“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.

  He saw her looking around, for Corporal Richard Willows, of course. The tall, blond, handsome soldier whose chin she had stitched after a bar fight two days before Willows shipped out to Vietnam. The soldier she’d had one date with, a walk in Central Park, two years ago. The soldier she believed she’d been corresponding with ever since. The soldier who had died in Edward’s arms during their first week of combat.

  As Richard slipped toward death—Edward would never forget this—the man had produced a photograph and two letters from Dr. Elizabeth Collins of New York. As well as a half-completed letter he was writing back to her.

  “Tell her,” he begged Edward. “Tell her if I’d had the chance, I know I would have loved her.”

  Edward meant to do just that. He barely knew Willows; they had shared a few beers over a game of chess, but that was it. He had sat down at camp that night, shaking and filthy and starving, and attempted a letter breaking the news to Dr. Collins. He had pored over her own two letters to Willows. And that photograph. She was sitting on a picnic blanket. Smiling. Squinting into the sun.

  Edward still couldn’t believe what he’d done next.

  He lied. He had no beautiful girl to write to back home. Had no hope of correspondence with a wit such as Dr. Elizabeth Collins. He was as lonely as any other soldier, young, and scared, and far too far from home.

  He would tell her the truth in the next letter, but first, he’d try Richard Willows on. Just to see what it felt like to write to a woman like that.

  Only, Edward never did tell her. And somehow two years passed, and what happened was he wrote to Elizabeth every single day he was at war. He wrote her poetry. He wrote of his childhood and his family. He told her things about himself he’d never told anyone else. He signed them Corporal Richard Willows, feeling sick with guilt—until her next letter came. And then he read her words, hungrily, and the cycle just continued. He was too amazed—by her sense of humor, her intelligence, and her spirit—to stop writing Elizabeth back.

  They fell in love.

  And now he had to break her heart.

  “Dr. Collins,” he said, rising from the table at the chess house. To be so near her after all this time—it made it hard to speak. It made it hard to breathe.

  Her eyes settled on him for an instant, then passed on. Of course. She was looking for the man she loved. Not the shorter, dark-haired man before her. It crushed Edward, but he persevered.

  “Dr. Collins,” he said again. “You’re here to meet Richard Willows?”

  She turned to him again, her beauty overwhelming. “Yes. Who are you?”

  “My name is Edward Velevis,” he said, summoning all his courage. “Mr. Willows . . . can’t be here today. He gave me a message for you. I have carried it too long. Will you please sit down?”

  Elizabeth sat. She waited. She was quiet. Edward could tell she was alarmed. He must choose now or never to tell her every truth that he’d been hiding.

  “Elizabeth, Richard is dead.”

  “No,” she gasped. “He can’t be.”

  “Richard Willows died on August eighteenth, 1968. I was with him at Camp Faulkner—”

  “That’s impossible! He wrote to me only last week. To arrange this meeting. Who are you? Why would you say such a thing?” Elizabeth stood up. She started walking quickly away.

  Edward couldn’t let her leave before he told her. “It was a land mine,” he said, following her. “He died in my arms. He asked me to write to you. So I did.”

  Something in his tone had reached her, scared her. She turned to him. Each was on the brink of tears. He watched her understand his words. And when she did, her face twisted in horror. She started running.

  He chased her like a lunatic. What else could he do? She shouted for him to leave her alone.

  “Please,” he begged. It stopped her running and she spun on him. He touched her wrist. A bolt of heat pulsed through him. She looked down as if she felt it, too. But when she met his eyes, hers were daggers.

  “How dare you?” she whispered. It broke him in two.

  “I know you must hate me. But please know I have loved you for two years. I love you now more than ever. And if you ever change your mind, and want to hear my side of this story, I will be here, right here.” He pointed at the earth beneath his feet.

  “You’re going to wait a long time.”

  “That’s all right,” he said, and meant it. “I will be here every week. At just this time. In just this place.” He looked down at his watch. “Five-thirty.” He gazed across the park. “At the north side of the Pond, right across from the Gapstow Bridge.” He met her eyes and tried to tell her through them that he loved her.

  “However long it takes, Collins. If it means a chance to be with you, I’ll be here every Saturday at sunset for the rest of my life.”

  The End

  Chapter Eighteen

  “I recommend the octopus alla griglia to begin,” says Noa Callaway’s Italian editor when we meet for lunch the next day.

  When I emailed Gabriella late last night and asked if we could talk before the launch, she suggested this open-air trattoria on Positano’s sea-facing Via Marina Grande. We’re sitting at a shady corner table with a prime view for people watching.

  The scene along Via Marina Grande is the opposite of my hotel terrace vista. Down here, you get the sense of being nestled in the arms of Positano’s craggy coastline, crammed with Technicolor houses stacked into the hills. It’s the kind of cozy beach vibe I’d usually find charming—but today I’m so jittery, it’s making me claustrophobic.

