He’s quiet for a moment, his eyes moving over my list. Alice rests her chin on his forearm, which is her most endearing gesture. I notice Noah glancing down at her, his lips nearly twitching to a smile. Suddenly, Noah picks up the pen. I hold my breath as he crosses out a few items on my list. Then a few more.

  The Marilyn Monroe subway grate—gone. I can live with that. Though it could have been fun to gender bend the flashing scene from The Seven Year Itch.

  The Liberty Pole at city hall—also out. I’d thought maybe a jury duty meet-cute, but okay.

  But when he crosses out Pomander Walk, I can’t keep quiet. Meg made up with Mama Gluten Free to get me those keys.

  “Pomander Walk is magical,” I argue. “It’s this romantic pedestrian-only secret alley on the Upper West Side. It feels like you’re in a Dickens novel—”

  “I know,” he says curtly. “I’ve seen it. I’m not writing Great Expectations.”

  “You’re not generating them, either,” I mutter.

  “Could you not hover over me while I do this?” he asks.

  I back off and move to the window to give him space. Even though I wasn’t hovering, merely trying to help.

  Truthfully, it’s nicer at the window, getting away from the gravitational pull of Noah’s negativity. I gaze outside at the bright afternoon, watching one of the red CitySights buses lumber down my block. This line of hop-on-hop-off bus tours passes my apartment an average of five times a day. A speaker blasts the same recorded spiel each time. Like everyone else on East Forty-Ninth Street, I have it memorized. I could recite it in my sleep.

  “Katharine Hepburn lived for more than sixty years in this Turtle Bay brownstone . . .” I say along with the recorded speech.

  “Did you just do the tour bus monologue?” Noah snickers from the couch.

  “No,” I say. “Okay, yes. I didn’t realize I said it out loud. When you’ve lived someplace for seven years, you sort of become one with its soundtrack.” I glance at him, wondering if he knows what the hell I’m talking about. It’s probably quiet as a tomb in his penthouse thirty-four stories above Central Park.

  “Do the M50 bus,” he says.

  Without thinking, I deliver a serviceable impression of rusty brakes, rumbling hydraulics, and the drone of the accessibility ramp being lowered. Then I remember Noah Ross is staring at me, and I get embarrassed and go silent.

  I’ve clearly embarrassed him, too, because he doesn’t even acknowledge my attempt at being a bus. He only stares at me, then changes the subject: “So Katharine Hepburn lived here?”

  “She lived across the street, which is why it costs about ten grand more a month to live over there. I went to look at her brownstone once, when it was listed. A friend got me into a pocket open house. It was really nice. You could picture her there, having toast and tea and giving Spencer Tracy the business.”

  “You like Katharine Hepburn?” he says.

  “She’s Katharine Hepburn.” What more is there to say?

  “What’s your favorite of her movies?”

  “Adam’s Rib,” I say, hoping that film’s battle-of-the-sexes theme isn’t lost on him. “Bringing Up Baby is great, too. What’s your favorite?”

  He’s looking at me funny, just refusing to hold up his end of the conversation.

  “Wait.” My heart lifts. “Are you getting a book idea?”

  He rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “No, Lanie, you did not just solve everything by reciting a tour bus speech.”

  “You say that like it would be a bad thing. . . .”

  “This may come as a surprise to you,” he says, “but I would like to write another book. I’m here, aren’t I? I am even entertaining this absurd proposal of yours.” He shakes my list at me.

  “Oh, you are entertaining it? Because I thought you were just crossing shit out.”

  “I’ve narrowed it down to five . . . experiences I am open to having with you.”

  “Five out of fifty?” I say. “My houseplants have better odds of survival, and my houseplants live a dismal life.”

  “Five items have made the cut,” Noah says, “if you can agree to my conditions.”

  I feel my brows knit together. “Conditions?”

  “Why don’t you sit back down and I’ll explain?”

  “Thanks for the invitation,” I say, sitting back down in my own pink tweed recliner. He is so irritating. “Talk.”

