Before I hit send, Katrina puts her hand on my arm.
“I love you,” she says.
“I love you, too,” I reply. I meet her eyes. There’s nothing original in the declaration, nothing perfectly crafted, no elegant metaphors, no profound prose. It’s a sentence every writer has used, one every person has spoken. It’s ordinary, common. And it’s perfect. The sentence captures what I couldn’t in hundreds of my finest pages. I wouldn’t change a word.
I hit send. Katrina leans in, finally closing the fragile gap. She kisses me, a gentle press of lips. I’m washed clean of everything except the sensation. It’s not an answer, just a feeling.
“There,” she says softly. Her eyes shift to the computer. I catch something fleeting cross her expression. Not even I know her well enough to discern what it is. “It’s done. Our contract is complete,” she continues.
I realize we’re thinking the same thing. I’ve often felt with Katrina like I could read the pages of our story, following the plot from outside of myself. Right now is one of those moments. I’m struck by how similar the scene we’re living is to the one we just wrote. This could be where we end, if we want. We could walk away from each other like Evelyn and Michael, closing the cover on these chapters of our lives.
I desperately don’t want it to end here. The idea is a cold spike driven into the center of my heart. It renders me nearly breathless, leaving me grasping hungrily for whatever future will have her in it. This could be the end of everything.
“Fuck that,” I say, inelegant and sure. “I didn’t do this for the contract. I want you.”
I swear I see tears in Katrina’s eyes. She gives me the same half smile she did when I first ran into her six years ago. “Good.” Her voice wavers like her heart is full. “Because I’m not done writing our love story yet.”
When I kiss her, crushing her to me, losing myself in her scent and her skin and wanting every inch of her, it’s with the passion I’ve withheld for weeks—for years. It’s the kind of kiss that closes a book. But this time, it doesn’t.
This time, it’s only the beginning.
Epilogue
Katrina
• THREE MONTHS LATER •
It’s five minutes past when I should have shut my computer. I’m rushing to write down new ideas, hardly hearing the rolling rhythm of my fingers flying over the keys. When we turned in Where We’ll End, I wondered in the dark corners of my mind whether new stories would find me. It’s something I discuss with my therapist, with whom I scheduled those weekly visits. So far, though, they have. I’ve woken up most days with them in my head. Right now, I know if I don’t get my ideas down before I leave, I’ll be distracted in the meeting I’m about to be late for.
Pausing momentarily, I pull up the sleeve of my black turtleneck, which I’ve paired with the long skirt I bought for today’s meeting. It’s the kind of outfit I wouldn’t have worn in Los Angeles, where fall is really just summer dressed in different colors. The kind of outfit I missed when I moved.
I race the clock in the corner of my screen, wanting to capture one more thought. My words come crisp, clear, luminous onto the page. It’s one of those creative moods I know I need to chase when they come. In the midst of my rush, I hear the bedroom door open behind me. Familiar footsteps pad down the hall, toward the office where I’m working.
“I’ll never write again, she once said,” I hear from the doorway.
I face the direction of Nathan’s voice. He’s framed in the entryway, and he looks disarmingly handsome. He’s shaved for the meeting, something he doesn’t often do because he thinks his usual stubble looks writerly. His tan from Florida has faded. He doesn’t look worse for it. In fact, they could put him in catalogues for the gray cowl-neck sweater he’s wearing.
I meet his gaze. “If I gave it up for real, would you still love me?”
He crosses the room, giving me my answer in a long kiss. “You already did for four years, and I didn’t stop loving you.”
“You did not love me those four years.” I laugh, leaning into him while he moves lower to kiss my neck.
“I did,” he insists. “Come on, Kat, would I make this up? It’s terribly cliché. Carrying a torch while I pretended I was over you? If I were rewriting the story of our romance, I’d be more original.”
I grin, giving into his doting logic. Whether it’s true isn’t important. It’s a good story, and one we’ve both chosen. Fiction doesn’t only come from life. Sometimes, it’s the other way around.
It’s been three months since we left Florida, since I packed up my life in Los Angeles and Nathan his in Chicago. We live in Brooklyn, where we should have been together from the start. Sharing a career and a life isn’t easy. We fight, we let creative differences spill into hurt feelings, we work hard to repair what we mess up. It’s no fairy tale, no succinct happily-ever-after. But it’s worth it.
Nathan checks his phone. “Shit,” he says, straightening up. “We should’ve left by now.”
Closing my computer, I sigh, guilty. We’re headed to lunch with our publisher and Jen, who now represents us both. Officially, we’re celebrating. The New York Times profile came out this week, announcing Where We’ll End and featuring our interview. Neither Nathan nor I have read it. The email sits unopened in my inbox. We don’t need to read whatever rumors Noah Lippman has decided to stoke or dispel. We know the truth now, the one that’s only for us.
I slide on my boots, then follow Nathan to the door. He stops to pet James Joyce, who’s presently nuzzling Nathan’s shin. I swear, the only one more infatuated with this man than me is my cat.
On the sidewalk, I breathe in deeply, enjoying the New York fall rushing into my lungs. I missed this, like so much of my life. We’ll return to Florida soon, though, to write the proposal for the next book we hope to sell. We’ll stay in the house—once our prison, now our refuge, memories living in layers within the walls. We’ll see Harriet. I can’t wait.
While the wind shakes the red trees outside our place, Nathan puts his arm around me. He pulls me close. “Should we get a cab?”
“Can we walk by the bookstore first?” I ask. We picked this apartment because it’s a two-minute walk from one of our favorite independent bookstores.
Nevertheless, Nathan looks incredulous. “Katrina! We’re going to be so late.”
“On the way back, then,” I concede.
Nathan eyes me, saying nothing. I don’t pout, though I’d really hoped we could slip into the store. Even so, I know Nathan senses my disappointment. Of course he does. He stares into people’s souls for a living. “In and out,” he says, relenting. “As fast as possible.”