He drops my hand. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he demands.
His demeanor says he knows.
“It means you hide in your writing. You told me you loved me in fucking fiction, Nathan. While you were married.”
There it is. The first invocation of the shadow that has covered our relationship—or lack thereof—for years. I thought I would regret this moment, thought I dreaded the shadow rearing into reality. I don’t. Despite how destabilized, how profoundly shaken, I feel, I’m glad I’m crossing into these waters.
“I didn’t hide,” he replies. “I knew you would understand, and you did. I bared everything in what I wrote. And you burned it, because it terrified you. You can’t turn this back on me. You’re the one who panicked because you wanted what I was offering you. If you lost it, it would hurt. So you chose to destroy it and pretend it didn’t exist.”
“I had to!” I nearly shout. I don’t care if my voice carries past the porch, don’t care if our neighbors hear the culmination of Nathan’s and my half-decade-long drama. Like someone’s ripped the door to my heart off its hinges, I want everything out in the open. Spoken, not written. “Your letter was . . . beautiful. Perfectly crafted. The best writing you’d ever done.”
He huffs a bitter laugh. “I didn’t realize that was a crime.”
My breath wavers. He really doesn’t get it, not even now. “I don’t want some perfectly crafted love story. I can’t live up to it! There’s no final page in life, no point where we kiss and everything is happily-ever-after. We can’t be contained in neat phrases or nicely designed covers. We’re not characters. We’re people. I couldn’t be with someone who only wanted the story version. I wanted—I want—something real, and I’m not convinced you can handle real.”
Rage flickers in Nathan’s eyes. It’s been some time since I’ve seen him look this way. He’s noticed the subtle shift in the conversation. We’re no longer only in the past. We’ve dipped our toes into the present, into the problems I know will follow us wherever we go from here.
“I did give you something real,” he returns. “I loved you. I still fucking love you. How can you tell me what I can’t handle? I know better than anyone that love is flawed. That it can break.”
I step farther from him, crossing my arms over my chest. He doesn’t move, feet planted on the house’s doormat.
“Here’s what you really don’t want to hear,” he goes on. “What we have is a fairy tale. It is a dream come true. And it’s imperfect. I wish you could understand it can be both. Fiction is fiction and it’s real. They’re not opposites. They live within each other.” His voice is raw, his expression naked. While anger is the fire in him, I recognize pain is the kindling. “The worst part is, I think you love me, too. I think you know we’re soul mates. But we’ll never be together as long as you’re afraid of your own happiness.”
The roaring in my ears overwhelms me. I was wrong when I imagined Nathan’s anger was a fire. It was a knife, one he’s stuck into the smallest, quietest part of my heart. He’s opened up the center of me, where I hide sad secrets even from myself. It hurts deeply, enough I can’t possibly keep up the conversation.
So I don’t. I turn around and walk right off the porch, into the evening.
57
Katrina
• FOUR YEARS EARLIER •
I’m waiting for my date in one of the most obviously, intentionally hip restaurants I’ve ever been to in Brooklyn. The place has nothing on the walls, midcentury-modern furnishings in whites, grays, and light woods, moody electronic R&B pumping from speakers into the close-quarters dining room.
I focus on the details, hoping they’ll distract me. I should have canceled. My stomach is in knots, my head chaotic. I know I won’t enjoy myself—not when I’ll be spending every minute trying to vanquish the thought of Nathan’s New Yorker interview, which published earlier today. When it hit the internet, I told myself not to read it. Every minute since has been a test of strength, and I feel myself weakening.
I check my phone. He’s late.
Frustrated, I shove it back into my bag. They haven’t brought menus yet, which is unfortunate. I could have read the prices of every esoteric option before inevitably deciding on the one least likely to further upset my stomach. Instead, I dutifully refocus on the décor, my eyes jumping restlessly from corner to corner. I won’t have to wait long, I reason. It’ll be fine. What’s five, or ten, or even fifteen more minutes when I’ve spent the entire day resisting?
But letting my guard down was the wrong move.
Before I know what I’m doing, my hands fumble for my phone again. I click through to the interview.
I devour every word, reading the New Yorker’s gaudily old-school font like it’s my death sentence. Nathan could have written this himself, I observe ruefully—the eloquent literacy with which the story sets up its premise, the former cowriter now striking out on his own. They’ve even got one of the New Yorker’s trademark caricatured renderings of their subjects. I wish I could say it looks ridiculous, but it only looks like him. His spry swoop of hair, his sharp chin, some crackle in his eyes even the casual drawing couldn’t help capturing.
Minutes pass. I keep reading.
The restaurant disappears while I immerse myself in the interview, hearing Nathan’s voice through the screen. When I reach the end, I robotically close the tab and shut off my screen. I return my phone to my purse, feeling cold in my fingertips. I don’t reread the story.
Writing Only Once was one of the worst times in my life. Katrina Freeling is a genius, but I’m not sure the genius is worth the torture of working with her.
The words should hurt. I know it’s what he meant—to hurt me. Yet when I wait for the pain, it doesn’t come. Maybe it’s because I know I deserve what he said. Maybe the worst wounds don’t hurt until the shock wears off. Maybe I’m just numb.
“Sorry I’m late.”
I look up. Chris stands over me, one hand on the back of my chair, smiling. I force my expression into pleasantness and tilt up my head when he leans down to kiss my cheek. In the moments while he sits down opposite me, I work up a smile of my own. “It’s no problem,” I say.
“How are you? You look beautiful.” He studies me with intent eyes. Chris likes me, some voice in my head says with surprised clarity. Nathan had been right. I push the memory away, irritated to have thought of Nathan.
“I’m great,” I lie. “I’d say you clean up well yourself, except you always look sharp.” This part is not a lie. Chris does look good. He’s a man of broad shoulders and clean lines, which tonight fit perfectly into his obviously tailored gray blazer and white dress shirt. It’s a simple look, and it succeeds in its understatement.