  “I can agree to the following,” Noah says, consulting the page. “The medieval gardens at the Cloisters; the Minetta Brook in the West Village; Seven Thousand Oaks in Chelsea; Breezy Point in Queens; and Poe Cottage in the Bronx.”

  These are fine selections. I signal my approval with a slight nod. “And your conditions?”

  “We’re going to alternate,” he says. “We visit one site from your list. And then one site of my choosing.”

  No, no, no. My list was carefully selected. Intentional. Productive. I feel confident that if I agree to this condition, Noah Ross is going to make a joke of the endeavor. And I’ll end up wasting my time at some depressing outer-borough diner.

  “I’ll take it seriously,” he says. “I promise.”

  I swallow. I don’t really have a choice. “Then I agree.”

  “Good. Condition number two,” he says, “we don’t meet here again.”

  I glance around. “Here, meaning my apartment? What is your problem with my apartment?”

  “It’s distracting. Can we just agree to meet at the sites from now on?”

  “Fine,” I say. “Anything else, Highness?”

  “One more,” he says. “Once we agree on an idea . . . assuming we can agree on an idea, you leave me alone to write it. No babysitting. No Fifty Ways to get Noah to Chapter Two lists, et cetera.”

  I think about my trial promotion, how so many things will have to go right in order for it to become permanent. How hard it will be to trust this man to make them go right. Part of me would love a good long respite from interacting with him. The other part of me is scared he’ll fuck it up.

  I take a breath and meet his eyes. “We will agree on an idea, because we have to. And once we do, if you can assure me I’ll have a draft in my hands by May fifteenth, you won’t hear so much as a peep out of me.”

  “What about a squeak? Like the brakes of the M50 bus?” he teases. It’s the world’s driest tease, like a Vegas showgirl hairstyle from the eighties.

  I give him a closed-mouth smile. “Let’s just say it’ll be like we’ve never met.”

  Noah puts out his hand. “Then I think we have a deal.”

  Chapter Nine

  The following Saturday night, Ryan and I have managed to snag two barstools at Grand Army in Boerum Hill right after a sold-out Jenny Lewis concert. We’re clinking two flutes of rosé champagne as the waiter sets down a dozen oysters on the half shell. The circular bar is cozy and candlelit, the oysters briny and ice-cold. The restaurant is packed, which I find romantic. There’s nothing that makes me feel more a part of my city than being holed up at a bar filled with interesting people having sparkling conversations.

  To Ryan, on the other hand, crowds equal “trendy,” read: overhyped and overpriced. If he walks into a place and there’s a mural painted on exposed brick, with a hashtag inviting guests to Instagram their visit, he’s basically out. But he did grow up on his dad’s boat on the Eastern Shore, which translates to a weakness for fresh oysters.

  He takes his with Tabasco and a squeeze of lemon. I’m a mignonette and horseradish girl. Most nights, this simple tableau would be enough to make me very happy, but I’ve been a mess ever since meeting Noa Callaway, and I don’t see my streak ending anytime soon.

  I know I told BD I’d tell Ryan, but the truth is, even if I weren’t bound by this NDA, Noa Callaway’s identity—his maleness—would be a hard topic to broach with Ryan. Either he wouldn’t see why Noah’s gender is a betrayal of our readers, or it would become leverage in Ryan’s case that this may not be my dream job, that moving to D.C. holds the answer. And/or his jealousy radar might go up once I told him about the Fifty Ways plans.

  Which would be absurd, of course. Noah and I can barely stand each other in person.

  Also nagging at me: BD’s brunch comment about no marriage getting everything right, but how important it is to find the person you can turn to no matter what. I know she meant it gently, lovingly, but it bothers me to consider that she thinks something might be wrong with my relationship.

  Was it just a simpler time back in my grandmother’s day? No, I know I’m selling BD short by even wondering that. She was married to my grandfather for fifty years. Like everything else in her life, she worked hard for it. Ryan and I should be so lucky to have a marriage as solid all our lives.

