If Katrina does feel the way I do . . .
The idea is unfathomable.
If Katrina does share my feelings, I’ll make sure nothing happens between us until the final divorce papers are signed. Nothing, never. It’s the one thing I can do for Melissa. I won’t cheat on her.
Standing, I walk into the water. I can’t confess my feelings to Katrina just yet. The enormity of them is just . . . too much. Feeling them, recognizing them in their own right, is like staring into the sun. Uncomfortable, even unmanageable. I need some sort of remove to keep them from wrecking me.
I’ve lived a lifetime of finding that remove in fiction. Putting these emotions onto the page is how I’ll keep them from overwhelming me.
Besides, while I’m still married, the only way I can process these feelings is by writing them. I can put them into my craft, and Katrina will understand. She knows what I’m saying in every way I say it.
The water washes up, bathing my feet in the cold of complete clarity. It shocks my system, the night narrowing down to what I need to do next.
I lift my head, finally feeling as serene as the ocean. Facing the sand, I walk up the beach. I’ll return to the house, to my room, to my desk, where I’ll pour my heart out, naked and vulnerable. The book is finished, but my most important work is not yet over.
I’m not done writing for the night.
49
Nathan
• PRESENT DAY •
I leave the house early the next morning, my sleep-fogged thoughts full of the New York Times interview, Chris’s departure, my evening with Katrina. There’s no way I’m hazarding crossing paths with her now-ex-fiancé, who’s returning to talk things through with her today.
If I dwell on what their conversation might contain—on whether a night’s sleep has changed Katrina’s feelings, or whether the full arsenal of Chris’s fraternity-president charms will weaken her resolve—I’ll go wild.
Only the memory of her lips hot on mine steadies me. Or perhaps steadies is the wrong word. It was my happiest of dreams come to life. The kiss felt unreal and impossibly real, past whatever I could have conceived. The unbelievable softness of her lips, from which I’d heard laughter and phenomenal genius, now welcoming mine, letting me drink in her breath and the scent of her. The smooth skin of her cheeks. The way she moved, hesitant yet sure.
Now instead of imagining those details, I’m imagining losing them. I’m scared, and I hate it.
I flee from the feelings, driving with my convertible’s top down into the neighborhood, which, remarkably, doesn’t seem to know I kissed my best friend last night. Bicycles pass me on the other side of the street, their bells ringing. Seagulls cry. Music plays behind screen doors. The palm trees sway with what looks like relaxation. I fixate on the sights and sounds, and on Katrina’s hand in my hair last night, until I reach where I’m going. I park the car and spring out of my seat.
When Harriet opens her front door, she sees me, and immediately, she smiles.
“You fucking did it, didn’t you?” she says, sounding smug.
Without waiting for my reply, she nudges open the screen. I follow her inside. “What do you mean?”
“You’re, like, glowing.” Harriet pulls a disgusted expression.
“No, I’m not,” I scoff. I don’t feel like I’m glowing. I feel like I’m incandescent, exploding with light.
Harriet is unmoved. “Don’t bullshit me, Van Huysen. Did you two bang or not?”
I would laugh if I weren’t entirely wrapped up in myself. Instead, I only feel my eyebrows rise. I dodge her gaze, walking farther into her entryway, where I inspect the vase on the table with interest. “We didn’t—bang,” I say. “We just . . .”
“Oh god,” she moans. “You kissed. Somehow that’s worse.”
“How is it worse?” I ask, straightening up from the vase.
She gives me a flat look. “I can just imagine how romantic it was.” She shudders. “It was probably tender and shit. You probably made a weird amount of eye contact. I’m guessing you haven’t stopped thinking about it since.”
I say nothing. I follow her into the kitchen, where I find champagne and a flute sitting on the counter. Smothering a smile, I face her. “Isn’t champagne a little much for the occasion?”
Even for Harriet, the eye roll she executes is grand. “The champagne isn’t because you kissed Katrina, asshole. It’s because I sold a book.” With sudden stiffness, she threads her hair over her ear. “Just got the news.”
I’m stunned silent for a second. In the pause, she reaches for another flute and pours champagne for both of us. “I—” I falter, finally composing myself. “Congratulations, Harriet. That’s fantastic.”
She raises her glass in a quick cheers gesture, then sips. “Yeah, I’m pretty stoked, honestly.”
“Why didn’t you say you were writing something new?” The question surfaces from me once I’ve checked over my memories of every recent conversation with Harriet. We’ve talked about her teaching, her previous book . . . Nothing new. Before Only Once and everything, I remember how feverishly intense she would look when she was laboring on some new idea. They consumed her so much we couldn’t help but discuss plot points, world details, or character choices whenever we would get together. The past few weeks have been the opposite.
She only shrugs in response to my question. “I wasn’t sure how real our friendship was.”
I open my mouth then close it.
There was nothing incriminating in Harriet’s reply, nor is there in her expression. She waits calmly for my response. It’s the nice counterpart to her cutting frankness and wit—she doesn’t hide grudges or deal in ominous insinuations.
I set my glass down, feeling shitty for not knowing she’d been writing, shitty for giving her reason to not tell me, shitty for not even understanding that I had. “I’m . . . sorry, Harriet,” I say, meaning it. I’ve relied on her one-sidedly—I mean, I’m standing in her kitchen uninvited because I drove over on instinct when I needed distraction. “It’s my fault. Sincerely.”
Narrowing, her gaze returns to me. “What’s going on here?” She purses her lips, sipping once more from her glass. “We don’t actually talk about our problems.”
She’s right. Now is different. “It’s something I’m trying out,” I say honestly.
She regards me, something surgical in her inquisitiveness, like she’s peeling past my words to find their heart. “This is related to Katrina somehow,” she says. Before I can reply, she waves her hand, flippant again. “On second thought, I don’t want to know.”