“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: elainebloom@peonypress.com

  To: noacallaway@protonmail.com

  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.

  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.”

  “He was thinking about static cling. That’s what our marriage is: static cling.”

  “So the flowers . . .” Rufus prompts me.

  “Don’t worry,” I say. “They aren’t from Ryan.”

  “Good,” Meg says, “because that would have thrown a real wrench in Operation Get Lanie Laid this Friday.”

  I won’t disappoint Meg by explaining that the odds of me getting laid on Friday are slim for many reasons. Not the least of which is that I need to be bushy-tailed on Saturday morning to escort Noah around the Cloisters. If you’d asked me a week ago, I probably couldn’t have thought of anything worse than having a hangover while hanging out with Noah Ross. But the truth is, since our escapade last Friday, I’ve been looking forward to our visit to the uptown cousin of the Met. Or at least, not dreading it. It feels possible now that he’ll actually get an idea for the book.

  “Noa Callaway sent them,” I say casually, looking at the tulips.

  Meg raises an eyebrow. Rufus plops down on a box of books.

  “Noa Callaway sends flowers?” Meg says.

  “The transition must be going well,” Rufus says.

  “My mother had a tulip garden,” I say, fingering the flowers’ waxy leaves. “I’ve always loved them.”

  After a minute I realize they’re both staring at me.

  “You okay there, Lanie?” Meg says.

  “Of course.”

  “Good,” Meg says. “Stay that way. Because Rufus has chosen Subject on Suffolk as our venue for Friday night. Dress to impress.”

  “Come on, Meglicist,” Rufus says, using his pet name for her. “You can do better than that.”

  “Okay . . .” she says, “dress to undress.”

  I laugh, because I know my friends well enough to hear in the cadence of their voices that this is a laugh line, but the truth is, I haven’t heard the past couple exchanges. My mind went back to my mother, to a memory I have of pulling weeds together when I was a little girl.

  As soon as Meg and Rufus leave, I write to Noah.

  From: elainebloom@peonypress.com

  To: noacallaway@protonmail.com

  Date: March 9, 11:45 a.m.

  Subject: wondering

  Thanks for the flowers. They’re beautiful. I’ve never seen tulips this color. My new office—which feels enormous and sort of like I’m squatting—needed them.

  Can I ask you something? Why do you send tulips, over any other flower? They’ve always been my favorite, and I’m wondering what they mean to you.

  From: noacallaway@protonmail.com

  To: elainebloom@peonypress.com

  Date: March 10, 11:53 a.m.

  Subject: re: wondering

  You told me once your middle name is Drenthe. I assumed it was a family name and guessed that you were Dutch. Was I wrong?

  See you Saturday. It’ll be fun.

  * * *

  “What’s this?” BD asks in a happy singsong over FaceTime Friday night. She’s been checking in on me each day since Ryan and I broke up. “Is that eyeliner I see? And a hint of bosom! Are you in a Lyft?”

  “Indeed, I am going out tonight,” I say as my driver turns down Second Avenue toward the Lower East Side cocktail spot Rufus claims I’ll love.

  The night is cool and a little damp, but I did go with one of my more low-cut dresses and heeled boots. Mostly because I knew Rufus and Meg would have been aghast if I’d shown up in what I really wanted to wear, a very comfortable tan thrift store turtleneck.