A small laugh escapes me. “I’m not sure.” The coming weeks stretch before me in my head. I foresee eight-hour writing sessions, working breakfasts, bleary-eyed evening edits. If I thought I worked compulsively before, it’ll be nothing compared to what’s to come.
If I thought I was grateful for my partner before, it will be nothing compared to what’s to come.
“I’m glad there’s two of us, though,” I say.
Katrina meets my eyes. “Me, too.”
61
Katrina
We devote ourselves with newfound vigor to finishing the book. Weeks go by. We write by day, edit by night, punctuating our routine with dinners with Harriet and walks to get much-needed caffeine.
We don’t kiss. We don’t even touch. It’s hard sometimes—when I stand in Nathan’s doorway to trade pages, my memory will return to his bed, or when his shirt rides up while he’s stretching, I have to sit on my hands. I’m not ungrateful for the clarity of purpose it’s given our work, though. We write for ourselves, not for each other. Of course, there’s no keeping your soul out of your prose entirely. Nor would I want to read writing with no personal imperative. But there’s a difference between letting your feelings and realizations inform your words and writing the secret messages of your heart with one reader in mind.
It’s healthier. For the first time in years, it lets me feel in control. It lets me love what I’m doing. I sprint through ideas, enjoying every weary night and inspired morning. I’m not afraid of this book going out into the world, either. I’m excited.
I keep waiting for this persistent joy to end. It never does. Finally, after weeks of invigorating and exhausting work, we reach the closing scenes. We’re working in the dining room, me and Nathan and Harriet, our collection of portable fans fending off the late-night heat. I’m my usual combination of physically spent and emotionally charged, my wrists hurting, eyes bleary, my computer keys filthy. I’m laughing with Harriet while we implore Nathan not to use the phrase existential prophylactic in our book.
It’s not going well. Nathan’s digging his heels in.
“Seriously, Nate,” Harriet says, not sounding serious. “Be better than ‘existential prophylactic.’ ”
Nathan cringes. “Nate? I haven’t been called Nate since summer camp before sixth grade.”
Harriet wags a finger at him. “You’ll be Nate to me for the rest of my life if you stand by this choice.”
Looking pained, Nathan pauses lengthily before holding up his hands. “Fine. I surrender.”
“Wow,” I say, laughing. “I never thought of threatening to call him Nate. You’re a genius,” I tell her.
Harriet stands, collecting our empty wineglasses and walking them to the sink. “I know,” she says over her shoulder.
“Don’t get any ideas.” Nathan’s looking at me now, and something passes in the warm air separating us. It’s playful, friendly, and more. Intimate, even. I wink, enjoying the easy familiarity.
Harriet returns, grabbing her computer and her three overfull notebooks, which she shoves unceremoniously into her bag. “I’m off,” she says. “Hey, have you decided what you’re writing next?” She asks the question casually despite the layers of uncertainty surrounding the subject.
I’m proud of how I don’t instantly clam up or nervously spiral. When I glance at Nathan, he’s watching me patiently, without pressure. From the compulsively productive Nathan, I recognize his patience for the gesture it is. “Not sure yet,” I say honestly. I walk Harriet to the door, pausing in the entryway out of Nathan’s view. “I want to write something, though,” I go on, softer, in the incomplete privacy of the hallway.
Not reaching for the door, Harriet studies me. “I’m proud of you,” she says. “I’m proud of both of you. You’re so . . . Well, it’s like you’re actually friends again. I have to ask”—she eyes me seriously—“was the sex horrible? It’s the only explanation.”
I purse my lips to hide my grin. Conscious of Nathan in the dining room, I reply quietly, “It was very not horrible. Kind of life-changing, if I’m honest.”
Harriet’s eyebrows rise. “Care to elaborate?”
I hear Nathan’s chair scrape on the floor in the dining room. “Later,” I promise her, unable to stop the fizzy warmth the memory of the two of us gives me. “Let’s get a drink, and I’ll tell you everything. I’m . . . I’m not leaving Florida anytime soon,” I say.
Harriet’s expression softens. I’m touched by how genuinely glad she looks. “Deal. A drink, just us,” she says, then her eyes go familiarly wry. “I can tell I’m going to need to get drunk to hear these details.” She swings the door open and walks into the night, waving over her shoulder.
I return to the kitchen, grateful I’ve repaired more than one friendship over the past months. When I reach the counter, I find Nathan’s printed something for me. He’s quietly loading the dishwasher with his back to me. I pick up the pages. Above the first chapter header he’s written, WHERE WE’LL END? The paper printer-hot in my hands, I read the words over a couple of times, thinking, then look up.
“Is this a question?” I ask him.
He drops the final pieces of silverware into the dishwasher. “It’s a title,” he says while he closes the door. Facing me, he looks like he’s working hard to keep his expression light. “Though I suppose when we finish, we’ll need to figure out our own answer to the question.”
He’s right. But for now, we’re not finished. For tonight, I decide I’m focusing on the pages in front of me instead of the questions a little further ahead. “It’s perfect. Night, Nate,” I say teasingly, waiting for my reward, which comes when his cheeks redden. He rebounds quickly, pointing one lazy finger in my direction.
“ ‘Very not horrible,’ was it?” He repeats what I told Harriet with unhidden pride. “ ‘Life-changing,’ even? Please, support that statement. Details, figures, comparisons are all welcome.”
I roll my eyes, but I’m laughing. Nathan grins, not pressing the point.
I leave him in the kitchen and head up the stairs. Entering my bedroom, I feel light and eager in familiar and unfamiliar ways. The title stares up from the chapter in my hands, and I realize—it’s a question I already know the answer to.
62
Nathan
• SIX YEARS EARLIER •
I hate reading my work aloud. Wedged between perfect strangers on the lumpy sofa in the house where we’re staying, the smell of damp wood pervading the chill in the room, I’m dreading the next hour. It’s the first day of the New York Resident Writers’ Program, and I’m miserable.