  “You sure you’re okay?” he asks, fixing himself a Kumamoto. “You’ve been acting funny all weekend.”

  “I’m just stressed,” I say.

  And lying. Also lying. Not a great look on me.

  “Work again?” Ryan sighs, putting down the oyster he was about to shoot. “Listen, Lanie, I’ve been thinking, and I just don’t think this is good for you.”

  My champagne sticks in my throat and I cough. “What do you mean? What’s not good for me?”

  “This job—if it’s not one thing with your work, it’s another. A week ago, you were so stressed about meeting the diva that you canceled your trip to D.C. Then, as soon as you did meet her, you transferred all that stress into panic over some arbitrary deadline.”

  “This deadline is the opposite of arbitrary. It matters to Peony’s bottom line. It matters to Noa’s readers. It matters to me—”

  “Okay, okay,” he says. “Point taken.”

  I’m working myself up—and sensing Ryan shutting down. He’s so focused on the oysters, it’s like he’s trying to make a pearl. Does he want me to fail with Noa Callaway? Does he want me to get fired?

  “I don’t know anyone with a demanding job who doesn’t stress about work,” I say. “You stress about work all the time.”

  “That’s different,” he says and tips the oyster to his lips.

  “How is it different?” I raise my voice, drawing eyes from the couple next to us at the bar.

  “Lanie,” Ryan says in his calm-down voice. It usually works, but not today.

  “Please, enlighten me.”

  Ryan sighs. “Because we both know the trajectory of my career. It’s different from yours. After we get married, you’re moving to D.C.” He looks at me, like, What? “Sometimes I wonder if the reality of that move has even occurred to you. When are you going to tell Sue that you’re relocating?”

  He knows I’ve been putting off that conversation. Sue is a tremendous publisher, but she keeps out of her employees’ personal lives. She knows that I’m engaged, but I doubt she has any idea Ryan lives in D.C. My trial promotion has not made me any more eager to tell her.

  “Best-case scenario,” Ryan says, “you’re commuting half the week. What are you going to do, sleep on Meg’s couch? And what about after we have kids? You complain all the time about this job. Is that really what you want to model for our family—”

  “I do not complain all the time!”

  “You might not notice it,” he says, “but you do. Maybe this isn’t your dream job anymore. In D.C., you could have—”

  “Don’t say it—”

  “A fresh start—”

  “I will walk if you bring up that job at the Library of the Congress again.” I cringe, picturing tasteful archives, tidy shelves, and drawers stretching into organized infinity.

  “You told me once you’d love to learn to read Braille!” Ryan says. “And Deborah Ayers is a very connected woman. If you’d been at the party last weekend, you would’ve met her. All I did was mention that you’ll be transitioning to D.C. soon, and she said she’d be more than happy to sit down and discuss your interests.”

  Before I can groan, Ryan fills my hands with his. They’re warm and familiar. I squeeze them, wanting to fold myself inside him. But something holds me back. It’s this feeling that if I fold myself inside Ryan, I might get lost. Irretrievably. I’ve never felt that way before, and it startles me.

  “You know what I think you need?” he asks.

  “What?”

  “A really top-notch couples’ massage. I’ll book it for us. Next Friday night, when you come to D.C. It’ll knock us both out, and we’ll wake up fresh for the chili cook-off at my parents’ country club Saturday morning.”

  Ryan used to joke with me about his parents’ many social functions, but sometime in the last year he changed. Instead of laughing with me about the country club’s penchant for taxidermy, he gifted me the exact same sweater I spotted on two of his friends’ girlfriends at the last event.

  “I’ve never been good at getting massages,” I say.

  “I’ve never met anyone who’s bad at getting massages. You’ve never said no to a Ryan-rubdown.” He jazz-hands at me, trying to lighten the mood.

  “That’s different.” I look at him pointedly. “My mind just whirls. And I always feel like the masseuse can tell that I’m not being Zen enough.”

  “This is the best massage inside the Beltway. Everyone loves it. I promise, you will, too.” He runs his fingers through my hair. It’s tangled from walking in the wind after the concert.

