Nathan’s quicker to respond. “Does it matter?”
“I mean, no,” Harriet replies. “It doesn’t matter like world peace or feeding the hungry matters. I’m just desperately curious. You’re doing the thing where you read each other’s minds. Worse, you look like you’re having fun.”
When the cappuccino machine hisses, I flinch, startled. “We’re not having fun,” I clarify decisively. Nathan’s head turns slightly, but he says nothing.
“I figured you invited me today to be your buffer or something,” Harriet says. “I guess I was wrong.”
“I invited you because we’re friends,” Nathan says easily. Harriet eyes him a moment longer, understanding what I do. It’s a half response, direct yet incomplete, evading the real subject of the conversation.
Harriet lets him. Uncapping her pen, she returns to her syllabus.
I keep typing, my ears buzzing. I should feel proud we’ve fooled Harriet. Proud we’re finally working cohesively. It’s a good thing, I tell myself. But then why do I feel like I’ve broken the rules?
“No,” Nathan interrupts my writing. “ ‘Always.’ Not ‘forever.’ ”
He means word choice. I reread the sentence. Evelyn remembered those first private seconds right after they’d said “I do,” when they’d laughed with relief at surviving the hard part and all that was left was dinner and dancing and the love they’d feel forever. Had any of that changed? I grimace, knowing exactly where Nathan’s comment is going.
“ ‘Love they’d feel always.’ ” He emphasizes the final word, confirming my fears.
“Forever,” I reply patiently. “For the alliteration.”
Nathan’s voice remains light. “You have this grudge against the word always. You always have.” He flashes me his dimple.
I ignore the dimple, which was unfair. “Not true.” It was partly true. I can’t explain my hatred of the word, but I resent that he’s calling me on it.
“Katrina.” He puts his elbows on the table, pleading his case. “It completely changes the connotation. ‘Forever’ is about . . .” He grows contemplative, grasping for the distinction. “Forever is about reaching into the future, into years far away and unknowable. ‘Always’ is about every second of every day. It’s as far-reaching as ‘forever,’ it just starts sooner.” His eyes have fixed on mine. “The word is immediate and immortal. And better.”
No way. I’m not letting him off with some evocative Nathan Van Huysen speech. “Forever hits you instantly with its hugeness,” I fire back.
Nathan says nothing, studying me. Then he turns to Harriet.
“Not a chance,” she says, eyebrows rising. “I refuse to get involved. Work this out yourselves.” I swear I see a pleased gleam in her eyes. When I frown, she just shrugs.
I face Nathan. “Rock paper scissors?” I offer hopefully.
Nathan eyes my dryly. We have, on occasion, used the playground game to settle writing disputes. Right now, however, Nathan doesn’t put his fist forward.
Instead, he stands up. “I have a better idea.”
I watch uncomprehendingly, dread filling my chest. The feeling heightens when, without hesitation, he stands up on his chair.
“Oh my god,” I say. “Get down from there.”
He flashes me the dimple again. “Excuse me, everyone,” he says loudly to the room, surveying the café. I stuff my hands in my lap, knowing I won’t like whatever he’s going to do. “I need your help settling a score.”
Heads swivel in his direction. I hear whispering, undoubtedly people wondering why this strange man is standing on a chair. Nathan doesn’t look bothered.
“We’re writing a book. Raise your hand for the sentence you prefer.” He’s exuding his characteristic charm, and I can see some of the skeptical cafégoers drawn in. “ ‘The love they’d feel always,’ or ‘the love they’d feel forever.’ Show of hands for ‘always.’ ”
He waits, expectant. No one raises their hand.
“Come on,” he implores the crowd, his voice enticing. “My partner and I can’t agree, and we have to go home together tonight. Don’t make us fight about this over dinner.”
A laugh escapes me, and I immediately clap a hand over my mouth, earning glances from Nathan’s audience. A man in a fishing vest raises his hand, followed by the two teenagers in the back. Seeing them, Nathan jumps a little in excitement and nearly falls, his chair wobbling under him. I laugh louder now, not hiding it.
Nathan notices. His eyes flash to me, his lips forming half a smile. “Show of hands for ‘forever’?” he requests, his gaze still on me.
More hands rise. With surging satisfaction, I look around at my new constituents. The elderly couple near the coffee counter appear fully committed. Both the baristas prefer “forever.” The thirtysomething woman working on her computer is raising her hand without looking up from her screen. I’ve won. Nathan hangs his head dejectedly.
“I’ll accept the judgment, though I do not like it. Thanks, everyone,” he says, stepping down from his chair. When he sits next to me once more, he looks exhilarated.
“Wait, seriously?” I say. “You’re going to do my word just because four people in this café raised their hands?”
“I said I would, and so I shall,” he replies with mock gravitas. His eyes sparkle.
I laugh again, unable to help myself. “You’re ridiculous.”
“This surprises you?” he returns immediately.
I only shake my head, chiding, and return to the computer. The hint of my smile lingers on my lips. Focus fails me—I reread our last sentence over and over until I feel Harriet’s eyes on me. When I look up, she’s staring. There’s no mistaking what she’s thinking, and now, I have no defense. This time, I didn’t just look like I was having fun. I was.
21
Nathan
We leave the café around sunset. Harriet headed out an hour ago, shaking her head while Katrina and I discussed the scene we were working on.
It was a good day, in every way I measure a day. Katrina and I finished the scene we had scheduled, and what we wrote was excellent. What’s more, we enjoyed ourselves. Harriet wasn’t wrong—when Katrina and I collaborate well, finishing each other’s sentences isn’t the half of our synchrony. We finish each other’s phrases, motifs, nuances. My uncle, who rowed for Harvard, would describe the feeling of the whole crew finding their collective rhythm, gliding over the water with flawless force. It’s how I feel on Katrina’s and my good days.