  Gabriella studies her menu, unaware of my knees bobbing beneath the table. “And then, the smoked mozzarella tortellini con brodo di parmigiano,” she says. “My six-year-old son calls it ‘cheese soup of the gods.’ ”

  I run my finger along the edge of my fork, dig my sandaled toes into the pebbly sand under our table, and listen to the bees buzzing around terra-cotta pots of sunflowers. Ever since last night, I’ve needed touchstones to confirm that this is not a dream, that what I read in Chapter One was real. Real words Noah Ross really typed onto a page. And really sent to me.

  It was a code. A not very secret one. A writ large and gorgeous code, illuminating what our first meeting in Central Park had meant to him. And yet, if anyone else in the world had read it, they would think the scene was purely the start—or in this case, the end—of a grand and fictional love story.

  I know it’s more than that. It’s a question: Do you feel the way I do?

  “I do,” I say aloud—then catch myself as Gabriella meets my eyes across the table.

  “You do what?” she says.

  “I do . . . want octopus. And cheese soup.” I can’t imagine eating anything, but I’m trying not to let it show. “I see a career in marketing for your son.” I stop pretending to look at the menu and raise my glass of chilled Ravello bianco to clink with Gabriella’s.

  As the waiter sets down a tray of lemony tomato bruschetta, Gabriella stretches her long legs from beneath our table until her square-toed white sling backs nestle in the sand. She is bright and charming, with wavy red hair she constantly tucks behind her ears, a long string of black pearls around her neck, and a flowy midi dress the same turquoise as the sea. Under normal circumstances, we could be friends, but I know as soon as I tell her about Noah’s op-ed, and that it’s probably landing in people’s New York Times notifications . . . right about now—our lunch will go from pleasant culinary lark to Fellini-esque firing squad.

  “Now,” she says, holding out the plate to offer me a slice of bruschetta, “you said there was something you wanted to discuss?”

  I have to tell her. It’s the decent thing to do.

  The waiter sets down two plates of gorgeously charred octopus, giving me an excellent opportunity to stall. I stab an olive with my fork and look out at the beach as I chew. Everyone I see appears to be part of an amorous pair—holding hands, kissing, sharing a scoop of pink gelato, rubbing sunblock into someone else’s bronzed shoulders.

  If I’m hungry for anything, it’s what those people out there have.

  I called Noah twice last night, and both times his phone went straight to voicemail.

  I remind myself that I am grappling with two (mostly) separate issues. One is the giant question of what will happen when I finally do talk to Noah. The other is my responsibility as his editor to prepare Gabriella for the op-ed.

  I’ll tackle the less scary one first.

  “It has to do with the launch tonight,” I say to Gabriella.

  “Of course.” She smiles, taking a tiny bite of octopus and chewing languorously. “I will tell you all about it. This is our biggest event to date. And we’re very proud to pull it off. We were inspired by your version in New York, and have invited two hundred and sixty-six of Noa Callaway’s biggest fans from all throughout Italy. There will be cocktails and caprese, millefoglie—which is our wedding cake, sugared almonds for good luck. A famous wedding DJ is coming down from Rome. And of course, the highlight of the evening will be you. Your speech. We were so moved by your words in the video, Lanie. We are honored to have you here to celebrate with us.”

  “Thank you, but—”

  “In fact, there is much interest from the media, including many requests to speak to you.”

  “To me?”

  “Of course! You are Noa Callaway’s ambassador. You know all the secrets.” She winks at me. “If you are comfortable, I would like to confirm some interviews with our biggest newspapers and TV stations. Everyone wants to know what Noa Callaway is really like behind the scenes. I have prepped the journalists—they know you cannot tell them, but they are Italian, so they will ask anyway! If you are happy to do the interviews, I can confirm for this afternoon, before the party?”

  “Gabriella,” I say as the waiter comes to whisk away our starters, setting down the most aromatic pasta. It smells like heaven in a bowl, and I wish I weren’t too anxious to enjoy it. “There’s something I need to tell you. Actually, it may be easiest to show you.”

  I take out my phone and pull up the op-ed. I place it on the table near her wine. She takes out turquoise reading glasses from her purse and slides them on.

  While she reads, I think of Noah. I think of Chapter One. The Fendi suit. The way Elizabeth shows up at the park, naïve and optimistic. The way the truth crushes her. The way she runs. And then—

  If it means a chance to be with you, I’ll be here every Saturday at sunset for the rest of my life.

  When Gabriella looks up at me, I realize there are tears in my eyes. She puts her hand out, takes mine in it.

  “Lanie.”

  “I’m so sorry. I think it’s right that the truth come out about Noah, but I had no idea this piece was coming, that it would publish now. I didn’t want to ruin your event.”

  “I understand,” Gabriella says, swirling her wine thoughtfully. “Secrets have their own lives.” She picks up her phone and types furiously. “But I’m canceling your interviews this afternoon.”

  I nod. Gabriella knows her market, and it may be for the best to distance myself from the Italian launch entirely—

  “You’ll need to save your strength for the party,” she says.

