“Sake,” I say, finding the board and moving it to the table. “We’re celebrating.”
“What are we celebrating?” he asks from the kitchen. I hear the smile in his voice.
“Future epics of the heart. Saying fuck it to the meet-cute. And also . . . surviving a day together.”
“We still have time to ruin it,” Noah says, returning with a chilled bottle of sake.
“Your choice of outing is up next, you know,” I say as he pours sake into crystal cordial glasses. “But don’t worry, no one expects it to compete with today.”
He raises his glass to mine. “I’m not worried. My excursion is pure gold.”
“You have one picked out?” I assumed I’d have to harass him into making any sort of plan.
“I’m in the final scheduling phase right now.”
“What is it?”
“You’ll see,” he says as we sit down.
We dive into fresh sashimi, spicy tuna on crispy rice cakes, divine crab handrolls, and halibut carpaccio in spicy yuzu jelly that pairs perfectly with the sake.
“You do takeout really well,” I say, sipping my miso soup.
“You should see what I do in restaurants.”
I laugh. “Where does one even get all these little bowls? And the chopsticks—are they made of jade?”
Noah smiles, watching me mishandle them to seize a slice of halibut. “They’re from a shop called Bo’s. Whenever I go there, I find something special, something I’ve never seen before. It’s not far from Peony. You should check it out. He has chopsticks in pink quartz, too.”
“I will.” I don’t want to let Noah know that most of my sushi eating at home happens on my couch, glued to BBC America, using my hands to drag a spicy tuna roll through the soy sauce I’ve squirted into the lid of the plastic container.
He points at the chessboard between us. “Guests go first.”
I steel myself, intent not to laugh when he debuts that freakish eyebrow tic. But to my surprise, Noah has shifted into serious game mode and clearly isn’t messing around.
I move my pawn into the center quadrant. I watch him do the same.
Though we have never sat across the chessboard from each other quite like this, there is not the curious tension of playing the game for the first time with someone new. We’re used to moving these pieces around each other.
We’re not used to knowing where our real hands go in real life between real turns. Twice our fingers graze at the edges of the board.
I remember our first handshake. How it sent a bolt of lightning through me. His touch now, even accidental, still does the same.
I tell myself to pay closer attention to his hands so as to avoid grazing them, but that backfires, because then I pay too close attention to them and lose my knight. I’ve never noticed how strong they are.
Lanie. Remember your career on the line? The precarious balance you are in with this man? Stop gazing at his meet-cuticles. Win the game and go home.
I swig another glass of sake, because something needs to take the edge off. Because, is it just me or is it getting a little too Thomas Crown Affair in here?
I focus on my tactical approach. Noah’s strategy is different IRL than it is online. He castles on his left and brings his queen out daringly early. I find this style familiar, though, and after half a dozen turns, I realize Noah plays chess like the character he wrote in the chess scenes of his novel, Twenty-One Games with a Stranger.
It tells me how to win—a one-two punch with my queen and my bishop.
I wonder whether Noah based that character on himself in other ways. Whether I might revisit the pages of that book to better know the man before me.
But maybe, to know Noah, all I need to do is pay attention. To the paintings he’s chosen for his walls—bright and urgent, each full of its own story. To his generosity—Saturday sushi, second-draft-effect tulips, Swiss Army knife treatments of my ex’s window pane. To his confession at the bar last weekend that, when it comes to romance off the page, Noah Ross is as lost as anyone who’s ever searched for love.
“Checkmate,” Noah says.
My jaw drops. He’s got me pinned between his rooks. How did I let this happen?
I want to be a gracious loser, but I honestly can’t believe this. The only thing that makes it bearable is looking up at him and confronting The Eyebrow.
We both start laughing. Noah reaches for the sake, and we’re surprised to find the bottle drained.
“Guess I should go,” I say, though my dignity wouldn’t mind a rematch.
Noah rises and gets my coat. He walks me to the door, then down the walk, where two old-fashioned streetlights have come on and make the place look like we’ve dipped back in time a hundred years. It’s cold and our breath clouds the air.
“Thank you,” he says as I hail a cab on Broadway.
“For what?” I turn to say.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve felt inspired.”
“Me, too,” I say before I can stop myself. Because even though my being inspired has nothing to do with our mission, it’s true. The chess game, the Cloisters, Noah’s surprising apartment, and the invitation to Positano—it all mingles in my mind and makes me feel a little dazzled as I wave good night to Noah through the window of the cab.
Chapter Fourteen
Meg: Last-minute stroke of genius. Meet me at Color Me Mine in Tribeca at 11 a.m. Yes, it’s a kid birthday party. But it’s hosted by our class’s one and only Hot Dad. And he’s single. Boom.
Rufus: And I’m on this text thread because . . . ? It is a known fact that I do Pilates Saturday a.m.
Meg: Because if you vote that Lanie should go, and I vote that Lanie should go, then we out-vote her ass two-to-one. Ruf, you can meet us after Pilates for cake.
Rufus: Lanie, your resistance is preemptively overruled. See you ladies 12:15ish. That cake better not be gluten-free.
I see my friends’ messages as I’m getting out of the shower. I’m running late to meet Noah in Brooklyn in an hour, so I dash off an apologetic response.
Me: Sorry, y’all. Plans today. Maybe I can catch Hot Dad at the next party.
Meg: That is not how Hot Dad–physics work. If you don’t move on him at this party, a wiser woman will. Come on, Lanie! Blow off your plans so you can blow Hot Dad. Someone needs to confirm our class’s suspicions of his well-endowment. I’ll throw in a ceramic unicorn. . . .
Me: I can’t blow off my plans. They’re with Noa Callaway. Remember—the book that’s five months late . . . and that all our jobs depend on?
My phone rings with a FaceTime from Meg. When I pick up, Rufus is already on the call.
“You’re wearing that to Noa Callaway?” Rufus says, taking in my jean jacket with the fleece lining through the screen. “I mean, you look fresh, but . . . it’s Noa Callaway. I would have thought BD’s Fendi suit?”
I laugh to myself because, great minds, but also—I can’t tell Rufus that Noah has given me something of a dress code for today’s mystery adventure in Red Hook. Jeans and a “sturdy jacket.”
I know my friends assume that I’m having a regular, business style meeting with Noa Callaway. One where we sit in an office with two laptops between us, a gallon of coffee, and pencils behind our ears.