The Roughest Draft(5)

“You’re not finished,” Jen says. “I have a plan.”

“Fine. I’ll do it. What’s your plan?”

“You’re not going to like it,” she warns.

“I can handle whatever—”

I cut myself off, realizing what she has in mind with the penetrating clarity people probably have right before they’re hit by an oncoming car.

“No.” I drop the word onto the table between us.

“Hear me out.” For once, Jen sounds gentle, persuasive. “You still have a contract for one more book with her.”

Her. Jen’s probably wise not to use her name. The visceral reaction I’d have would not help her case. “I’m not the one holding things up,” I say. “If Parthenon wants Katrina, then they need to call Katrina.”

“Parthenon’s passed on your book because they’re trying to force you to fulfill your contract with her.” In my silence, Jen continues. “If we can deliver something to them, I’ll have the leverage to sell more of your solo titles.”

“Fine.” I falter on the syllable. “Like I said, I’m perfectly able to deliver another Freeling–Van Huysen book. It’s Kat who will never agree.” I wince, hearing myself use her shortened name. I shouldn’t have said Kat. We’re not friends. I don’t need to have spoken to her in the past four years to know she won’t do it. She made it painfully clear on the night we finished Only Once. Finished everything, really.

“I’ve already discussed it with her agent. He thinks he can get her on board.”

Discussed it with her agent? I’m irritated Jen’s gone behind my back, opening this conversation with who knows who. She might’ve even gone to Parthenon. This ends here. “Bullshit,” I say.

“Are you calling me a liar?” Jen isn’t offended. She raises her eyebrows dryly.

“No,” I reply. “It’s Chris you shouldn’t believe.” I know Katrina’s agent. He used to be our agent. Chris Calloway would promise whatever to whomever if it would put him ahead.

“He is her fiancé,” Jen reminds me. “Presumably, he has some insight into what she will and won’t do.”

I crack a couple knuckles under the table. Why Katrina got together with Chris is outside my comprehension. “She’s retired,” I say firmly. Katrina Freeling is retired. If the man she’s marrying hasn’t gotten the memo, I guess she’ll need to write it in words with fewer syllables next time.

Jen watches me. “Respectfully, you haven’t spoken to her in years,” she says. “How would you know?” The ice in my drink shifts suddenly, tumbling down like it’s punctuating her point.

“I know her.” I hate how well I know her. It’s not the fundamental things I wish I could unlearn—her resoluteness, her intelligence. They’re the things everyone knows. I wish I didn’t know she’s restless on planes, even a little fearful. I wish I didn’t know she hates the word always. I wish I didn’t know what time she showers, what she wears to bed.

Jen’s inquisitiveness turns delicate. “I don’t want to invade your privacy,” she starts. “You know I don’t give a shit about the gossip. But this is a good move for your career. I need to know if there’s a reason I shouldn’t pursue it.” I open my mouth. “Not this retirement nonsense. A real reason,” she preempts me.

She’s not asking whether Katrina’s hard to work with, whether our styles no longer mesh, whether we just don’t like each other. I know what she’s asking.

I finish my drink, the memories of our final night writing Only Once rolling over me, smothering like the Florida heat outside the house where we wrote the manuscript. Pages with her handwriting and mine scrawled on top of each other, the strokes and curves of the letters crossing like in a dance. Waiting in front of her door. A fire dying in the fireplace, the ashes of charred paper in the air. Returning to writing with Katrina would be a nightmare.

No. Not writing is the nightmare. What’s left of my career if I refuse? I’m only thirty-one years old. I’ve been writing since I was seventeen. It’s the only thing I’ve ever wanted to do. The only thing I can do.

“Is there really no other choice?” I ask, my voice low. Jen shakes her head. I stand, placing cash on the table. Is there a reason I can’t work with Katrina? I have reason enough to fill books I’ll never write. “If Chris can convince her—and that’s a big fucking if—then I don’t have a problem with it.”

Jen hefts her purse onto her shoulder, standing up. “Great. We’ll make it happen. Start developing ideas. This’ll be huge.”

“It’ll be something.” I head for the front of the bar, not waiting for Jen’s reply. Pushing open the burnished gold handle on the black door, I walk out, terrified by and taking comfort in what I know fundamentally to be true. Kat—Katrina—will never want to work with me.





3





Katrina


When I walk in my front door, I stop in surprise, smelling coffee. In the kitchen, I hear the Nespresso machine spitting out cappuccino, and I have the mental image of some under-caffeinated burglar who’s stolen into our place and decided to whip up some joe while going to work on our valuables. Then I—the place’s well-meaning and coffee-hating co-occupant—would surprise him. It would be the perfect inciting incident.