Nathan’s the one to end our eye contact, clearing his throat. I’m instantly aware of how close we are. His shoulder is pressed into mine. When he breathes, I can feel his chest against my side.
What is this? I feel knocked off-balance, like I’m unsteady on my feet even though I’m sitting down. We’ve ventured into dangerous territory somehow, ignoring every sign we should stop. The worst part is, I don’t even know exactly what territory it is. Who are we talking about? Surely not ourselves. Not while Nathan’s married.
I reverse, hard. “I’m going to work on the scene where they’re caught,” I say, standing up.
The sentence douses the heat in the room. I’m indescribably relieved. Heading for the stairs with hasty steps, I’m nearly out of the room when I hear Nathan’s voice behind me. “Noted.”
I can’t help pausing. From the first step, I turn back. He’s exactly where he was, on the sofa, the pages sitting untouched next to him.
“What you said,” he continues. “It’s noted. I understand the feeling of having waited long enough.”
I study him for even the faintest indication of what’s going on in his head. His expression is restrained, lips closed, jaw set. His posture defensive. Everything about his demeanor is uncharacteristically withdrawn. Yet his gaze is searing.
I walk up the stairs without replying.
26
Nathan
• PRESENT DAY •
I dunk my head underwater. The pool is perfect, refreshing on my skin while I float with my eyes closed, weightless in a dark world. Letting the seconds pass, I feel tension drifting out of me.
After arguing over a plot point for forty-five minutes, Katrina and I decided we needed time to cool off. Literally, in my case. Though frustrating, our fight was unexpectedly vintage. Classic Nathan and Katrina. We weren’t fighting over yearslong personal resentments or unresolved issues. No, this was just a fearsome, multiple-front campaign over whether to begin a chapter with conflict or more color of the character’s life. We each drew blood—Katrina claimed I wasn’t confident I could write something good enough to carry the opening, while I contended her idea was just plain boring.
It was obvious things wouldn’t improve from there. This fight, even when resolved, wasn’t going away. With each new paragraph, it would rear up once more, leaving us squabbling over creative positions neither of us really cared about, endlessly taking revenge for earlier wounds. It would have been unbearable. Worse, it would have been unproductive.
When we called off writing for the next hour, Katrina went up to her room. On my own in the dining room, I gazed out the sliding doors, this plan forming in my head. Neither of us has even dipped a toe in the house’s pool this trip, and some space from Katrina would certainly help.
I’m enjoying my solitude. Surfacing from my float, I start swimming short laps in the five-foot-deep pool. The exertion unwinds the pressure in my chest, and the mindless repetition of the exercise is giving me some much-needed mental remove from the fight.
Until I reach the end of the pool on my fourth lap. I lift my head up from the water to find Katrina walking onto the pool deck.
She’s wearing only her bathing suit. The blue one-piece hugs her hip bones and chest with hungry, sleek precision. Her hair is up in a casual bun on the top of her head. Sunglasses hide her eyes, which I’m certain haven’t landed on me even once.
Book in hand, she slips into the opposite end of the pool.
I exhale, trying to recapture the relaxation I just felt. Katrina flips open her book, which she rests on the concrete edge of the pool. Her back faces me, blue straps stretching an X over her shoulder blades like a treasure map, or a warning.
Without acknowledging me, she lifts one wet hand out of the pool to recklessly turn the page.
I dunk myself under once more, pushing off firmly from the pool wall. Not even half a lap in, I start considering bringing my laptop out to my end of the pool. I could work on one of my other books. I probably should work on one of my other books, in fact. When this is over with Katrina, I’ll have to return to my own career.
“Are you planning on splashing the whole time?”
Katrina’s voice stops me midstroke. I pause, dropping my feet in the middle of the pool to gaze over at her. She has the gall to come out here while I’m using the pool then insinuate I’m the one interrupting her?
I raise an eyebrow. “Am I distracting you?” I ask facetiously.
“A little,” she replies.
I stare, searching for self-consciousness in her tone and finding none. It’s almost humorous. The point of this hour, though, was to avoid petty fighting, so I stay silent.
She glances over her bare shoulder at me, which only makes the lines of her shoulder blades sharpen. I can’t help following the fabric of her suit under the crystal-clear water to her legs, all the way down to where she stands on pointed toes on the bottom of the pool.
I look away. The fifteen yards of water separating us was not the distance I had in mind. Without splashing, I wade over to the concrete edge, where I haul myself out of the pool. While I’m reaching for the towel I left on one of the deck chairs, Katrina’s voice floats to me through the warm humidity.
“I didn’t mean you had to get out.”
“It’s fine,” I say. “I just need some space. Besides, there’s something I want to do in town.”
Katrina, either mollified or silently stewing, doesn’t reply. Toweled off, I walk past her. Her eyes remain glued to her book, which I notice is flecked and warped with pool water.
I can’t help myself. “Your book is getting wet,” I say flatly.
Finally, she glances up, and I’m inexplicably glad to find humor warring with irritation in her expression. She kind of wants to laugh. As I walk inside, I smile. Soon enough, we’ll be back to normal, or what passes for normal for us.
I head up to my room, where I change into my clothes. Pausing in the mirror, I slick my wet hair back in a way I’m not too humble to admit looks good, then grab my keys. I make the ten-minute drive to the local independent bookstore, my rented Porsche purring down the quaint streets. When I park, I pull from the glove compartment the pouch of Sharpies I never travel without and stride in.
The bookstore is exactly like I remember from Katrina’s and my frequent trips here while we wrote Only Once. The scent of pages and wood greets me. The postcard rack, the doormat, everything feels like home.
It’s one of my favorite parts of being an author—introducing myself to booksellers and readers. Maybe it makes me vain, although it’s not the attention I’m after. Or, not entirely. It’s getting the chance to hear from real people who’ve found themselves in my words. It reminds me of the point of what I’m doing. Writing can feel like a solitary, sometimes lonely profession, even with a coauthor. But it’s not. My pages connect me with unseen strings to readers I often never encounter. I love chances to meet them—to pull those strings into the light.