Either he doesn’t notice how his response upsets Katrina, or, likelier, he doesn’t care. She faces Harriet, looking frayed. “What was the question?” she forces out.
“The book you’re writing now,” Harriet prompts, uncharacteristically gentle. She knows there’s something unpleasant going on here.
“It’s about divorce,” I cut in. “Katrina and I have respectively had our fair share of romantic ups and downs.” I fire Chris a pointed glance, finding his lips curled in a cold smirk. “We wanted to get personal, delve into some of our experiences in separation and the end of love.”
Katrina lets out a featherweight laugh. “It’s not that negative. It’s a love story.”
“Of course,” I rejoin. “Which is what we’re working on now. Finding the love.” I let my words hang. “In the story,” I add.
Harriet nods, her expression starting to show strain. “And why,” she asks reluctantly, “did you return to writing together?”
I preempt Katrina. “Well, Kat did, because her agent—who happens to be her fiancé—forced her to.”
Katrina’s head whips to me. “Nathan!”
I glare at her. She told me to speak my feelings. Well, here they are. Let’s fucking speak them.
“Okay, that’s enough for me. I’m going to go,” Harriet says, understandably not wanting to witness whatever happens next.
It’s a wise decision. It’s silent while she slips out the front door. “Sorry,” I say. “Although, really, I’m not.” I address Chris. “Maybe you want to comment? You’ll be in the interview, right? Supervising? Why don’t you handle those questions?”
Chris’s smile falters. He stands up. “I think I’ll go up to our bedroom after all. I worry I’m a distraction.”
“Chris, it’s not—” Katrina pleads.
Her fiancé cuts her off. “Don’t worry about it.” He leans down. The unnecessarily long kiss he gives her is, I know, for my benefit. I want to pull my eyes from the cruel display, but I can’t, even while my body revolts. I rue the way my writer’s eye for detail catches every second of Chris’s lips bearing down on Katrina’s, the way his hand holds her face possessively.
Katrina pushes him off her, wiping her mouth. Her gaze is fiery.
I stand, sick. Suddenly, I don’t just hate Chris, I hate myself for what I just provoked him into doing. Furious, and guilty and disgusted, I walk out of the room before Chris can.
41
Katrina
• FOUR YEARS EARLIER •
I’m hyperaware of where my arm presses into Nathan’s. When he shifts on the couch, his legs spread outward, his knee grazing mine. I don’t move away. We’ve sat this way plenty of times, on countless conference calls. It’s purely for convenience. When we sit near each other, we can share the speaker while one of us jots notes on the computer. It’s nothing.
After the beach, it doesn’t feel like nothing. Not to me. I have no idea where Nathan’s head is, no clue what his relaxed posture or his quick smiles mean.
Our agent’s voice over the line cuts my concentration. “My dream team,” Chris says, like he’s calling a football game. “How’s Florida?”
I’m not in the mood for the small talk. I’m impatient. Chris has just heard from our editor, Liz, whom we sent our outline and everything we have of the book to request an extension. We’re close to finishing. We just don’t want to rush the crucial scenes of the ending.
“Inspiring,” Nathan replies, clearly also uninterested in chitchat.
“I’ll say!” Chris enthuses. “Katrina, having a nice time?”
Nathan rolls his eyes. I smile slightly. It’s a joke we share, how often Chris directs personal questions my way. Not that agents and authors can’t have friendships, but Chris never extends the same curiosity to Nathan.
I steer the conversation in the direction I want. “It’s great. We’ve rented the house for a couple more weeks so we can finish the book here.”
“Well, you don’t have to worry about it. Liz approved the extension,” Chris informs us. I feel myself exhale softly. Chris goes on. “Guys, I have to tell you, she loves what you’ve written. Loves it. Like, making it a lead title. The lead title. This book is going to break you out.”
When Nathan looks over, I feel excitement radiating off him. I meet his growing smile with my own. It’s beyond whatever we could have possibly hoped to hear. In a private, enormously satisfying way, it’s not entirely a surprise. We knew what we were writing was special. Nevertheless, hearing it from Liz is validating.
“I really think this is going to be huge for you,” Chris continues. “Life-changing. So just keep doing whatever you’re doing.”
I don’t predict Nathan’s reaction. He pulls his arm from where his skin met mine and wraps me in a sideways hug. My own arm curls over his chest. Success is a wonderful feeling. Sharing that success with your closest friend? There’s nothing like it. My heart fills with happiness for him, for myself, for us, the joys overlapping and compounding one another until I feel weightless.
Neither of us speaks for a second. It occurs to me Chris has no idea what’s happening on our end of the line. It’s a private moment, which makes it sweeter. Finally, it’s Nathan who replies. “We’re thrilled to hear it. We really believe in this story. We put . . . a lot of ourselves into it.” On his final words, his eyes flash to me. I don’t meet them. What does he mean by that?
“Great, well, I’m going to start talking it up to some of my film contacts,” Chris declares, speaking quickly. “The bigger we blow this up, the better.”
Nervous energy I didn’t expect hums in me. “Don’t you want to wait until we . . . finish the book? What if we”—I swallow. I want to say, What if we fuck it up?—“fumble the ending?” I say instead.
Chris laughs loudly. “You won’t,” he promises me. It’s a uniquely unreassuring reassurance. “Only a few contacts, just to start generating some heat. Trust me.” I squirm, feeling pressure I’m not used to. I notice Nathan’s eyes on me. He doesn’t look skeptical or critical, just genuinely confused. “Hey, and as soon as you have ideas for what you want your next book to be, let’s discuss,” he continues.
Next book? We’re not even done with this book. I once went go-karting with my siblings, and I did not enjoy myself—I couldn’t understand how others found the careening fun instead of frightening. It’s how I feel now.