I head deeper into the store, looking for the clerk. I find her shelving in the Young Adult section.
The short, middle-aged woman straightens up when I pause nearby. “Hi,” she says. “Looking for something?”
“Actually, I’m an author. I was hoping I could sign some stock.” I glance past her, worry flashing in me for a second. I hope they even have Refraction. There’s an adage in publishing—a signed book is a sold book. Right now, I’m desperate to help Refraction’s sales numbers however I can. This is the career I’ll return to after Katrina, and signing copies is probably slightly more helpful than carrying my laptop poolside.
“How wonderful. Let me see if we have any of your books in stock right now. If not, I’ll order them in for you to sign later.” She sounds genuinely enthusiastic. Adjusting her glasses, she studies my faces. “What’s your name?”
I stick out my hand, flashing her the dimple. “Nathan Van Huysen.”
27
Katrina
I lasted ten minutes without Nathan. Standing in the pool on my own quickly felt oppressive, suddenly changing the sunlight from warm and invigorating to muggy and sharp. My mind kept running roughshod over the question of where he’d gone, so casual and decisive, leaving just me in our quiet backyard.
I was jealous—not of him spending time somewhere other than with me, but of him having somewhere else to spend it. I’m starting to feel like my whole life right now revolves around Nathan and writing this book. I have nothing of my own. Reading poolside with my elbows on the concrete was enough temporarily to distract me, until I finished my book. Then, nothing, except the painfully gentle lapping of the water.
Defiantly, I lifted myself onto the patio. I was not going to mope in the pool until Nathan returned. If he could go do whatever he was doing, live a life outside our writing, so could I. Finishing my book gave me the perfect way to start.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m dressed, my hair still in a half-wet bun, and parking on the street in Key Largo’s small commercial stretch. The day feels bright once more, full of possibility. I focus on the sights, the sounds, the dry grass under my sandals, the palm fronds swishing in the clear sky. I’m not even wondering what Nathan’s up to.
Walking toward the neighborhood’s only independent bookstore, I start thinking about what new books I might want. Maybe to other people, finding a new novel to read isn’t necessarily an entire life, but to me, it’s something.
As I’m reaching for the door, it swings open, and a man walks out, nearly colliding with me.
I stumble—and his hand is on my arm, steadying me. Finally, I find my footing.
And then I look up.
“Nathan?”
We study each other, motionless, on the small front step. Nathan’s hand doesn’t leave my elbow, probably just out of surprise. He’s slicked back his hair. It does look kind of good.
“This,” he says, “is very much the opposite of getting space.”
“I—” He’s still holding my arm. “How could I have possibly known you were here?” I manage.
Like he’s finally remembered himself, Nathan’s hand falls to his side. Then his face breaks into half a grin. “Well, this is ironic.”
“What are you even doing here?” I ask. I look down, searching for a shopping bag or book in his hands. Nothing.
“Signing Refraction stock.”
I sigh in frustration, shifting my gaze past him to where the grass meets the highway. “Of course you were,” I mutter. It is darkly comedic, how much this models our lives in miniature. Nathan and I somehow keep ending up on collision courses of one form or another.
“I’m . . . sorry?” he says. He doesn’t look sorry. He looks amused. “I’m done now, so feel free to carry on like you never saw me,” he continues.
I chew my lip, peering in the store’s front window, where hardcover mysteries and cookbooks stand on display. While I don’t really want to admit my hesitation, I know Nathan isn’t just going to walk away. “Well, I can’t now,” I say haltingly.
Nathan frowns. “Why not?”
“You probably introduced yourself to the bookseller,” I explain. “They just pulled up your catalogue.”
“Yes . . . ?” He leans on the step’s metal railing, in no hurry. I notice in his pocket the leather pouch in which he carries his signing pens.
I force patience into my voice. “They would’ve seen your back catalogue, the two books you wrote with a coauthor. If I walk in there right after you—” I gesture for him to fill in what would happen.
Something coy enters Nathan’s eyes. It’s playfulness with sharp edges, like juggling knives. “It’s like she might recognize you. God forbid, we’d have to sign some of our books together.”
“Not happening.” I meet his coyness with warning, which I hope he sees flash in my expression.
If my refusal wounds him, he doesn’t show it. In fact, he couldn’t look more relaxed, hands curling lightly around the peeling paint of the railing. “Well, I don’t know what to tell you,” he says.
I linger on the step, saying nothing. My chest feels clenched. I’m pissed. I know it’s irrational—Nathan couldn’t possibly have known this would be my destination, nor how his presence here would snarl my hopes for the day. Yet, here I stand, snarled. While he smirks with his sunglasses hanging from his shirt collar, the same defiance I felt in the pool seizes me. “I finished the book I was reading,” I declare. “I need something new.”
His grin hitching, Nathan is silent. Then his brow furrows. “You’re not seriously suggesting what I think you’re suggesting.”
“Please? Just go back in and get one book for me,” I implore. “Just one single book.”
Nathan breathes out through his nose. “Which book?” he asks flatly.
“Oh, I don’t know,” I reply.
“Katrina!” He pushes himself up from the railing. Hearing the exasperation in his voice, I have to swallow a laugh.
“Just go in there and tell me what they have,” I instruct him politely, starting to enjoy myself now. “I’m looking for something upbeat. Escapist. Romance, probably.” When he hesitates, I reach for his arm and pull him to face the entrance, feeling him shake with laughter.
Reluctantly, he disappears inside. I move a couple storefronts away, not wanting to be spotted. Hiding by the chain-link fence of the nearby boat dealership, in the shade of the tree on the street corner, I feel furtive. Secret Agent Katrina in denim shorts and sandals. It’s kind of ridiculous, and kind of fun.