Page 89 of Fighting Words

He’s doing it.

He’s writing!

And sure, he could be working on something else entirely, an in-depth manifesto about how much he wants me out of this cottage or a very descriptive review of my lovemaking skills or I don’t know, details of his fence project! It doesn’t matter! I get the feeling this is good news. He hasn’t holed himself up in his room at his computeroncesince I arrived.

Suddenly, there’s a break in the typing, and I jump on it.

I knock twice, gently.

“Nate?”

“Yeah?” Then, “You can come in.”

I turn the handle and push the door open, but only a crack. If there’s magic in his room, I don’t want any of it seeping out into the hall.

Nate sits at a narrow writing desk positioned in front of a window. Light streams through the glass, and the view is spectacular: blinding white snow as far as the eye can see, a herd of sheep just in front of a dense green forest.

Nate’s bed is perfectly made, untouched from the looks of it. His room smells like his soap and books. There are shelves up here, and I spy more foreign editions ofThe Last ExodusandEcho of Hope. Sheesh, there are so many of them. It’s hard to comprehend the sheer number of readers Nate has waiting on tenterhooks for this third novel.

I peer back at him just as he glances over his shoulder at me. Aside from the fact that his shirt is wrinkled and his hair is messier than I’ve ever seen it, this is the perfect image of him. A writer at work. So handsome it hurts. Sharp cheekbones, scruffy jaw. My stomach swoops as our eyes lock. After last night, the line between us has only tightened, drawing me toward him like a moth to a flame. I’ve been so careful with my feelings today, treating them like a fresh bruise, one I should be careful not to touch or press.

Nate’s eyes are tired and a little red, and it occurs to me that he might not have ever gone to sleep last night, not if he was up working on the summary.

“Everything alright?” I ask tentatively.

He smiles, and it unfurls something in my chest. “I’m working,” he says with a note of pride.

“Writing?” I venture, my voice filled with unrestrained hope.Please say yes.

He nods in confirmation, and there’s relief evident in his widening smile.

Oh my god. I want to scream, but I gather myself quickly enough and rein it in.Just act cool. Don’t spook the creativity out of him!

“Are you hungry?” I ask.

His eyebrows furrow like the thought that he might need food only just occurred to him. He nods. “Starving.”

I hold up a finger. “I’ll bring you something.”

“Maybe some coffee as well?” he says with pleading eyes.

“Coffee.Yes.I’ll be back.”

I close the door and hurry down the stairs. I don’t want to take long. I imagine he’s starving, so I whip up eggs and ham and buttered toast. I pour a piping hot cup of coffee filled so close to the brim that I have to carry it up the stairs separately or risk scalding myself.

When I toe his door open, Nate is writing again. The floor creaks beneath me but he doesn’t even flinch, and I take it as a cue that I shouldn’t interrupt him. I can’t imagine how good it must feel to be in a flow after wondering for so long if the words would ever come again. I could cry for him,hughim, but I can’t be a distraction.

As it is, I set down his food and coffee on his desk, and then I tiptoe back out of the room. Just before I close the door behind me, I glance back at him and watch.

Even before I met Nate, I was a huge fan of his books. It occurs to me now that I have a front-row seat to his creative process, and it’s a little like watching Van Gogh swirl colors onto canvas, only the world Nate is crafting is completely hidden from view. I’m desperate for his story. If he asked me to glance over a single paragraph, a sentence even, I would jump at the chance.

He pauses and I worry he’s aware of my attention on him, so I shut the door quietly and go down to clean up breakfast. The next few days continue on like this: me staying completely out of Nate’s way while trying to be as useful as possible. I mark up the summary with line edits only because it gives me something to do. I vacuum downstairs and give the kitchen a good scrub-down, going after the counters, sink, and floors.

A week after he started writing, around lunch, I hear the shower run upstairs, so I hurry to make Nate a sandwich and drop the plate off on his desk while clearing his breakfast dishes. His laptop is asleep, the screen’s black, or else I would try to steal a peek at what he’s writing. I bump the desk just asmidge, but the laptop doesn’t stir awake, and anything beyond that would feel like crossing a line. Dammit.

Nate doesn’t emerge from his room that day until I’m prepping dinner. He whips past me, grabs his coat off the hook behind the door, and barely mutters something like “Going on a walk” before he’s gone.

I hurry to the window and watch him stomp down the path. I have no idea where he’s headed, but by the time I finish making a chicken and rice soup and some flaky soda bread to pair with it, he’s still not back. I leave the pot of soup simmering on low so it’ll be warm for him. Then I reclaim my cozy spot by the fire and eat while I read.

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