I drop onto the dark blue fabric of the chair behind me. “Whether it was true or not wasn’t the point. If—if I was . . . what you said”—I can’t help dodging the “L” word—“what good would admitting it be? We had a whole career in front of us. We had lives.”
I must appear miserable, because Harriet’s face softens. “I wasn’t trying to be cruel,” she says, leaning on the wall closer to me. We look a little less like prizefighters now, more like people who used to be friends. “But Katrina, you can’t just pretend feelings that are inconvenient don’t exist,” she continues. While her voice is not gentle, it’s not harsh, either. “I thought you both would be writing together forever, and I just couldn’t sit by and watch you fall for him, right at his side but out of reach. I thought . . . if you talked about it, or maybe got some space or something, it would be good for you.”
I say nothing, suddenly exhausted. We’ve split open the years of silence on the subject, and instead of wary, or resentful, or everything I was when Harriet used to cross my mind, I’m only numb. I don’t know where Harriet’s wrong or where she’s right. I only know I did what I had to do to protect me and Nathan both.
Hesitantly, Harriet leans off the wall. She crosses the room and sits in the chair nearest to me.
“Did you ever talk to him about it?” she asks.
I cut her a look. Then immediately, the combative flicker extinguishes in me. I’m tired of fighting everyone and everything. “Of course not,” I say softly. “Nathan doesn’t . . . do that.” Nathan doesn’t talk about what’s real. He writes it. He uses it to inspire and deepen his art.
“What he said about you in the New Yorker interview . . . He was hurting. I know it,” Harriet says, her voice reaching for me now instead of pushing me away.
I frown, remembering the interview. The sting of Nathan’s words was palpable, physical. It was like emotional food poisoning, worked painfully into my gut, unwilling to let me ignore it. His quotes, cruel and flippant and ever-so-Nathan, were the first I’d heard from him in weeks. “He doesn’t need you to defend him,” I reply, knowing it’s not exactly what Harriet’s doing, yet needing to say it nonetheless.
She receives my frustration gracefully. “Right. Well, none of it matters now, does it? You’re engaged and, as far as I’ve heard, this book is the last you’ll be writing together.”
Her eyes find mine, questioning.
“Definitely,” I confirm, dropping my gaze to the floor. “None of it matters now.” I try to take comfort in the idea, but it feels hollow. Finally, I look up, finding my friend watching me from her chair. Catching myself thinking of Harriet as my friend is reassuring, even fortifying. She is, or I want her to be. Our fight was never about her—not really, I realize. If I’m honest with myself, any anger I had for her died years ago. I was holding on to the ghost of a feeling, telling myself it was real when it wasn’t. “I’m sorry I shut you out,” I say. “I . . . should have talked to you years ago.”
Harriet pauses, then smiles. “You and Nathan have a lot in common.” I laugh a little. I can’t even take offense—Harriet’s right. I skirted and dodged and evaded this conversation exactly the way Nathan would have, the way he refuses to have conversations off the page. “Friends again?” Harriet asks.
Now I smile. “Thank god,” I say, relief fluttering its wings in my chest. “I can’t do this alone with him.”
She laughs, leaning her elbow on one armrest. Suddenly, seamlessly, our relationship feels whole again, like we haven’t missed years of strained distance. “Remember in Italy when you two got in that screaming match at two in the morning about—what was it, even? I just remember coming downstairs and threatening to pour water on your laptops if you didn’t shut up.”
My smile widens. “He had some metaphor he was fixated on,” I say. “After you scolded us, I went to bed and proceeded to send him shouty texts for the next hour.”
“I should’ve figured.” Harriet shakes her head, playfully rueful. Then her expression shifts. Sincere, even somber, she speaks softer. “Can I say one thing without you not speaking to me for the next four years?”
I tense. Right when the ground felt solid under my feet, she’s reminded me it’s still thin ice. “If you insist,” I say slowly.
“I don’t know what feelings are left between you and Nathan. Maybe it’s just resentment. Maybe it’s—” When I shoot her a look, she wisely doesn’t finish the sentence. “Whatever it is,” she goes on, “it will come out in this book you’re writing.”
“We’re professionals,” I reply instantly, noticing how rote the words feel. How like a prayer. “We can separate ourselves from our work.”
“No,” Harriet says. “You can’t.”
I say nothing. While it’s possible Harriet mistakes my silence for stubbornness, I’m guessing she sees my helplessness for what it is.
She stands up. “No one creates from nothing,” she goes on. “You will put yourselves into your writing. Just . . . be careful.”
While I want to object, I don’t know how. Isn’t it exactly what Nathan and I have been doing? Drawing our animosity into our pages? I cross one leg over the other in a meaningless, uncomfortable gesture.
“It’s hot as shit in here,” Harriet declares. It’s a reprieve, a generously early end to the discussion. A kindness from a friend. “Want to go for a swim? You can borrow a suit.”
“Yeah. Sure. That sounds great.”
I follow her upstairs, my mind stuck in the living room, snagged like fabric on a sharp corner. The seam starts to open, and I’m left mulling on Harriet’s warning. I’m not wondering whether she’s right—she is. I’m wondering which parts of myself will end up under Nathan’s pen.
23
Nathan
My run was punishing, exactly what I needed. I don’t prefer running after sundown the way I’ve had to on this retreat. Our neighborhood has so few streetlights that every passing car is a danger. Today, though, I’ve had nothing to do except run. I’ve wrung perverse enjoyment out of tracing my route with the sun pounding down on me, squinting while I navigate the paths I usually do in darkness.
I don’t know what Katrina’s doing right now. I doubt she’s on the phone with Chris, whom I’ve hardly even seen her texting since we got here. She’s probably on the porch, immersed in whatever she’s reading, not noticing the tops of her feet have started to sunburn.
Rounding the corner onto our street, I slow my steps. I’ve been out for over an hour, and sweat is pouring down my back. As I walk, I see a woman struggling to lift a rug. It was obviously delivered to the curb, leaving her to wrestle the heavy roll to her door. I recognize her, sort of. Straight blond hair strangled into a ponytail like she was in a hurry, long legs in spandex. I’ve seen her several times in the past few days, hauling boxes into the back unit on the lot. From the looks of it, she’s just moved in.