“Oh,” I say, thinking back to the day I saw Noah showing Javier Bardem a building on the Upper West Side. Was that his old apartment? Also, why didn’t he mention he was visiting his mother earlier? Now I feel guilty I’ve taken too much of his time. And what does he mean, complicated?
“Do you need to call her? Is she expecting you for dinner or anything tonight?”
“No,” he says, busying himself with sorting through some loose change from his pocket. I realize he’s searching for quarters for the mini jukebox on our table. And also that he’s not going to tell me anything more about his mom. So, I turn my focus to the jukebox, too.
The machine is old, the glass too scratched, the labels too faded to make out any of the song listings.
“How do you know what you’re selecting?” I ask, as he slips coins into the slot.
“I don’t,” he says, “but it’s a chance I’m willing to take.” He points at my box. “So what’s in there anyway?”
I sift through my old things. In between a bunch of clothes, my hand hits the smooth wood of the Ninety-Nine Things list I gave Ryan for Valentine’s Day.
Half of me feels indignant that he returned my gift; the other half feels extremely committed to hiding this artifact from Noah Ross. I don’t want him to know this about me, that I was once a girl who made such a list, that I clung to it . . . up until about a week ago. I’m also not sure I can discuss this with Noah without blaming him, just a little, for my breakup. For everything. I shove it to the bottom of the box, as Noah points at BD’s robe.
“Let me guess,” he says, “your grandma’s?”
This time, it doesn’t feel hostile, not like it did at our first meeting in the park.
I finger the robe. “My grandfather gave it to her on their honeymoon. It’s a little threadbare in a few places, but it’s still awesome.”
“Very,” he says. “Where’d they honeymoon?”
“Positano,” I say, smiling and meeting his eyes. “So I was thrilled when you set Two-Hundred and Sixty-Six Vows there. I’ve always wanted to visit.”
“You should,” he says. “I think you’d like it. It’s hard not to like the Amalfi Coast, but I think you’d . . . get it.”
I’m not sure what he means, or from where he gleaned this knowledge of my travel tastes, but it sounds like he intends it as a compliment, so I leave his logic alone.
“When I was a kid,” I say, reaching back into the box, “my mom used to talk about taking me to Positano. She was conceived there.” I glance at him. “Sorry, TMI?”
“I assume your mother had to be conceived somewhere,” Noah says. “Positano’s a good place for it.”
I don’t know why this makes me blush. We’re both adults. We have pored, professionally, over dozens of sex scenes he wrote into seven bestselling novels. Maybe Noah had great sex in Positano; it couldn’t be less my business.
I need to change the subject. After a moment’s hesitation, I take out my mother’s award from the box. I set the plaque on the table. “This is the main thing I didn’t want to lose.”
Noah picks it up to get a closer look. He meets my eyes across the table. “Your mom’s?”
I nod and sip my beer.
“She must have been an impressive woman.”
“How did you know she died?”
“Because you told me and I remembered?” He gives me a funny look. “Did you forget that we’ve been friends for seven years?”
“I’m sorry . . . sometimes . . . a little . . .”
“It’s okay. I know meeting me was a shock to your system.”
We’re quiet for a moment, because I don’t know what to say to this, and he’s basically the worst at filling awkward silences. Javier Bardem shifts around in his crate.
That’s when the high guitar notes of ELO’s “Strange Magic” reach through the jukebox speaker. “I love this song.”
Noah smiles. “Tonight, we got lucky.”
“We really did.”
Noah sets my mom’s award back gently in the box. “It’s pretty shitty of Ryan to get rid of this. It’s not like your late mother’s lifetime achievement award is a half-empty shampoo bottle.”
“Ryan’s a good guy. It’s just his mom . . .” I start to say. “Wait, why am I defending him? It is shitty. And I am hereby adding it to the growing list of shitty things he did. Do you know he sold his motorcycle without telling me? That might sound trite, but—”
“He sold the motorcycle he was riding when you two met?” Noah shakes his head. “The motorcycle that was the origin of your story?”
“That’s exactly what I said!” I say. “I loved our rides. Then Ryan just got rid of it and acted like I was crazy for caring.”
Noah toys with the tab on his beer can. “After my ex and I split up, a long time passed before I let myself get angry. I guess, subconsciously, I knew it was a slippery slope. I had this idea that I should be better at relationships than the average guy, because of what I write. Which, I learned, is false. Just because I can write love stories, doesn’t mean I can live them.” He lets out a self-deprecating laugh, and through it, I see a tenderer part of Noah Ross. “Once I let myself accept that, I realized our relationship was pretty toxic from the start.”
“When did you break up?” I say. Who was this woman? What did she do? Where was she from? What did she look like? How serious were they?
“About a year and half ago,” he says, looking away.
My brain accidentally does some math, and I realize this would have been right after he finished writing Two Hundred and Sixty-Six Vows. That is, the last thing Noa Callaway wrote.
“Oh, don’t do that,” he says, reading my mind. “She is not the reason I’ve been blocked.”
“Keep telling yourself that,” I say, letting him know with my eyes that I’m teasing.
“Maybe she was a tiny contributing factor. At first.” He shakes his head. “What am I doing? You’re the last person who wants to hear this.”
“It’s okay—”
“It’s not. I don’t want to worry you. You came up with this grand plan to get me writing again, and I’m up for it. I think . . . it’ll work out. I know your job is on the line and everything. So please, Lanie, don’t worry.”
“Sure.” I nod. I’m surprisingly not worried. Inside, I feel reassured. For the first time, I can see the human heart that’s written Noa Callaway’s books.
Suddenly, I don’t just want this next book for my career, or for Peony’s bottom line. I want it for Noah, too.
“You want to see something that will make you laugh?” I say.
When he looks up at me, glad for the change of subject, I reach into my box and gather the courage to show him my Ninety-Nine Things.
Chapter Twelve
From: [email protected]
Date: Monday, March 9, 10:06 a.m.
Subject: a toast
Dear Noah,
A few months ago, I was the maid of honor at a friend’s wedding. The best man was a Buddhist monk. My speech was first, and it was brilliant, if I may say so—one funny anecdote, one tear-jerking one, one Anne Sexton poem, and one Gracie Allen insult. All done in a tight ten minutes.