felt like Katrina had woken up one day and decided not to be herself, not to dream her dreams.
Her freckled cheeks don’t flicker. She’s like ceramic. “Well, I heard I was torture to write with,” she says. I’m genuinely surprised to hear the edge in her voice.
I figured it was coming, I just didn’t expect we’d have this discussion on our very first night. Regardless, I have no response—or none I want to say out loud. Instead of the truth, I settle for the easy rejoinder. “Remains to be seen.”
I watch this frustrate Katrina. She shifts in her seat like she’s unconsciously trying to escape her fury. “I’ve heard a lot of things in the past four years,” she starts, her tone light, like this is just conversation. I know it’s not. Nothing is ever just conversation with Katrina, no word wasted. Everything’s the setup to some ending she’s been crafting since the beginning, perfect yet unpredictable. I brace myself when she continues. “I’ve heard I’m a whore who repeatedly tried to seduce you, then quit writing when I couldn’t get you to leave your wife.”
I flinch. Not figuratively. I literally feel my face flinch. It’s an ugly rumor, and it hurt when I first read it for numerous reasons. Whatever our present situation, I respect Katrina. I used to call her a friend. It’s not just repulsive, it’s wrong. Nobody who knew her could ever say she tried to seduce me.
Nevertheless, I can handle Kat’s retorts. I wrote with her. I know exactly how to parry them. “Funny, because I heard my wife walked in on us fucking, which is why I’m divorced,” I say. “You know what my favorite is, though?”
It’s Katrina’s turn to say nothing.
“I heard I had an affair with you because I wanted to be a better writer. To write infidelity from”—I draw out the word—“experience.”
Katrina’s neck reddens. I understand her visceral reaction. I really do hate this rumor in particular. The idea that I could discard Melissa in service of some artistic bullshit is stomach-turning. I know I made mistakes in my marriage. But Melissa was a human being to me, one I loved. Just not well enough.
“I heard you left your wife because you were in love with me.” Katrina’s on her feet, her plate clenched in her hand. I’m unprepared for the blow. It’s a painful punch to a tender part of me.
“I heard you slept with Chris to hurt me.”
The words fly out of my mouth. Katrina’s chest heaves under her shirt. I feel my own breath racing sharp and shallow. Whatever this fight was, it’s just split like a lightning-struck tree. The damage is fast, irreversible. I wish I’d said nothing. Catastrophe like this is better left for my writing.
Katrina, unmoving where she stands, exhales a short laugh. Now I prepare myself. Years of writing with Kat have left me with a catalogue of everything I know about her. I know she’s persistent, unwilling to give up when she feels she’s in the right. I know she’s incredibly smart and capable of using her smarts like a surgeon’s scalpel or a heavy instrument depending on what the situation requires. Right now, I know I’m going to be on the wrong end of one or the other.
“Of course, none of it’s true,” she says, her tone goading, like she wants to hear me disagree with her.
“Of course,” I reply.
We watch each other from the ends of the kitchen.
“Look.” The softest note of concession enters Katrina’s voice. “Neither of us wants to be here. There’s no use discussing it. We just have to write the book,” she finishes.