Sliding the computer back to Katrina, I sit. I’m not nervous.
“Not bad,” she concedes, skimming the paragraphs.
“It’s good, and we both know it.”
I’m watching for it now, so I notice when she flattens the smile fighting to curve her lips. She starts typing. The minutes pass, the rhythm returning. When we exchange the computer, our fingers brush. We hardly have to speak while we write, our words joining in a perfect give-and-take. The whole time, I’m remembering how this is something I can never feel on my own. It’s part of what makes cowriting wondrous. In the years I was apart from Katrina, I’d forgotten the feeling, hadn’t permitted myself to miss it.
Worse, I know I’ll forget it once more when we return to our separate careers, our separate lives.
I watch the pages grow. Not mine, not hers—ours. It’s indescribable, even to me.
Katrina speaks the dialogue she’s writing for Evelyn. “I want you, but this isn’t love.”
I slide my hands over hers to give Michael his reply. I could never mistake one for the other. Not with you.
Michael pulls Evelyn’s lips to his, and for the first time, Katrina and I fumble. “The choreography . . . doesn’t work,” I say, figuring out the problem while I’m speaking. “Michael should stand so he’s on her level.”
Katrina slants me the look she does whenever she has no patience for my objections. “The choreography works fine. It’s sexy.”
“It’s not sexy—” I start to protest.
Katrina stands up. I watch, not understanding, while she moves to the other side of the table so we’re seated opposite each other. Then she climbs up on the bench on her knees, just like Evelyn. “Lean forward, please,” she instructs me.
I do, not daring to think about what’s happening.
Katrina places one hand on the tabletop for support, then leans herself fully over the table. I ignore the flash of nude bra I glimpse under the collar of her shirt. With her free hand, she cups the back of my neck. We’re close now. When her hair falls forward from her shoulder and brushes my face, I’m hit with the scent of her shampoo.
“Sexy, right?” Despite the smolder in her eyes, her voice isn’t inviting. It’s victorious.
The question opens floodgates in me. Feelings scream forth. I’m struggling under the inchoate rush, from the nearly impossible exertion of not saying everything I want to say. Please and why can’t we forget what happened four years ago and finally oh god, there are so much harder things than not writing well.
“Fine,” I say, my voice nearly a whisper. “Yeah, it is.” The table is digging into my chest, which I don’t say. It could not possibly be relevant.
Heart hammering, I suddenly want to forget everything I know about cowriting with her. I want to forget every friendly moment we’ve ever had, to banish every memory—because I know, with fucking certainty, this waits behind every good day with Katrina. This crush of feelings I can’t have. It’s exactly why I wrecked whatever friendship we were building on the way back from the café. Why I should be glad for our one last time. Because I would risk dying of thirst to save myself from drowning.
Her lips twitch. This time, she doesn’t hide her smile. It takes every ounce of strength in me to keep my hands flat on the table in front of me. I can think of too many places they’d rather be.
Like she’s realized she’s still touching my neck, just inches from me, her expression goes bashful. She leans back, swallowing.
I want to grab her hand and pull her to me. Then, I don’t know.
I don’t get the chance. Between us, my phone vibrates on the table, humming loudly on the wood. When I glance down, Jen’s name is illuminated on the screen. Instinctually, my eyes flit up to Katrina’s. She looks desperate for me to pick up. So I do. “Hey, Jen,” I say, sounding the farthest thing from casual. “What’s up?”
“Nathan. Hi. I have an opportunity here,” Jen says. Right to the point. “Is Katrina nearby?”
“Yeah. She’s right here.” I put the phone on speaker.
I feel pulled into the past, like nothing’s changed, like years haven’t gone by. I’m living the replica of every other phone call Katrina and I took just like this one, leaning in with the phone on speaker to hear everything together. Listening to Chris or our publisher while ignoring the uncommon closeness.
“I—” Katrina swallows once more. “I’m here.”
“I discussed this with Chris, who liked the idea. He said I could bring it directly to you. There’s a journalist with the New York Times, Noah Lippman, who reached out to me interested in profiling you both. Your return to cowriting, et cetera, et cetera. He saw the Vanity Fair piece. If we position it right, this profile could announce your new book and promote Refraction. But of course,” she says, “it’s up to you both.”
I look to Katrina, certain I know how she’ll respond.
“Sure,” she replies. Her voice holds nothing except cordiality, like the question is insignificant. Like someone’s offered her sugar in her tea.
Jen is immediately thrilled, rattling off logistics with which I don’t keep up. I’m fixated on Katrina. Sure? To the New York Times profiling us? I don’t understand why she’s suddenly willing to go public with me. It’s possible it’s some vestige of our truce, some part of the façade she insists we’re putting on, but part of me wonders if it’s because things have changed between us.
I mechanically say yes to dates, times, plans, then hang up. When I do, Katrina only excuses herself from the room. She walks out while I watch uselessly.
I feel the distance. For long minutes after she’s gone, I stare at the place where she leaned over the table, the skin on my neck growing hot where her hand was. I remember what I wanted, how she lingered too long, how close I was to reaching out for her. How inescapable the impulse was.
I wrap myself in the only consolation I have. It’s just instinct, the volatile side effect of our proximity. Purely physical, like Michael and Evelyn. It doesn’t have to be more.
29
Nathan
I push myself hard on my nightly run. I want my body exhausted, wrecked, empty of everything except the pain of exertion. When I hit my sheets, I want to collapse into sleep so hard I won’t remember whatever dreams I have about what happened with Katrina. They’ll come, I know, the visions seared into my head of her leaning over the dining table, her body low, her scent intoxicating. It’s one thing dreams have in common with writing—their tendency to betray me to myself.
The echo of my footsteps is the only sound on the dark street. I’ve run for hours. Finally, I let myself stop on our corner, lungs on fire, thighs screaming. I bend over with my hands on my knees and gulp for breath.