The Roughest Draft(8)

“Fine,” I say, feeling less generous now. “Let’s pay back the advance.”

“Why won’t you just consider it?” Chris is using his phone voice, velvety and persuasive. He never uses it with me.

“Because I don’t want to.”

“What about me?” He’s no longer nonchalant. His eyes are hard and defensive. “I’m your fiancé. Do my feelings mean nothing?” Hearing raised voices, James Joyce, who was curled up on the foot of the couch, races from the room.

“Your feelings? On my writing career?” I fire back.

“We could use the money,” Chris says.

I laugh. He flew me to Paris in January for my twenty-eighth birthday. We’re having this fight in our wide-lawn house in Hancock Park with Chris’s Tesla out front. I didn’t grow up with money, and having it was never particularly important to me. It is, however, a side effect of having your work printed in thirty-five languages.

Chris looks uncomfortable, for once. “I’m not joking,” he says. “I made some investments assuming you’d get over this writer’s block.”

This is news to me. In the years since we moved in together, we’ve discussed our finances. We even share a financial planner. We have not combined my earnings with his, which means he could not have lost my money—so when he says we need the money, he means he needs the money. His confession is enough to bring me back toward the couch.

“Chris . . .” I say, knowing neither of us will enjoy what’s coming. “If you need, I could . . . write you a check.”

“Jesus, Katrina,” he snaps, right on cue. “I’m not a fucking charity case. I’m a literary agent who just needs to sell a book.”

“And that’s my problem?” While I’m concerned exactly what investments he’s made, right now, I’m pissed he’s putting the blame on what he’s calling my writer’s block.

“We’re getting married,” he replies. On the twelfth of never, I want to say. He continues. “It’s both our problem.”

I don’t bother confirming it’s definitely more his problem for frittering his money on his investments. “We’ll look at your finances. We can figure something out.”

Chris heaves a sigh. When he does, it’s like he releases his combativeness and poise. His next words come out almost understanding. Almost. “I know you don’t want to write anymore, but Katrina, this isn’t just your career. My career could be on the line. The agency expects me to make another huge sale, and they know you’re my fiancée. They think it should’ve been easy. I can’t keep coming back to them empty-handed.” It’s clear it hurts him to admit this. Chris isn’t a man used to falling short. “You would really help me,” he continues, louder. “Can’t we just discuss it? Get on the phone with Liz? I’ve already spoken with Nathan’s agent. He’s in if you are.”

My head jerks up. He not only called Liz, but he’s reached out to Nathan? I feel betrayed. Worse, I feel put in the exact position Chris wants me in. It’s becoming increasingly clear everything about this conversation was orchestrated, designed for me to have zero say.

“I. Don’t. Write. Anymore,” I say, putting space between each word. “Find a new client.”

My remark has the intended effect, I note half guiltily. His face reddens—he’s obviously remembering Vincent Blake’s fresh rejection. He’s silent for a long moment, and I start to leave.

“How about a new wife?”

I whip to face him. The floor feels unsteady. The sunlight streaming in our wide windows is harsh, dizzying. My face heats with shock and hurt. “What?”

Chris, to his credit, looks pained. “Shit. I—I didn’t mean that. It’s just— You know I love you. I love everything about you, and part of you is a writer. I guess I miss that part.”

I have to give him credit for the line. It hurts in every single way. I know I shouldn’t be admiring my fiancé’s dialogue when he’s suggesting he’ll leave me—I guess it’s the writer part of me.

Refusing to let my eyes water, I walk from the room.





4





Nathan


I’m stuck. On my screen, the cursor waits insistently, mocking me. I’ve been sitting in front of my computer for two hours, and I’m in the exact same place in my manuscript I was when I started this morning.

Ordinarily, an empty hotel room would present ideal writing conditions. I roam my eyes over its features for the hundredth time, hoping I’ll find inspiration hiding in the heavy curtains, the crimson carpet, the distraction-free white sheets of the bed. Since my meeting with Jen, I haven’t been able to write a single word. The idea of working with Katrina is messing with my head.

Not that it’ll ever happen. Jen will call tomorrow and say Katrina refused, and we’ll find another way to sell my next book.

Which is why I don’t understand why I can’t write. I can write no matter what’s going on in my life. The night I was hospitalized with the flu, I wrote. The night my dad died, I wrote. The night Melissa and I decided to get divorced, I wrote. It’s like breathing. Right now, I’m choking.

The idea of Katrina saying no isn’t what paralyzes me. It’s the idea of her saying yes. I can’t even imagine it. Even while editing Only Once, we were only exchanging perfunctory emails every few days. When the book was released, we didn’t even do one promotional event together. It probably contributed to the book’s success, honestly. After the New York Times piece on the end of our partnership, everyone wanted to hunt the novel for clues of what happened between us. As if the truth could’ve been in those pages.