The Roughest Draft

by Emily Wibberley

There’s no truth to these pages, but the trick of fiction is to make you think there is. I let myself fall for it as often as I can.

Chris likes being attached to a famous author. Every day I don’t write, don’t publish, I disappoint him—I let him fall a little more out of love with me.

“Not one for savoring it?” His voice is unreadable. “The second time, yes. If there was one,” I say. “The first time . . . after all the waiting, I wouldn’t want to wait longer.” I swallow. “If I were Jessamine.”

“I hope it helps you sleep tonight. You can tell yourself whatever story you want, Katrina. You’re a writer.”

I’m scared of being nothing. Not becoming nothing, in the sense of dying. I mean the life-in-death of being no one special. Being nobody’s person. Being worth nothing.

Sometimes I felt like I couldn’t figure out why I existed.

He returns to his computer like he doesn’t know his words have warmed my skin. I privately soak in them.

It’s impossible for me to read his mind, to know his heart. But I do. Because we’ve had years of practice. Imagining together is what Nathan and I do.

“I’m done living my life waiting for the best time.” It’s a new decision, one I’m proud of.

I feel his resolve snap. His hands cupping my face, he crushes his lips to mine, every single word we’ve ever written prologue to this touch.

If Katrina doesn’t feel the same way, I’ll lose my writing partnership and I’ll lose my marriage, because it would be the worst sort of unfair to reduce the woman I wedded to a backup. A contingency.