The Roughest Draft by Emily Wibberley & Austin Siegemund-Broka

Author:Emily Wibberley & Austin Siegemund-Broka [Wibberley, Emily]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Published: 2022-01-25T00:00:00+00:00

29

Nathan

I push myself hard on my nightly run. I want my body exhausted, wrecked, empty of everything except the pain of exertion. When I hit my sheets, I want to collapse into sleep so hard I won’t remember whatever dreams I have about what happened with Katrina. They’ll come, I know, the visions seared into my head of her leaning over the dining table, her body low, her scent intoxicating. It’s one thing dreams have in common with writing—their tendency to betray me to myself.

The echo of my footsteps is the only sound on the dark street. I’ve run for hours. Finally, I let myself stop on our corner, lungs on fire, thighs screaming. I bend over with my hands on my knees and gulp for breath.

“You’re either training for a race,” I hear over my shoulder, “or you’re punishing yourself.”

It’s Meredith. I recognize the Southern lilt in her voice. Straightening up, I find her hefting a garbage bag out to the bin. Her slouchy, open-front sweater falls off one shoulder, exposing a deep V-neck. I know she’s joking, even though her words hit uncomfortably close to truth.

“Tough day at work,” I say noncommittally.

Meredith pauses for a moment, her gaze lingering on me. “I was just going to pour myself a drink. Want to join me?” she asks, making no effort to hide the implication in her voice. Everything she’s offering is out in the open.

I consider it, my chest heaving. If I’m searching for ways to forget everything I want with Katrina, this might be what I need. The night breeze rolls over me while I write the scene in my head. I say yes and she opens the wine and pours us glasses. I skipped dinner with Katrina, so I suggest we have something to eat. We heat up her leftovers or we order in. Either way, she ditches the sweater, and I slide closer to her on the floor, where we’re sitting because she doesn’t have chairs yet. I give her the chance to pull away. She doesn’t. I spend the night with her, working out whatever sexual frustration my run didn’t shake.

It’s tempting. Suddenly the idea of returning to the house with Katrina, of lying sleepless the whole night, waiting for tomorrow, sounds like hell. Why shouldn’t I say yes? I’m single, Meredith understands I’m not a long-term commitment—I’m only here for the summer. This would hurt no one.

“I’d like to,” I say. “But I can’t.”

Meredith looks slightly surprised. If she’s hurt, she covers the feeling well. She shrugs it off and smiles. “Well, if you change your mind . . .” She nods to her door. Pulling her sweater up over her shoulder, she heads back inside.

I watch her until her door shuts. While I hate myself for the night I refused, deep down, I know I had to. When my marriage ended, I promised myself I’d never be with someone when I wanted someone else.

On the empty street, I look in the direction of

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