We go out for dinner. Katrina and me, going out for dinner. Except it’s not just hitting pause on the day’s work to refuel. It’s a date. It’s kind of a first date, in fact.
We’ve done plenty of things that looked like, or even felt like, dates in the past. I’ve spent a small fortune on the hipster-café coffee I’ve consumed in this woman’s presence. Once in Italy, needing two hours of not talking to each other, we went to the movies, not realizing there wouldn’t be subtitles. We stayed and enjoyed the cinematography. On the walk home, we pitched each other ridiculous ideas to fill the gaps in the plot we hadn’t understood.
Those weren’t dates, though. Dates hold intention. They’re not just occasions—they’re declarations. I’m interested. Romance hides in every quiet pause, every noticed glance.
Or, sometimes, it doesn’t hide. It’s out in the open right now, in the way I hold Katrina’s hand over the table, the way I catch her lingering glances, the way I spontaneously lean forward to kiss her after dessert. We’d been to Knot and Key before (the small seafood restaurant in our neighborhood), because we’ve gone to every restaurant within walking distance. Last time, we bickered in the dim candlelight over plot points in Only Once, and I had the clam chowder. Tonight, suffice to say, I did not have the clam chowder.
I memorize each detail of the night. Katrina in her black dress, the oil paintings of the ocean, the netting on the walls for our decorations. In every caress I give her hand, every second I stare into her eyes, I feel like I’m asking if she really wants this. In every smile she sends me, she says she does. I want to believe her.
But the past is here, with us now. Scars don’t stay closed in such matters. They’re waiting to be reopened, ready to bleed over everything nearby when they do. Part of me wants to ignore it. To pretend it never happened, to retreat into the safety of this perfect present. The other part doesn’t want to have doubts with Katrina. I don’t want to be with her and fearing the day those old wounds tear into us.
I need to know. It’s nothing I’ll ever figure out on my own, no peace I’ll ever find without pushing us both, without putting the questions in front of Katrina. I need to risk her reaction. To risk her setting everything we have on fire once more.
On the walk home, the breeze cooling us in contrast to the heavy-scented warmth of the restaurant, I lead her a different route. The sun hasn’t yet set. I feel curiosity in her demeanor until we reach my destination. She tenses, waiting a few steps from me.
We’re in front of the independent bookstore. The one where we ran into each other weeks ago. Expecting her reaction, I speak gently. “Let’s go in.”
“I’m sure they’re closing,” she replies hesitantly.
“So we’ll be quick.” I don’t pause before what I say next, my real purpose. Doing everything I can to project nonchalance, I pull her hand gently toward the store. “Come on,” I say, my voice light. “We’ve never signed Only Once together.”
This is honestly sort of impressive, when I give it thought. We managed not to sign one single copy of our international bestseller together. But then, the post-release promotional rollout of Only Once was pockmarked with stubborn refusals and mutual hostility. Whenever there were signings or book festivals, one of us would agree to attend, and the other would summarily decline. I’m anticipating the way Katrina falters in the doorway, her hand pulling free from mine. The last time we were here, she wouldn’t even go inside for fear of being recognized with me. Now I’m asking for even more.
I don’t let her hesitation slow me down. I’m not waiting. While I wish we were walking home, too, I told myself on the way to dinner I wouldn’t waver. Katrina is either in or out. One day, today or tomorrow or the next, we’ll have to either face what we’ve done or hide from ourselves forever. Only one path has a future.
I walk into the store without her.
Holding my breath, I wait. I study the store to distract myself until I hear the door open behind me.
When I feel Katrina by my side, relief cascades over me. I hold out my hand, which she takes with damp fingers.
“I just like being a reader in bookstores,” she says, sounding nervous. “Not an author.”
“How exactly do you plan on publishing another book, then?” I face her, half smiling. I’m going for levity, even though it’s sort of a serious question. From Kat’s expression, I know she does not feel the humor. She chews her lip, her eyes like clouds over the ocean. I realize it’s because she hasn’t thought that far into the future. I’m somewhat sorry I made her. Somewhat not.
