Page 76 of Cabin Fever
I shake my head. “No, you’re right. I did. And I’m sorry, again, for everything.”
She looks away, out the window, where the streetlights glaze the sidewalk in gold. “You know, the funny part is I read the book a second time. Just to see if I could learn more.”
I hold my breath.
“Did you?”
She nods.
“A little,” she says, the words coming carefully. “I started seeing it more as fiction, and less as a diary. Like the heroine is someone else?—”
“No,” I interrupt, “She’s not. I wanted you to see what I saw. That you’re the most beautiful, caring, intelligent, most infuriating woman I’ve ever met.”
Kat shoots me a lopsided smile. “Careful. I might start believing you.”
The drinks work their magic. By the time the salads arrive, we’re talking easily and teasing each other. I’m grateful because I wasn’t sure I’d ever have this with Kat again. I thought that maybe, we were too far gone and I’d fucked up, but our easy conversation gives me hope. We swap stories about terrible childhood pets (hers: a hamster named Hamlet who lasted a single week; mine: a rescue cat who peed on all my manuscripts), the weirdest things we’ve ever eaten (her: deep-fried pickles at the state fair; me: raw octopus in Tokyo), and the time I almost got banned from Twitter for flaming a food critic who didn’t like bourbon.
She laughs, for real, when I tell the story. “You know, your agent emailed me,” she says, out of nowhere. “Jonah, I think his name is.”
I nearly spit my drink. “What?”
“He said you were thinking about going off grid again. Asked if I’d heard from you. I told him you were probably just out in the woods, thinking big thoughts.”
I groan. “That man is the worst. But also, he’s probably outside right now, waiting for me to slip up so he can yell at me about deadlines. I can’t believe he contacted you though. What the fuck.”
She laughs again, and it’s like music. My pulse slows, my head clears. I want to freeze the moment, just soak in the way she glows in the restaurant’s cheap candlelight.
Then, right before the main course arrives, a woman approaches our booth. She’s maybe twenty-two, hair in a messy topknot, glasses perched low on her nose. She clutches a hardcover copy ofAngel’s Shareto her chest like a holy text. I recognize the look instantly—fan, probably from the reading.
“Um, excuse me,” she says, glancing at Kat, then back at me. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but are you Talon McKnight?”
I nod, and Kat’s whole body tenses beside me.
The girl’s cheeks go pink. “Oh my god, I knew it. I was at your reading at Century Pages. Your book is, like, everything. Would you mind signing my copy?”
I smile, take the pen she offers. My signature is a mess, but I scrawl it on the title page, then hand it back.
She beams. “Thank you! And, um, is this—” she gestures to Kat, “—your girlfriend?”
There’s a pause. The world seems to go dead quiet. I look at Kat, unsure if I should say yes, but she just arches an eyebrow, challenging.
“Yes,” I say, and it feels both dangerous and true. “She is.”
The girl squeals, but then, reading the moment, dials it down. “You two are adorable. Sorry again for interrupting. Enjoy your dinner!” She scurries off, the book hugged tight.
I turn to Kat, but her eyes are on her plate.
“You okay?” I ask, voice low.
She’s quiet for a long second, then shrugs. “I didn’t know people approached you out of the blue in real life.”
I reach across the table, cover her hand with mine. “I’m only famous for very niche things. Like writing romantic tales about beautiful women in the woods.”
She laughs, but it’s a little sad. “Still, it’s weird. Like, everywhere you go, there’s a chance someone recognizes you. I can’t compete with that.”
I squeeze her hand. “I don’t want you to compete. I want you to be yourself.”
She looks at me, and for a second I see the old vulnerability, the unfiltered Kat. “It just sucks sometimes. Knowing you’re the fantasy for a lot of women. And I’m what? Your muse? The girl on the page?”
