Except now, I’m remembering how often Chris’s flirtations happened in the presence of Nathan. Worse, I remember the undeniable results. How wonderfully Nathan would articulate jealousy and longing and impossible, unnameable emotions.
I hear my voice come out hollow, choked. “Is that why you flirted with me before we were together? Only to goad Nathan’s writing?”
Chris straightens. Smiling lazily, he stands and walks up to me. “Obviously, I was attracted to you.” He places a hand on my hip.
I step past him, wanting his hands nowhere near me. It’s morbidly funny how much I’ve wanted to see Chris, yet within fifteen minutes of him getting here, I can’t stand to be in the same room with him, or the confident quirk in his lips, or the manufactured masculine scent of his shower products, or the rumbling murmur of his voice.
He faces me, frowning. “You’d be wise to be aware of Nathan’s feelings for you,” he says.
I search for jealousy or calculation in his eyes and find none. I can’t help the sick shiver of pleasure I feel at Chris’s warning—at what it implies. But the feeling is lost beneath disgust with Chris. With how he manipulated Nathan, how he used me to do it. Worse, how he’s discussing another man’s feelings for his fiancée like it’s casual conversation or commonplace advice, like Don’t forget to lock the door or Remember to get detergent. I don’t even know exactly what he’s advising, and the possibilities feel like gut punches. Should I use Nathan’s feelings the way Chris did? Should I torture us both in order to write a better book?
I don’t want to know. I don’t want to finish this conversation. I don’t want to confront how everything with Chris is falling dominoes of I don’t want.
I head for the door. With my hand on the handle, I turn back. “You should’ve come to Florida because I asked you to,” I say, each word boiling. “Not because of this interview.” Before he can reply, I leave the room, slamming the door behind me.
43
Nathan
The next day, the day of the interview, I stand stiffly with Katrina on the porch. We haven’t spoken since yesterday.
It’s not her I’m avoiding. It’s Chris. I’ve diligently kept myself out of the same room with my former agent, opting instead to spend the rest of the day writing in one of the other cafés in the neighborhood. Not the one where I went with Katrina. When the place closed for the night, I begged Harriet to let me come over. It was nearly midnight when I returned to the house, where I noticed Chris and Katrina’s bedroom door closed, the lights off.
Now, we’re shading our eyes in the morning sunlight, exchanging polite smiles with the reporter who’s come to pry into every corner of our personal and professional lives. While Chris greets him and the photographer, I study our profiler. Noah Lippman is short, slight, collegiate-looking. He doesn’t hide his baldness, and he’s paired thin brown glasses with a well-chosen striped button-down. He reminds me of New York.
Chris invites them inside, where Katrina gives them a quick tour of the house while the photographer snaps photos. I stand in the living room, hands in my pockets. I’m familiar enough with press coverage from the Only Once promotional circuit. The plan for the day is straightforward—Noah will observe Katrina and me working together, capture some of our process, then move on to the interview. Chris will . . . I don’t know, hover.
When we return to the living room, where Katrina and I will revise each other’s scenes, she and I settle into the opposing armchairs.
The photographer speaks up instantly. “Sorry. Can you sit together? On the couch, maybe?” Chris, leaning on the doorframe, nods like we needed his permission.
Wordlessly, Katrina and I simultaneously stand. We move to the couch, where we resume reading, or pretending to read. My eyes skip uselessly over the words, the clicking of the camera shutter interrupting my thoughts. I notice Katrina’s hands have started to sweat. She keeps pressing them to her skirt.
“How long of a piece are you planning?” Chris asks Noah loudly. “And you said it would be the front page of Arts and Culture, right?”
I roll my neck instead of rolling my eyes the way I want to. They can’t possibly expect us to work like this. While Noah patiently confirms the details with Chris, I lean closer to Katrina. Like mine, her pen remains fixed in the same spot on her page.
Reaching over, I scribble a quick smiley face on her page.
She laughs a little, breathing out softly. The corners of her lips curl. She’s unfairly cute, I catch myself thinking. The camera snaps four times in quick succession.
Katrina pauses, then she writes something in the corner of her page. Figuring she’s editing, I try to return to reading until I feel her elbow nudge lightly into mine.
I glance over to read what she’s written. Where were you yesterday?
I reach into her lap, putting my pen to her paper. Hiding at Harriet’s. Have a good night? I write.
The light flees from her expression. I feel guilty I asked, although I suspect the real fault isn’t mine. The dynamic between her and Chris today has been . . . off. Confirming my suspicions, she holds her pen over my pages, then circles the word interminable.
To our observers, it probably looks like we’re engaged in intricate literary craftsmanship. Instead, for the rest of the hour, we pass notes like kids in class. It’s not about anything, just entertaining each other. Saying without saying, I’m here. I’m with you.
It’s the most we’ve talked since we returned from the club. I could point out how we’re communicating in our writing again, the way she thought wasn’t worth anything. But I don’t. I just let this happen.
Finally, the photographer packs up his gear and goes to get coffee. Noah sits down across from us and places his recorder on the coffee table. The slim device is silver plastic, only the size of a pack of gum, yet strangely imposing. I feel Katrina stiffen next to me. Worrying the corner of her shirt, she darts looks in Chris’s direction. He’s moved out of sight in the kitchen, undoubtedly still able to overhear every word.
I don’t know what happened with him and Katrina last night. Now certainly isn’t the moment to ask, though. All I can do is fight to forget he’s nearby.
Noah starts in with the softball questions—how we met, what our new book is about. Katrina and I play our roles perfectly, putting on the same friendliness we practiced on each other in our early days here. It’s small comfort to know we’re now united in performing for someone else. Thirty minutes into the conversation, our responses continue to come easily, in contrast to yesterday’s practice run.
“How is working together again after four years apart?” Noah asks. I have to give the guy credit—he has a calm, patient way of deepening his questions. It’s not hard to understand why he’s the journalist writing features like this one. He adjusts his glasses and goes on genially. “Has anything changed?”