  “Yeah, okay,” I say.

  “You don’t sound convinced.”

  “It’s just . . . it’s a massage. Not some magic spell that’s going to fix our problems.”

  “Our problems?” He shoots me an uneasy look. “I thought we were trying to address your stress.”

  “Ryan,” I say, turning toward him.

  “I mean, yeah, I noticed you’ve been distant all week. I guess I should have said something sooner,” he says, speaking quickly. “But work’s been crazy. Maybe I’ve been distracted. It happens. We just need to reconnect.” He signals to the bartender for another round.

  It used to be easy for us to connect. Now, even the couple of days a week when Ryan and I are together, it feels like we’re pretty far apart.

  I know he’s trying to help, and that he can’t really do that without knowing the specifics of my problem. A romantic reconnection is probably what we need. Then I could open up to him about Noah.

  I turn to him, our knees overlapping under the bar. I touch my forehead to his, aware of how uncomplicatedly romantic we probably look to the table of thirtysomething ladies behind us. I’m often aware of that kind of thing with Ryan, probably because women check him out all the time.

  “I’ve got it,” I say. “What about that motorcycle ride through the Appalachians we’ve always wanted to take?”

  It’s a trip that doesn’t need advance planning, no airplane tickets or hard-to-get hotel reservations. We could go on a whim as soon as Noah gets an idea and retreats into his writing cave. A long springtime weekend on the bike with Ryan, stopping at B and Bs along the way, would be the perfect thing to distract me from wondering what’s happening with Noah’s word count.

  “Or we could rent a camper van?” Ryan says, “Sleep under the stars. It’d be good practice for future family vacations.”

  “A motorcycle would be amazing,” I push. “And it’s so us.”

  He squints. “What do you mean, ‘so us’?”

  “It’s how we met? On your bike? Last summer we went for a joyride every weekend we were in D.C.?” I feel like knocking on his skull to see if he’s actually in there.

  “You know, just because we met on a motorcycle and rode it a lot last summer doesn’t mean we’re bound to travel that way exclusively for the rest of our lives.”

  “I didn’t say we’re bound to anything—”

  “What about our luggage? What if it rains? What if I want to have a few glasses of wine with dinner? Honestly, Lanie, it sounds like more of a headache than it’s worth.”

  “Backpacks instead of roller bags. A couple of those raincoats that fold into little pouches,” I say, taking out his catalog of complaints one by one. “And if you want to drink, then I can drive.” I nuzzle into his neck. “Think you’re man enough to hold on?”

  “Since when do you drive a motorcycle?” he asks. “You let your regular driver’s license expire when you moved to New York.”

  “I could learn,” I say. “I can get my license in time for a trip. That way you don’t have to do all the driving. I could practice on your bike. You could teach me—”

  “Actually,” Ryan says and clears his throat. “I don’t think that’s going to happen.”

  “Why not?”

  There’s a long pause, where I hear the background noise of the restaurant like the roar of a Roman coliseum.

  “I was going to tell you,” Ryan finally says. He puts a hand on my thigh in a way that makes me nervous. “I sold my bike, Lanie.”

  “You what?” I gasp. “But you loved that bike . . . I loved that bike. We loved that bike. Why would you ever sell it?”

  “Baby,” he says, rubbing my leg. “This friend of a friend offered me twice what the bike is worth. I was thinking about you, and how, when you move in with me, we’ll need that garage space for a second car. Maybe a Volvo. Plus, once we have kids, our priorities are going to change. It won’t be long before I’m running for office, and a motorcycle is just a liability. I don’t want to be ‘that biker dude’ in the attack ads.”

  Attack ads? Priorities? I reach for my champagne and guzzle it.

  “That bike was the beginning of our story.”

  “Everything’s a story with you,” he says.

  What about the feeling of freedom each time we hopped on the bike together? What about the wind on our skin? Or the front-row seat to the sights and smells of a city, how everything changes with the seasons? What about those few wonderful weeks each spring when the cherry blossoms bloom?