Nathan studies me, undoubtedly trying to parse what I’m feeling from what I’m saying.
I don’t give him the chance. I sit back down at the computer. “So we end with them finalizing their divorce then telling each other they love each other,” I say while I type, pouring ideas into the outline. “Both things, though contradictory, feel equally true to them. The past lives on in the present.”
He pulls his gaze from me. “And they kiss with real emotion. One last time.”
I blink at the tone in his voice. “Then they part ways for good.”
“The end,” Nathan says.
We’re silent for a moment. Sweat springs to my hands. I ignore the sensation, focusing instead on the flicker of pride I have for the ending we’ve just formulated. I did it. What’s more, I did it with Nathan. We did it. We can keep our own emotions out of this.
For the first time in weeks, I start feeling steady, even confident. Because I don’t just know how the end of the story will look, I realize. I know how the end of writing it with Nathan will look. We’ll hold ourselves apart from each other the way we’ve been doing since the café. We’ll deploy unkindness instead of growing dangerously close. We’ll write from story structure. Not from feeling.
Nathan’s eyes return to me, and I hear him draw in a breath like he’s about to say something.
I preempt him, reaching for my phone. It shatters the moment somehow, changing the pressure in the room. Chris has texted me, I find when I illuminate my screen. Making headlines, he’s sent. The next message is a link, a Vanity Fair article.
“Shit,” I say.
“What?” Nathan glances over.
I unlock my phone and open the link. In the website’s stylish font, I read the headline. “Your Favorite Bestselling Duo Might Be Back Together.” My stomach drops. Underneath the headline, there’s a picture of us at the café. Nathan’s standing on the chair, speaking to the crowd. I’m watching him, entranced and grinning. My eyes catch on my expression in the photo, and I can’t drag them through the rest of the story.
Nathan moves closer, reading from my screen. “Vanity Fair didn’t even review Refraction,” he says grumpily. “Then they post this shit?” He shakes his head. “Whatever. It doesn’t matter. It’s not like they confirm the book. Just speculation.” Leaning back before I finish scrolling to the end, he pushes his hair from his forehead brusquely.
“Right. Yeah,” I say. “It’s nothing, really.” I scroll up, pausing once more on the photograph. The smile on my lips. The way Nathan is mid-motion, like he’s about to turn to me.
“Are we having an affair yet?”
Nathan’s question yanks my head up. “What?”
He nods to my phone. Of course. He means is there online speculation that we’re having an affair.
My cheeks redden. “Not yet. It’s only a matter of time, though.” I mean the online speculation, too. Obviously.
Nathan looks at me a moment too long. “Looking forward to it,” he says.
25
Katrina
• FOUR YEARS EARLIER •
Nathan scrutinizes me from the armchair while I read. He does not look relaxed, which is unusual. Generally, Nathan lavishes in having his work read—not that he’s categorically a narcissist, he’s just rightfully proud of his writing, and others enjoying it exhilarates him. Right now is the exception. I’m sprawled on the couch, reading the pages he handed me this morning, fresh from the printer.
It’s a sex scene. It’s the sex scene. The only once. Nathan wrote the first pass of what is probably the most momentous scene in the novel, where Jessamine and Jordan give in to their passion. It’s the first time we’ve done this. Nathan and I have never until now collaborated on a sex scene like this one.
Reading it with him nearby is . . . challenging. Especially when he’s bouncing his leg and intently watching me flip pages.
“Could you not stare at me, please? It’s making this weird,” I say, not pulling my eyes from the page.
I don’t have to look to know he’s rolling his eyes. “Be professional,” he replies.
Now I glance over for half a moment. “I am! It’s just hard to read while you’re . . . fixated on me.”
He huffs. I don’t know if it’s a laugh or a noise of protest. Without further warning, he stands up and crosses the room, sitting down right next to me on the couch. He commences reading over my shoulder.
“How is this better?” Despite my consternation, I can’t help smiling a little.
“Katrina, please!” he implores me. “Read the scene and tell me how it is. Put me out of my misery.”
I wait hopefully for him to return to his chair. When he doesn’t, I realize I have no choice except to comply. “It’s . . .” I hesitate, fidgeting with the edge of the page I’m holding. “It’s hot,” I finish, not dishonestly.
Nathan snorts. Once more I diligently ignore his expression, his inevitable grin.
“I mean, the writing is great, too, of course,” I go on.
“Naturally.”
I fight the impulse to shake my head scornfully. I won’t give him the satisfaction. “But it’s—yeah, it’s effective.” I cross my legs. It’s a lot to read about Jessamine’s hands on Jordan’s body, her mounting pleasure, knowing every word was considered, chosen, and typed by Nathan.
“Effective,” Nathan repeats, evaluating. “It’s not the worst review a woman could give, although I usually aspire to amazing, even earth-shattering.”
Heat pounds in my cheeks. “Well, I don’t know what to tell you.”
“I welcome constructive criticism,” he replies immediately. “What would you prefer?”
I exhale, hoping it’s inconspicuous, hoping it hides how the pace of my heartbeat has picked up. The pages in my hands feel like they’re waiting for me. I have writing preferences—punctuations, word choice. And I have other preferences. “Me?” I ask. “Or Jessamine?”
He pauses, eyes fixed on me. “You.”
The word sounds larger than it is. I want to break our stare. I resist, holding his gaze. When I speak, my voice is steady. “I’d speed things up.” I’ve seen Nathan react with skepticism or disappointment when I’ve critiqued his writing. What passes over his expression now is something different.
“Not one for savoring it?” His voice is unreadable.
“The second time, yes. If there was one,” I say. “The first time . . . after all the waiting, I wouldn’t want to wait longer.” I swallow. “If I were Jessamine.”