Afterward, the monk approached the microphone. He looked into the eyes of the groom, then the bride, and said:
“Lower your expectations.”
Then he dropped the mic and went back to his seat.
This depressed me. It sounded like he was encouraging the newlyweds to let each other down. But the more I thought about it, I realized that expectations are rarely rooted in reality, and maybe all the monk was talking about was acceptance. Maybe relationships truly begin with acceptance of who the other is.
I want people to expect much of me—and not to be disappointed, but that’s not entirely in my control. I like thinking that to accept who someone is, you have to find out who they are. And that can take a lifetime.
At the bar on Friday night, you said you thought meeting you was a shock to my system. I wonder if meeting me was hard for you? I’ve been thinking about this because today I’m moving into Alix’s old office. I’m curious about your expectations of your editor. You’ve always worked with Alix. You and I have corresponded for years, but in some ways, we’re just starting out. So I wanted to offer us a little grace.
Lowered expectations don’t invite disappointment. They expect the imperfect in all of us. Your characters do this for each other. Could you and I try to do it, too?
Lanie
This is the first email I send from my new office. I’ve been wanting to write it ever since Friday night. I keep thinking back to the moment when I showed Noah my Ninety-Nine Things. I expected him to laugh. I thought if he’d laugh, then I could, too, and my entire failed view on love might feel a little less grave. I thought maybe he could help me lighten up.
But he didn’t laugh. He seemed humbled holding the wood panels. He read the whole list carefully, then looked up at me, his expression more serious than I’d ever seen it before.
“I’m sorry you didn’t get your happy ending this time,” he said. “But you’re not like Cara from the book. She needed the list. Because she had no faith in love. You, on the other hand . . .”
“What about me?” I found myself leaning forward in the booth, like Noah was about to tell me an important secret.
He thought a moment, then said, “If faith in love were a source of energy, you could power a small planet.”
It was the single most reassuring sentence anyone had said to me since my breakup with Ryan. Also, it felt true, and as if all I’d needed was for some kind soul to point it out.
* * *
“Lanie?”
It’s Sue in my doorway. Sue, who hardly ever leaves her office, who makes everyone come to her.
“I see you’re all moved in. Sort of. Is now a good time for a chat?”
“Of course,” I say, inviting her into my disaster of an office. “Did I miss a meeting?”
“Oh no,” Sue says, closing my door then mazing through my boxes. “I was just in your neck of the woods to see Emily.”
Emily Hines is Peony’s other editorial director. For years, she was Alix’s low-key rival, due to her unconcealed jealousy of Noa Callaway’s success. Every year Emily tries to acquire a knockoff Noa Callaway, and sometimes they’re good enough to make the list for a minute. When Sue says if I can’t deliver Noa’s next book then she’ll find someone who can—I know who that someone is.
“Emily’s been raving about her new madeleine molds,” Sue tells me. “I finally bought one over the weekend, and it’s marvelous.” She glances at me. “Do you bake?”
“Oh . . . sometimes,” I lie, trying to think of a single successful thing I’ve pulled from my oven. “Brownies are . . . good.”
“Yes.” Sue nods slowly.
This is not going well. Do I have to start buying random crap at Sur la Table so I can stay on Sue’s good side?
No. I just need a manuscript from Noa Callaway.
“I’m glad you’re here,” I say, taking control of the meeting. “Noa and I had a breakthrough the other day.”
This is true—though our breakthrough was more personal than professional. Before Sue can ask for specifics, I push on, pulling confidence out of thin air.
“Noa wants to visit the Cloisters on Saturday to do some research,” I say. “I have a feeling, soon after that, I’ll be able to share the premise of the new book.”
Sue nods, a hint of approval in her eyes. “The Cloisters is an interesting setting. But what’s the hook?”
“It’s still a bit inchoate, but we’re getting there—”
“Get there by sales conference. Three weeks from tomorrow. And by ‘there’ I mean a title and some catalog copy. What about the manuscript deadline?”
“Still on track,” I say, steadying my voice. “May fifteenth.”
Ten weeks from now. It’s in the outer limits of possible. If he gets an idea incredibly soon, and then proceeds to write like the wind.
“Good.” Sue rises from my guest chair and makes her way out of my office. When she opens my door, she leans down and picks something up off the floor. A mason jar brimming with dusky purple tulips. “How nice. Your fiancé sent you flowers.”
I force a smile and take the vase from her, walking it back to my desk. An envelope from Flowers of the World winks from beneath the ribbon.
As soon as I’m alone, I tear open the card.
Today’s expectations: That these will make your move less hellish.
—Noah
P.S. I know the monk only had to stand up and deliver three words, but I’m willing to bet you were a tough act to follow.
I stare at the card. An image of Noah Ross dictating this message to a florist fills my mind. Was he in his penthouse, feet up on his desk, looking out at Central Park? Did he come up with the message on the fly, or did he labor over it the way I labor over my words to him? Was he wondering what I might think when I got the tulips? Because I don’t know what to think. The more I try to understand my relationship with Noah Ross, the more indefinable it becomes.
Friends over email. Antagonists in person. Then, out of nowhere: people who break into brownstones together, enjoy ELO on the jukebox, and eat obnoxious foods on trains.
One thing I’ve always loved about Noa’s characters is how they grapple with contradictory impulses. This makes for great fiction, but in real life, it’s confusing.
“Excuse us,” Meg says, slipping in with Rufus and closing the door. “Nice digs, by the way.” She looks around and nods approval. “Rufus thought he heard Sue say something about Ryan sending you—” She breaks off, pointing at the tulips. “Whoa . . . what happened Friday night?”
Someday, I’d love to tell Meg what happened Friday night.
“Funny,” Rufus says, picking up the mason jar. “I always took Ryan for more of a red roses kind of guy.”
“Why is your ex-fiancé buying you flowers when my husband doesn’t seem to know what they are?” Meg says. “Do you know what Tommy got me for Valentine’s Day this year? A case of unscented dryer sheets. I kid you not.”
“Meg, that is romantic!” I say, happy to steer the subject away from the tulips.
“Don’t patronize me.”
“You love to shop in bulk!” I remind her. “You guys got banned from Costco back when you were dating for heavy petting in the freezer section! Plus, unscented? He was thinking about your eczema.”