By Any Other Name(10)

Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today . . .

In wedding-style metaphors, my speech is meant to take the reader through the full journey of our work on the book. From the dramatic way Noa delivers manuscripts—via hard copy, in a metal briefcase, delivered by Brinks messenger—which can feel akin to a blind date. To the courtship phase of the editorial process—the bumps along the way being the best parts. I’ll pause for a laugh when I share Noa’s top contender for this book’s title: Twelve Divorce Filings. I swear, I thought she was going to die on that hill.

My phone buzzes.

HAVE FUN TONIGHT!!! Ryan texts.

I know he set an alarm reminder on his phone to write to me just when I’m about to take the stage, when my nerves are peaking and I can use encouragement. Then comes a follow-up: Can’t wait to see you after. And a third: Don’t be Bill Murray.

I roll my eyes, but I’m laughing. This is his way of saying Stay on script. From all the D.C. cocktail parties he’s dragged me to, Ryan has observed that I am either exceptionally articulate . . . or a total bumbling disaster. He says that I’m a land of extremes, just coasts, no middle ground.

Ready to rock, I text back, stepping out of the greenroom and into the candlelit party.

The hall is filled with the sound of women loving the same thing. These are my people, this is my crowd. I take the stage and stand beneath the altar, proud of Meg and her team and the stunning party they’ve brought to life. Proud of Noa and this dazzling book. And damn it, proud of myself. I reach for the mic, adjust it. Emotion swells in my chest. I wish my mom could see me.

I look out at these wonderful, passionate women, all two hundred and sixty-six of them, and am overcome by my new responsibility.

Then the feeling veers toward panic—that Noa Callaway will never write another book, that the disaster is unfolding on my watch—and suddenly I can’t see. The guests are a sea of red. There’s a droning in my ears. The speech has vanished from my brain.

I am either going to faint or throw up.

I fumble for my phone. I’ll simply open up the speech. But the facial recognition isn’t working, and I can’t hold the mic and the phone and my effing cake balloon and type in my password all at once. I’m going to have to abandon it.

And say what?

I open my mouth and a squeak emerges. My eyes fall on Meg in the front row, who is gaping at me, ferociously mouthing the words good evening.

“Good evening!” I belt out.

Meg palms her forehead and gives me a thumbs-up. At least my voice seems to have returned.

“I’m Lanie Bloom, and I’m Noa’s editor.”

The whispers throw me, and I remember that the rest of the office doesn’t know about my promotion. There’s true shock on Meg’s face, which she masks with a wild grin when we lock eyes. The words sound normal to our guests. Still, I shiver saying them.

Then, from the back of the room, I hear a single pair of hands clapping. The applause spreads forward, growing in volume. Aude whistles between her teeth. This buys me some time, and it refocuses my attention on who these readers are, on how much we have in common. I decide to speak from the heart.

“I’m also a fan of Noa’s. In fact, Noa’s books are the reason I became an editor. I’ve never stopped feeling honored to work on them. When I look out at you tonight, I know I’m among friends. That’s the Noa Callaway effect.” Another cheer rises from the group, and my eyes follow the sound to a young woman I recognize from previous events. She’s with her whole crew, as usual, and more than a few of them have Noa Callaway quotes tattooed on some part of their bodies. This is a good sign.

“Let’s give a round of applause to the Callababes from Providence”—I gesture toward them—“who met at Noa’s very first book launch ten years ago and have stayed friends ever since. Can you believe these ladies train down together for every Noa Callaway launch?”

The room indulges me with applause, and I suspect the Callababes’ numbers will increase tonight, another Noa Callaway effect. Everyone’s invited to the fandom.

“I want to thank the book clubs, the bloggers and bookstagrammers, and the amazing mother-daughter Facebook group having that competition tonight to see who can finish reading the novel first. Screw school, amiright?”

A group of teenage girls back me up: “Hell yeah!”

“I want to thank those of you who came solo. You may have arrived alone, but trust me, you’ll go home with new friends, whether you like it or not.” I scan the room as people laugh. My eyes land on a man’s silhouette near the back exit. For a second, I wonder if it’s Ryan, here to surprise me.

But this man is taller than Ryan. He’s trimmer, too, less muscular. His thick, dark hair is longer, wavier. He’s standing with his arms crossed over his chest. He’s not our typical demographic, and I almost move on, but I don’t, because just then, he steps into the light, and I can see his face. There’s something playful in his eyes. He looks . . . intrigued. By me? By my groping improvisation? Does he see that I’m hanging on by a thread?

Instead of simply absorbing this and moving on, I swerve into what Ryan calls the Carpool-Lanie; if I’m going down, I’m taking someone down with me.

“I want to thank the lone guy at the back, for getting the signed book for his wife. I’m going to go out on a limb and guess that she works nights, and you’re getting laid at sunrise when she finds her signed book on her pillow. Man of the Year, everybody.”