  “You still want me to speak at the launch?”

  Gabriella sets her phone down, looks up at me, and crosses her arms. “I think you owe our readers an explanation.”

  “Yes. And I will do my best to give it to them.” I sit up straighter in my chair. I square my shoulders. “I believe in the truth of Noa Callaway and in Noah Ross. I believe in this book, and the ones coming after it. I didn’t come all this way to hide.”

  “Very well.” Gabriella smiles at me, approving. “I don’t think the guests will go so far as to actually run you into the sea, but just so you’re prepared, they will expect catharsis.”

  * * *

  With eight hours to go before a couple hundred Italian women eat me like an appetizer at an elegant party that will be livestreamed around the world, I rev the Ducati’s engine and wonder which way to go. What does one do with a free afternoon on the Amalfi Coast, a yearning heart, a looming comeuppance, and a man on the other side of an ocean who won’t pick up his phone?

  When I see a sign on the side of the Amalfi Coast highway for the road to Castel San Giorgio, I recognize the name. I remember I’d read it’s the launch site for hang gliders over the Amalfi Coast. I couldn’t have planned this better if I’d tried. I wind the bike up the long medieval road and park in a pebble lot behind an ancient Greek temple.

  I come upon a woman about my age, inspecting the parachutes of two gliders next to a tangle of harnesses and helmets. She has a kind face and a lime green bandana in her hair.

  She waves when she sees me. “Ciao!” she calls, unleashing a torrent of Italian. Noticing my confusion, she points at me. “Mariana?”

  “No.” I shake my head. “I—”

  “Sorry,” she says in English, more slowly. “I thought you were my afternoon reservation. What can I do for you?”

  “Do you take walk-ins?”

  She clicks her tongue and looks down at her watch. “Usually, we are booked at least a month in advance. But today, my party is late. You are in luck. I’m Cecilia.”

  “Lanie.”

  She holds out a harness to me. “Are you ready?”

  I hesitate for a moment and then step into the harness, let Cecilia tug and tighten a dozen different straps. I summon the hang-gliding scene in Fifty Ways, the commitment the characters make as they leap into the abyss.

  They can’t see where they’re going, but it doesn’t stop them. They have each other and the wings of love to lift them.

  I look down at the wooden ramp under my feet. To call it rudimentary would be a compliment. Ten feet long, it starts in mud and ends in clouds. This is what we’ll run off the edge of together.

  Vertigo grips me, and I have to look away. It seems suddenly, urgently mad that anyone runs off this cliff with only a thin yellow sail between them and death.

  “What do you think?” Cecilia asks me, bringing me back to the cliff. “Do you really want to do this?”

  “ ‘Life’s greatest mystery,’ ” I say, “ ‘is whether we shall die bravely.’ ”

  “I love that scene,” Cecilia says, securing my harness tightly at my hips. She hands me a helmet, makes sure I thread the strap through tightly. “I love all of Noa Callaway’s books.”

  “Me too,” I say. “I’m . . .” In love with him! “I’m Noa’s editor in New York.”

  “No!” Cecilia squeals. “I would say I’m her biggest fan, but my boyfriend is even more crazy for her books. Tell me what she’s like in person?”

  I’m relieved to know the op-ed hasn’t made its way to every corner of the world yet. I think about how to answer Cecilia’s question, and the words that come first feel right.

  “One of my favorite people in the world,” I say. I give myself goose bumps, but Cecilia doesn’t notice.

  “I’m in town for the launch of Noa’s new book,” I say. “It’s tonight in Positano, at the Bacio hotel. You should come. Bring your boyfriend. I’ll put you on the list.”

  “We will come!” she says, and tugs the last ropes tighter.

  She takes my arm, leading me to the cliff’s edge. Now she attaches both our harnesses to the metal inner frame of the glider.

  “On the count of three, we will run together. All you have to do is not stop running. When you think you’ve reached the end, get braver,” she explains.

  “You make it sound easy.”

  “I don’t know if it’s easy,” she says, “but it’s worth it.”

  “How far is it to the bottom?”

  “I’m not sure. Two thousand meters?”

  There’s a metal bar in front of us that Cecilia explains she’ll use to steer. There’s a triangular sail the color of the sun over our heads. There’s ten feet of flat plank before us, and an unseen expanse of adventure beyond. Through the drape of clouds, there are mountains, villages, and sea. And the rest of my life. I can’t see it yet, and I know it won’t be easy, but I need to make it worth it.

  I cry out as we start running, but the sound isn’t terror; it’s triumph. My feet pound against the wood for ten paces and then, though I feel nothing beneath me, I’m still running. On air. On faith.

  A gust of wind catches our glider, and I feel both of my legs buoyed upward until my full body is parallel to the earth, like a bird’s. We puncture the clouds and the glory of the coastline comes into view. A panoply of green and gold earth spreads beneath us, pastel villages and glittering blue water as far as I can see. We’re flying. I have felt nothing so exhilarating in my life.