With four minutes until the call, I’m fighting familiar battles within myself. Waiting on one of the barstools in the kitchen, I thumb my phone mindlessly. I don’t want to look at the dial-in number or the list of discussion points Liz’s assistant sent over.
Noticing my discomfort, Nathan ducks his eyes, looking for mine. He’s been the one unexpected reassurance of the day. We’d gone to bed on uncertain terms on the heels of my feeble apology and his taunting response. But something’s gotten him out of bed in brighter spirits today. I don’t dare imagine it’s forgiveness—he’s probably just hungry to publicize our new book—but whatever it is, it’s welcome.
He’s leaning on the edge of the counter perpendicular to me. When he speaks, there’s empathy I hardly recognize in his voice. “We don’t have to do this, you know. The call, the profile, any of it.”
He means the book, too. I don’t know how I know he does. I ball my hand in my lap. “I want to.” However uncomfortable the publicity process makes me, everything happening now will keep happening. I need to face reality.
Nathan’s gaze remains on me. I know he wants to ask why, when I’m obviously forcing myself. Instead, he only types in the conference call number. We wait, saying nothing, until the line beeps. “Katrina and Nathan here,” he says, placing the phone on the counter.
“Wonderful!” I wince at the enthusiasm in Liz’s voice. “How are you two? How’s Florida?”
I remember our last conference call—the one where I refused to speak to Nathan. I couldn’t. Everything was moving fast. I felt captive, Chris watching me while I faced the open line into Nathan’s world. Like a hostage negotiator responsible for the release of a career I didn’t know if I wanted. Now, here Nathan is, leaning on the kitchen counter next to me. There’s a part of me wrestling with how this image makes no sense, and another part noticing he hasn’t shaved today and dark circles hang under his eyes.
Eyes, I realize, that are focused on me. He wants me to respond. “It’s good,” I say. “We’re . . .” I hold Nathan’s gaze. “Making a lot of progress.”
“Love to hear it. Well, we’re very excited about using this profile to announce you’ve reunited for another book. Of course”—Liz doesn’t pause, for which I give her credit—“because of how the press has speculated about your partnership in the past, we’ve discussed in-house how best to present you.”
I press my palms to my shorts, the motion involuntary. It’s washing over me just how often Nathan and I will have to perform, for each other, for everyone else, forever. We’ll have to fend off the questions of how our partnership was severed, and how we reunited, forever.
The wild thought enters my head to just . . . be honest. I chase it off instantly. It would be impossible. Honest with Nathan is too huge a concept to comprehend.
Jen cuts in. “This reporter is going to be looking for a story.” Her voice is delicate, if casually so. “He’s definitely going to pry into your split and the rumors around it.”
I have to give Nathan credit for how quickly and calmly he responds. “Topics we’ve navigated in public plenty of times,” he points out.
“Yes, but now you’re together, and, well . . .”
Liz finishes the sentence. “Frankly, none of us has any idea what that looks like.”
Nathan flashes me a smile like we’re in on some secret joke. While I haven’t quite caught the punch line yet, I notice how the circles under his eyes seem to lighten. Once more, gratitude fills me for this inexplicably giving Nathan. “Now I understand,” he says playfully, leaning closer to the phone. “You’re calling to make sure we don’t scream at each other in front of the reporter.”
I watch him, halfway to impressed. His elbows resting on the counter, the posture pulling up the sleeves of his white Bob Dylan T-shirt, he looks comfortable. Hints of the warmth I felt when he climbed onto the chair in the café flicker in me now. I’d honestly forgotten in the past four years how good he was with people.
The line is silent. No one knows if Nathan’s joking. Finally, it’s Jen who’s brave enough to reply. “Kind of, yeah,” she says. “We want your book to be the story, not you.”
“Although . . .” Liz chimes in, with singsong stretching of the word. “A little peek into your relationship has always sold books.”
I understand what she’s saying. She’s not wrong, either. Signs of tension between Nathan and me would fuel the fire of our notoriety. People would line up for the book, reading for the answer to whether we love each other or hate each other. I don’t blame them. If I thought it would help me find out, I’d scour the pages myself.
The next voice who speaks is one I don’t recognize. Someone from publicity? I ignore the unpleasant reminder of the lengthy call sheet. “It’s about hinting just enough to create mystery. The history of you two is so storied. We don’t want to waste it.”
The explanation is like a lecture, enough that I’m interrupted in my nervousness to roll my eyes.
Chris jumps in, which is when I realize I haven’t heard his voice in days. “Of course. We want whatever will sell copies.” He pauses. “Right, Katrina?”
I’ve noticed how Chris never uses “Kat” on work calls. I’m “Katrina.” Generously, I respect the professional veneer he’s trying to maintain, but I’ve never understood it. It’s not like everybody doesn’t know he’s engaged to his bestselling client.
“Yeah. Right,” I say, not convinced. Would I do whatever will sell copies?
“I’m flying out for the interview,” Chris says offhandedly.
I whip to stare into the phone screen, like he’s in there somewhere, shaking me in person with this sudden revelation. “What?”
Nathan immediately tenses.
“I don’t want you to have to deal with logistics,” Chris says calmly. “I’ll handle it, and I’ll be there if . . . anything comes up.”
When my surprise wears off, the hurt seeps in, like my heart’s stumbled and skinned its knees. I can’t enjoy whatever eagerness I might’ve felt to see my fiancé. The fact is, when I begged him to come to Florida, he wouldn’t. Now, feeling the slightest hint of professional obligation, he decides in one day to fly out.
Because it’s Katrina he’s coming for. Not Kat.
The line is silent. Nathan obviously won’t say anything, waiting instead for me to respond. Despite how I’m feeling, I know this call with our whole team, with Nathan, isn’t the place to delve into romantic disappointment.
“Is that it, everyone?” It’s the best I can do.