It’s sunset, and the view out the windows is astonishing—a horizon of full blue ocean and pink-hued, endless sky. I wander out to the terrace. A warm breeze rustles by, carrying the scent of wisteria blossoming in a great urn on the terrace next door.
Two flights below, a woman in a black bikini swims leisurely laps in the hotel’s infinity pool. Farther down, on the pebble beach, oversize umbrellas make multicolored rows. Bodies glisten on the sand. Sailboats dot the sea.
It’s the kind of overwhelming beauty that makes me feel a little lonely. I turn on my phone to let BD and Meg and Rufus know that I’ve arrived.
I laugh at the selfies I’d taken earlier in the airport lot. There’s one I thought was good, my face in the side mirror of the Ducati. But I see now how terrified I was. Half a day in Italy has already done wonders for my complexion, and my mental state. I’m about to snap a better photo of myself on the balcony now when an email appears on my screen.
From: [email protected]
Date: May 17, 7:06 p.m.
Subject: Three Things You’ve Been Waiting For
Dear Lanie,
I hope this finds you on a balcony at sunset, glass of prosecco in hand.
Please find herewith three things you’ve been waiting for. The first is an apology.
（Come on, you know you’ve been waiting for it.）
I’m sorry I was _______ the other night.
（I see you on that balcony, rolling your eyes. I spent twenty minutes searching for the most precise descriptor. Was I weird? Distant? Cold? Brusque? （Brusque was my top contender, and one you’d line-edit into oblivion.） Or perhaps, simply, blank? I defer to you.）
The truth is, when you came by my apartment, I was scared . . . about the other two things you’ve been waiting for from me. They are attached. Once you read them, I think you’ll understand.
Yours,
Noah
P.S. Regardless of how things turn out, I hope someday I’ll get to hear about your ride down the Amalfi Coast.
Regardless of how things turn out?
Then I read the names of the attachments. The first is titled “Chapter One.” The second—“NYT Op-Ed, run date 5/18.”
I click on the second attachment.
BY ANY OTHER NAME
BY NOAH ROSS
You don’t know me, but you or someone you love may have read one of my books. For the past ten years, I have been publishing love stories under the pseudonym Noa Callaway.
A pseudonymous writer never meets their readers. I’ve never had a book signing, nor bantered with a fan on social media. My publisher has managed all publicity on my books’ behalf. Every six months they send me a sack of letters from Noa Callaway fans. I never read them. They’re not for me. They were written to Noa Callaway, and I am only Noa Callaway when I’m writing, never anytime else.
This distance from the readers of my books has bought me an ignorance, one that I was wrong never to challenge. I thought my stories ended with their final pages; I thought it didn’t matter who I was.
That changed this year when I met someone who saw through me. Who forced me to see through myself. And when I looked close at what I was doing, I couldn’t sleep at night.
I am a cis white straight affluent male. My email address is [email protected]. If you are reading this and you are outraged, I don’t blame you. Feel free to let me know.
This op-ed and its aftermath may be the end of my career, but I can’t hide behind a name any longer. I want to be honest with my readers, with whom I am finding I have more in common than I ever knew.
The other day, I sat down and read some of Noa Callaway’s fan mail. I’m sorry for the slow responses, but it’s only now that I know what to say:
To June: Like you, I also enjoy reading in the tub on rainy days. Thanks for your book recommendations; I’ll check them out. The best thing I’ve read recently is a tie between Julie Otsuka’s Buddha in the Attic and Heather Christle’s The Crying Book.
To Jennifer: It’s hard to pin down what inspired Ninety-Nine Things. I wrote my first novel out of hope, back before I ever expected to publish, or ever dreamed I’d use a pseudonym. I had never experienced the love I wrote for that character, but I wanted it to be true. I suppose I’ve been trying to write it into existence ever since.
To MacKenzie: Fifteen publishers rejected my first novel before I found my home at Peony Press. Keep writing. Finish your stories. It only takes one person to say yes.
To Sharon: I’m so sorry about your husband. My mother suffers from the same disease. It’s heartbreak in slow motion. You’ll be in my thoughts.
And to Lanie: Your letter to me is a decade old. I’m sorry this took me so long. Wherever you are when you read this, I want you to know that I agree: I think we could become great friends, too.
With my heart in my throat, I close the email, scroll through my contacts, and press call.
“Lanie?” The voice on the other end sounds surprised. “How’s Italy?”
“Meg,” I breathe. “Check your email.”
I forward her Noah’s op-ed then wait on the phone as she reads it.
“Ohmigod,” she says. “Ohmigod. OhmiGOD. Lanie, do you know what this means? He likes you back! That last line? That’s . . . wow.”
“What?” I say. “That’s your takeaway? Meg, put on your publicist sombrero. We need to make plans. ASAP. Besides, he explicitly said he thinks we could be friends. Has there ever been a clearer kiss-off in the history of unrequited romance?”
“Speaking as your friend,” she says, “I’ll agree to disagree. Speaking as Noa Callaway’s publicist . . .” There’s a long pause on the line. Then a sigh. “Well, as mea culpas go, it’s not the worst. I’m not saying there won’t be hell to pay, but ultimately, my prediction, after I do my job of course, is that there will be no permanent cancellation of Noa Callaway.”
“Really?”
“Give me a few hours. Let me see what I can do.”
“What about Sue? Should I—”
“You should enjoy the Amalfi Coast,” she says firmly. “There’s nothing more you can do from there. I’ll meet with Sue today. We’ll circle back later. I mean it, Lanie. Hit the pool, sip a cocktail, leave this to me.”
“Thank you, Meg.”
When we hang up, I’m shivery with nerves. How can I leave this alone? How can I not obsess over Sue’s reaction when she reads this op-ed? How am I not going to be fired?
But . . . if anyone can handle this, it’s Meg. And she’s right, it is a good apology, as far as apologies go. I picture Noah writing it. I picture his hands on the keyboard. I picture—
Pool, I tell myself, gazing down over my balcony at its infinity in the moonlight. Cocktail.
Sure. But first, Chapter One.
CHAPTER ONE
Edward waited at the stone bench in Central Park, his stomach tied in knots. He had been longing for this day for two years. He had been dreading it, too.
When he saw her—Dr. Elizabeth Collins, in her Fendi suit, striding elegantly toward the chess house—he fought an urge to run. If he could get out of here, he could perpetuate the lie a little longer. But the reality of Elizabeth stopped him cold. She was so similar to the photograph he carried. And yet in life, the way she moved, like a ballet dancer, was so much more vibrant than any fantasy.