Chapter 32
Tyler
Present Day
The Hamptons
That evening, Katie’s and my walkie-talkie session lingered long past midnight. The conversation, hardly about Henry and Willa
at all. Instead, Katie asked me about the short stories I’d published and what was going on with my unsold manuscripts, then
told me how, sometimes, she felt like Pinot was watching her sleep. And so, because her window was so bright and her laugh
was so full, and because I truly could not think of another place on this planet I wanted to spend the next few nights, I
decided to stay.
And it was also why, when we hit thirty-four thousand words around four o’clock Friday afternoon, I clicked my laptop shut
and asked her if she wanted to come print pages with me . . . and then maybe grab a quick dinner on Main Street.
But Katie, all of a sudden, stiffened. And then, without quite looking at me, she bit down on her bottom lip. “I, um . . .
I have plans. Sorry, I thought you knew? That Danny’s got a share house out here for the month?”
My fist tightened, and my mouth worked for a moment before eventually muttering, “Oh, right, yeah. I didn’t know if that was
still happening.”
Katie fingered the dainty gold links of her bracelet.
She was just sitting there, surrounded by scribbled-on notepads and glittery pens and what was now a fly-swarmed tray of leftover tea sandwiches.
“I mean, I wasn’t sure, but then his deal closed last minute, and I think there’s a situation with a boat, and . . .”
“Right, well.” Now it was me, winding the tiny silver dial on my watch for no goddamn reason. “Who can say no to a boat?”
She nodded, then shut her computer and rose to her feet. “I’m really sorry. I didn’t completely realize you were staying,
and we’re just getting to know each other, and . . .”
“Katie,” I said as she began to walk away in reverse, explaining herself in a mint green bikini and a giant straw hat. Our
afternoon was clinging to her glistening skin, gathering in all the curves and angles and freckles and flesh that made her
her, and I knew, by the time I got back from the library, that she’d have rinsed it all away. That our week would be over.
That she’d be gone.
“Yeah?” she said.
“You never did anything wrong.”
She nodded. For a split second, I saw it—what I’d done, what I’d broken, what I’d left behind—slip across her pretty face.
And then it was over. She’d disappeared into the house, and I reminded myself, for the millionth time, of every good reason
I’d had to let her go.