I give him a Porsche. I give him a dimple.
Finally, I face what I’ve done in Nathan’s direction and watch him read it. I relish the small flickers in his expression. Unlike me, his face shows . . . everything. He doesn’t miss a single stinging reminder it’s him I’m writing in. When I figure he’s close to finishing. I ready myself for criticism, arguments, remarks about Chris.
Instead, he leans back from the screen and, smugly, he smiles.
“Now that’s a start,” he says, his eyes locked on mine.
10
Nathan
• FOUR YEARS EARLIER •
It feels like it’s five hundred degrees in here. Even with every fan on, the day just won’t cool down, heat emanating from every surface in the house like we’re writing inside our own private sauna. I’ve changed my shirt once, and I’m starting to sweat through my new one. Katrina’s faring no better, sitting with her legs crossed on the floor, moisture glistening on her shoulders and the end of her nose. She’s pulled her hair up into a rare ponytail.
She speaks without lifting her eyes from her computer screen. “Did you make the change we discussed to chapter two?” Her voice holds the faintest hint of condemnation, like she’s ready for me to admit I got swept up in another idea and haven’t done it yet. It’s not unreasonable— there have been times I’ve neglected some minor edit in favor of chasing inspiration forward.
Nevertheless, the presumption gets under my skin, leaving me itchy, my muscles tensed. Some small rational part of me knows I shouldn’t give in to irritation. “I said I would do it, and I did,” I say instead, matching her spite for spite.
Katrina looks up.
I meet her gaze. Undoubtedly, she caught the bite in my tone. She narrows her eyes.
The heat is getting to us, warping our rapport into unpleasant shapes. There’s something combustible in the room. Our responses have grown clipped, irritation creeping into every glance shared over the computer. It happens from time to time, when we’re feeling deadline pressure, or when something’s not working in the book, or even just when one of us hasn’t slept well. There are a hundred little reasons that can add up to tension like this. Combined with living every minute of every day with each other, it’s a test some marriages can’t pass. Which, ultimately, isn’t a bad comparison. What Katrina and I have is not far off from a marriage. Cooped up in this hot house, we’re starting to sound like squabbling spouses.
I try to refocus on my screen. It doesn’t work. Irritated, I unstick my shirt from the sweat of my back, hating the sensation. In moments like this, even mundane irritations—the sensation of damp fabric, the clock innocently displaying 3:29 p.m. in the corner of my screen—become monstrously frustrating.
I know the effect my words will have before I say them. I can’t help myself, though. I’ve heard people compare fights to fire. It’s the wrong metaphor. Flames flourish with space, openness, room to breathe, kindling to feed them. Fights come from the opposite—from pressure, restraint, deprivation. What I need is to open a release valve and vent some of this pressure.
“I did want to make one more change, though,” I say.
Katrina’s eyes swivel to me, suspicious. Rightly so, with how I didn’t even try to sound casual. Katrina and I write layered dialogue every day. She knows subtext when she hears it. “Oh?” she shoots back.
“I cut the opening conversation.”
Her hands fall from her laptop, her expression slackening with displeasure. “You’re joking,” she says humorlessly.
I’m morbidly glad to have caused this reaction. There’s something grimly fulfilling in pushing us in exactly the wrong direction. I rarely feel this way with Melissa—it’s hard to imagine how I could, when our infrequent “fights” consist pretty much only of spats over who loaded the dishwasher the wrong way or who forgot to buy more milk. It’s something to be grateful for, I know. “It’s dragging,” I insist, prodding Katrina on purpose. “I told you already.”
To paraphrase Tolstoy, every writing partnership clashes in its own way. One of Katrina’s and my persistent disagreements is on pace. While my cowriter likes to paint in the details of life, I prefer to begin where things really begin. In reopening the discussion, I’m playing hopscotch in a minefield.
Kat shifts her laptop to the floor. The glare she sends me is deadly. “And we discussed keeping it if we made other changes. We agreed. What the hell was our entire conversation for yesterday if you can just change your mind?”
Distantly, I know her point isn’t unreasonable. I just know I’m right, which fuels me past whatever remorse I might feel for overriding our decision. Now, while we’re on edge with each other, is as good an opportunity as any to have this out.
“It doesn’t work,” I say. “I’m sorry, Katrina. We’re cutting it.”
“You’re not sorry,” she snaps. “You didn’t even ask. You just made the decision on your own, again, and I’m supposed to, what? Accept it? I have opinions, too, you know.”
“Oh, I know.” The comment slips out of me. It’s uselessly unkind enough to make me pause, recomposing myself. “Can we please cut it?” I ask, gentler.
Her eyes linger on me a moment longer, her mouth hard set. Finally, she shakes her head. “Whatever. Whatever you want, Nathan,” she says. She picks up her computer, but I know we’re far from finished.
Moments pass, the temperature in the room shifting up a degree. I never know which is worse, war or a stalemate. Right now, I can’t distract myself from the unpleasantries we haven’t yet said. I can only wait, reading the same lines on my computer over and over.
It’s perverse relief when Katrina speaks. “By the way”—her voice is cold—“your metaphor at the bottom of twenty-five is forced.”
I hide how the remark hurts me. Criticism from her stings in a way no other reader’s ever does. It’s payback, of course. My metaphor for her opening conversation. Not quite eye for an eye but close enough. “Delete it, then,” I say.
“Already did.”
The lightness in her voice is like footsteps over hot coals. We’re entering the most dangerous part of every fight. The part where the conflict could die out or, pushed further, erupt into something much worse. We’ve had screaming matches before. Katrina’s stormed out of rooms, her face flushed. I once slammed the door of my home office hard enough that the handle wobbled off. They’re ugly memories, scars we keep out of sight on other days. We’ve always come through them, always moved forward.
Marriage really isn’t the worst comparison. You can’t write with someone you’re afraid to fight with, and you can only fight fearlessly because you know at the end of the day, no matter what you’ve said, nothing can break you up. Still, fights pick up fuel from every conceivable source, drawing upon old grievances, misremembered slights, pet peeves that amount to nothing. I prepare myself for whatever is coming now.