After a few minutes, Nathan emerges from the bookstore, looks around for me, then jogs my way.
“So,” he begins, endearingly serious. “They have that new release everyone’s been talking about. The Client. Pink and yellow cover. They also have a new book in that historical romance series you used to read about the bastard princes. Oh, and one I’d never heard of but seems like your thing—a modern take on Middlemarch.”
My mouth opens and closes. I knew it would be fun making work for Nathan. What I didn’t expect was how good a job he’d do. It’s a sorely sweet reminder that Nathan used to be my best friend, the person I discussed books with more than anyone else in the world. Four years later, I thought those ties would have untethered. It means something to realize they haven’t, but I’m not sure what.
I’m conscious of his eyes on me, waiting for my pick. Considering each one, I stay silent—not to exasperate him, each one genuinely sounds great.
Picking up on my indecision, he smiles knowingly. “All three it is,” he says. I grin, reaching for my wallet. Nathan waves me away. “Don’t worry about it.” He’s gone before I can protest.
While I wait, enjoying the ocean-tinged breeze, I realize our frustration from earlier has disappeared completely despite the distinct lack of space we achieved.
When Nathan returns, he’s carrying a brown paper bag, which he hands to me triumphantly. I feel familiar new-book feelings, excitement and instant intrigue. For his part, Nathan looks distinctly proud of himself. “The clerk definitely thought I was buying this for a woman,” he informs me.
I stiffen. “What did you tell her?”
“Relax,” he scoffs. “I didn’t say bestselling author Katrina Freeling is hiding in the bushes outside like a paranoid weirdo.” Now a laugh does escape me. Nathan’s chest puffs up further. “I told her they were for me,” he continues. “There’s no reason they couldn’t have been.”
“Thanks, Nathan. Really,” I say. We stand in the shade while the moment stretches, neither of us quite knowing what to do with ourselves. “Well . . . I’ll see you at home, I guess.”
Nathan peers interestedly into the shopping bag. “You know, I wouldn’t mind having something to read myself.”
I laugh again. Reaching into the bag, I pull out The Scoundrel Prince.
“Just the one I’d hoped for,” he says delightedly when I hand the book over. “This series is unfairly addictive.”
Tucking The Scoundrel Prince under his arm, he waves over his shoulder, leaving me on the grassy street corner. With my new purchases in hand, I return to my car, not fighting my smile. On the drive home, I find I’m actually looking forward to returning to work with him.
28
Nathan
Fingers kneading the bridge of my nose, I’m wondering if writing was ever easy, or if it’s just unending frustration. I know I’ve enjoyed it in the past, felt confident and competent. Were those only hallucinations? Misremembered distortions, the products of cognitive dissonance?
They weren’t, obviously. But it’s how I feel, irrationally, when writing is not going well. I’m working with Katrina on the new book’s second sex scene in the midst of the couple’s divorce. While ostensibly its passion is fueled by hate, the point of the scene is to mirror the tenderness of the previous sex scene. It’s their “one last time,” and while Katrina and I plod through the paragraphs, I can’t help thinking of how this book is our “one last time.”
The comparison is extremely unhelpful, especially combined with how every one of Katrina’s and my conversations lately feels like it’s occurring on multiple levels. The result? I’m off my game. My writing is bland, forced, joyless.
I knew today was going to be a bad day, though. I knew it the instant I walked downstairs and noticed Katrina had changed her shampoo.
This was calamitous. Not the change in the shampoo, obviously, which was nice. But the fact that I noticed. Over the time we’ve spent here, Katrina’s and my writing and personal routine has changed from the intense pace of our first few days into a tentative truce. Now we’ve found our new rhythm, punctuated by painful reminders of exactly what split us up before.
In the meantime, I became someone who noticed her shampoo. For the rest of the morning, I kept noticing, unable to escape my consciousness of her. It was damning, inviting, everywhere. Right now, seated next to her on the dining table bench, I’m noticing it every time she flips her hair over her shoulder.
The café reminded me we could have fun together. Running into her outside the bookstore reminded me we could even be friends. This reminds me why we shouldn’t.
“It’s not passionate enough,” she says, frowning at the screen. Her fingers idly scroll up and down on the MacBook’s trackpad. “We need the intensity of the feeling to come through. It’s hotter even than the height of their relationship. Infused with the sense of the ending.”
I nod, wordless and miserable.
“Hello?” Katrina glances over. “Thoughts? It’s like I’m speaking to myself today.”
I can’t even resent her glib comment. She’s completely right. I’m useless. I get up and, for no reason whatsoever, walk my mug to the sink. The light breeze outside rattles the shutters faintly. “No. Sorry. You’re right. This is about”—I swallow, digging deep inside myself, forcing ideas forward—“how when you’ve had something with someone, it’s easy for . . . an ember to leap into a flame with the slightest change in the wind.”
I stand over the sink, closing my eyes. The slightest change.
Like going to sleep after staring at a picture of a girl smiling at you when you weren’t looking, then waking up and noticing her fucking shampoo.
Katrina’s voice from the dining table sounds small. “No matter what they tell themselves, Michael and Evelyn will always be attracted to each other.” I hate myself for wondering if there’s anything beneath her words. “But it’s purely physical,” she adds.
I return to the table, standing behind her while she types those thoughts in. “Which is a lie, of course,” I say.
She stiffens. Whether it’s at what I said or whether she’s startled by my presence, I don’t know.
“May I?” I ask. She yields the computer to me, and I stand over her while I type. I force myself to put the tension coursing through me onto the page. The exorcism feels good.
What’s more, the writing is good. It’s better than anything I’ve written today. I keep going, everything finally feeling clear, fluid, emotional. It’s working. Because of course it is, I remind myself. I’ve long known the best writing comes from truth.