We reach the fiction section, where—there it is, still face-out. We stand in front of the shelf, saying nothing. It’s the closest we’ve ever been to our past. It sits there innocently, a physical reification of what we did to each other. Four hundred and thirty-six pages of fraught memories, this small window of white type on dark blue framing different versions of ourselves.
I feel the book wedging between us, bringing back the fever in which we wrote it. The day it rained at the beach, the night we finished, the fire. It’s suffocating. I feel Katrina lean away from me. The book’s presence is palpable, imposing. I’m desperate to cut through it, forge my way back to her.
“I hated the cover when I saw it,” I say.
She startles. It’s exactly the effect I’d hoped for. When her eyes find mine, there’s not just curiosity in them. There’s the faintest flicker of something else. She knows what I’m doing, because she knows me. “Really? Why?” she asks.
“It just wasn’t what I’d envisioned,” I reply. I’d hoped for black-and-white photography. Thin type. I’d imagined this book and its promise tirelessly enough that I’d created in my head every detail of the cover.
Katrina lifts her gaze from me, reluctantly bringing it to its new destination. The book. She steps closer to the shelf, to the copies face-out. We’re surrounded by pastel walls and plush carpet, yet her movement has the caution of someone reaching the end of a diving board. I exhale just a little, not loudly enough for her to hear my relief.
“It’s the perfect cover,” she says quietly.
I draw back, genuinely curious. I never knew she loved the cover. But then, there’s plenty I don’t know, painful swaths of memories we’ll never make together. I don’t know how Katrina responds to reader questions. I don’t know if she ever read our reviews or what she thought of them. There’s so much I don’t know.
But I might have the chance to find out. This seemingly casual conversation is proof. We’re doing this. We can invite the past back into our lives in these little pieces. It doesn’t have to destroy us.
“I know that now.” My voice softens. “But at the time . . . nothing looked the way it was supposed to.”
Katrina says nothing. She stands there, unmoving—like she’s okay.
“Let’s bring these up front and sign a few,” I say.
Her reply is immediate. “No.”
While quick, it’s not quite convincing. It’s instinct, not intention. I don’t know how I know. I guess it’s my considerable new experience with Katrina when she’s really pissed off or resistant. This window isn’t closed. “Katrina, we wrote this. We created it together. Why do you hate it?” I ask.
“I don’t. I don’t . . . hate it.” She fidgets, touching her hair, shifting the shoulder strap of her bag. “I just . . . Here.” She reaches into her purse and pulls out a pen. “Let’s sign it and leave it without saying anything. Someone will find it. It’ll be a surprise. A secret.” Something wild has caught the edge of her voice. It’s half excitement, half desperation.
She holds out the pen.
I pause. It’s not the scene I wrote in my head when I led us in here. But it’s something. I nod, taking the pen from her. Grabbing the copy from off the shelf, I open the front cover, where I place the signature I’ve scrawled on thousands of pages exactly like this one.
This time, I leave room for Katrina. I return the pen to her. She waits, the felt tip lingering in midair. Then something in her solidifies. Swiftly, she adds her own mark to the page, the tips of her K crossing into my name.
We hear footsteps approaching, and Katrina snaps the book closed. She shoves it onto the shelf. I can’t help smiling. The whole thing is ridiculous, imagining someone catching us defacing our own book. If someone did question us, we would literally just point to our pictures on the back cover. They would probably move the signed copy to the front. Hell, it would probably be the same kindly bookseller I met weeks ago.
But I don’t say any of that. I walk quickly out of the store, following a giggling Katrina, even letting myself glance over my shoulder for fabricated interlopers. When we get outside, I double over laughing. Partly from how ridiculous we’re being, partly out of relief. We faced a big piece of our past, looked it dead on. It feels like one step into the future.