“I already know the perfect place, and which overalls I’m going to wear,” Rufus says.
They both turn expectantly to me. I’m glad the conversation has veered away from Noah Ross. And also that I have lucked into these generous, funny, nosy, well-accessorized, and occasionally drunk friends.
Who knows, maybe two weeks from now, the thought of going out on the town as a single woman will feel less unthinkable.
I raise my glass, and we all clink. “Kate Mosses, here we come.”
Chapter Eleven
On Friday afternoon, I’ve got eighteen browser windows open on my desktop. I am crafting a compendium for how to visit the Cloisters museum without a hitch. I need Noah to be inspired by the medieval gardens and Netherlandish triptychs, not distracted by the hunt for a bathroom, or annoyed by a closed snack bar at the moment he wants a coffee.
I am finally reaching the state of preparedness where I feel nothing can go wrong. And that’s when fate slaps me in the face, in the form of a text from Ryan.
Let me state for the record that I have messaged my ex-fiancé no less than ten times this week. Low-key checking-in texts. Here-if-you-want-to-talk texts. Hope-you’re-having-a-good-week-at-work texts. I’m not trying to harass Ryan, or get back together. But it’s weird that we were intimate for three years—and planning to spend the next threescore staying that way—and suddenly, it’s like we cut a cord, and we’re strangers. It seems to me there should be some sort of wind-down period, a lame-duck session of the relationship. A couple of texts, nothing crazy. But Ryan seems not to share my vision.
Until today, when he actually writes back. Three times in a row.
Mom was spring-cleaning my place and found some of your things. Mostly clothes, but that robe with all the colors is there. And some award of your mom’s. She’s hitting Goodwill tomorrow. Wanted to give you a heads-up, in case you want any of it.
And then:
I’m in Boston for work, or else I’d try to hold her off longer. Sorry.
And then:
Also, the ring is yours. I gave it to you. Please stop asking if I want it back.
I read and reread the first text: In case I want any of it? BD’s Missoni robe? My mother’s framed and mounted Kenneth Rothman Career Accomplishment Award, basically the Oscar for epidemiologists? I’d brought it down to show Ryan’s father once, after we’d had what I thought was a breakthrough conversation about my family. By the time I showed it to Mr. Bosch at a Sunday lunch a couple weekends later, he barely remembered our discussion. I should never have left the plaque at Ryan’s.
This means I have to go to D.C. Tonight.
And cancel on Noah Ross tomorrow.
I dial Terry, feeling very put upon. “Terry, this is Lanie Bloom.”
“I have caller ID.”
“Can I talk to Noah?”
“Noa doesn’t do the phone. You know that. Be glad you got me.”
“Listen, something’s come up, and I need to reschedule our meeting tomorrow. Do you have access to his calendar?”
“I’ll pass along the message, and see if Noa would like to reschedule.”
“It’s not an if, Terry—”
“You’ll hear from me if Noa does.”
I manage to wait until Terry hangs up to start cursing the phone.
* * *
An hour later, I’ve crammed my work for the weekend into three canvas totes. I’ve resurrected the old gym bag under my desk—leftover from an expensive lie I once told myself that I should join the spin studio across the street—and am amazed to find that spin-curious Lanie packed the bag with a change of clothes, clean underwear, deodorant, and a toothbrush. My Amtrak tickets and hotel are booked and now I can spend my remaining minutes in the office writing an email to Noah.
Terry has not called me back.
In my first draft of the email, I went on too long and was overly repentant. Then I deleted everything and went the never-apologize-never-explain route. People need to reschedule. It happens. Our agreement is not off because of one conflict. I keep telling myself this, but I’d feel better if Terry called. The email is still sitting in my drafts.
“Alors,” Aude says, appearing in my doorway in herringbone pants so high-waisted I think all her ribs are inside. “You should leave if you don’t want to miss your train.”
“You’re right,” I say, shutting down my computer. “Merci.”
“De rien.” She pauses. “How will you get into Ryan’s apartment?”
I wave my keychain, which still holds a key to Ryan’s brownstone. I’ll leave it behind for him when this is done.
“Lanie,” Aude says, “when you get there, allot yourself a very short time inside Ryan’s home. In and out—two minutes tops. I think it would be best.”
“What do you think I’m going to do? Climb inside his hamper to breathe in his laundry?”
Aude looks down. “I once slashed an ex’s mattress when I went to pick up my knife block after we broke up.”
“See, that wasn’t even in my head before, but now . . .”
“In and out,” Aude coaches.
“In and out,” I say.
She kisses my cheeks and hands me the printout of my tickets. I’m rounding the corner to the elevator when I almost collide with Meg.
“Hot soup!” she shouts in warning.
“And hello to you, too,” I say.
“Oh good, it’s you. I was just coming up to bring you this.” She holds out a thermos, and when she cracks the lid, I recognize the aroma as her mother’s homemade egg drop wonton soup. My weakness. “I meant to bring it to you for lunch, but shit got crazy on the second floor. Are you leaving early?”
“Ryan’s mom is going to ‘donate’ a bunch of my stuff if I don’t go get it. Tonight.” I give Meg a side-eye that bespeaks my annoyance. “So, you know, I’m taking a fun, spur-of-the-moment trip to D.C.”
“Girl,” Meg says, her tone empathetic. “Want company? Wait, sorry, I forgot two small humans rely on me to meet their every need. You know I’ll be there in spirit. And . . . I wouldn’t spend too long on the inside if I were you.”
“Did you slash an ex-boyfriend’s mattress, too?” I ask.
“There may have been some defecation left in the saddle of a certain NordicTrack.”
“Meg, no!”
“Not proud of it,” Meg says with a shudder.
“Well, I think we have a winner.” I laugh. “I’ve got to run. Thanks for the soup.”
“It’s a classic combination,” Meg says, waving as I step into the elevator. “Amtrak and egg drop.”
“Like tacos and Tuesdays.”
* * *
On track twelve at Penn Station, I climb the stairs toward my regular spot on the south end of the quiet car. I’ve taken this train so many times to visit Ryan. I know that at this hour on a Friday, it’s always crowded, but I spot a lucky open window seat at one of the four-top tables. There’s a jacket, a bottle of water, and a book about the Vietnam War on the rear-facing seat, but the forward-facing side looks open, so I slide in with my things.
As the train pulls away, I settle in, opening my thermos and taking out my tablet. It’s loaded with five novel submissions I’m supposed to read by Monday. Usually, I can tell within five pages whether I need to read more, and usually the answer is no. But I already know there’s one in here that’s promising. A romantic satire by a debut author whose first page had made Aude laugh out loud when she started reading it this morning.