By Any Other Name(11)

The audience gives a few wolf whistles, and I glance back to see whether the man is laughing. But he’s moved from his spot. I lose sight of him in the crowd. I tell myself his wife would laugh if she were here.

“I’ve been told not to improvise these speeches,” I say. “And look at me now, going full Bill Murray on you.” I take a breath. “I think what I’m trying to say is what a relief it is to feel connected instead of alone. That’s what we’re all hoping for when we pick up a novel. Isn’t it? Noa’s stories bond us with forty million other readers, all around the world, and yet, somehow, they feel as intimate as a conversation. When I read Noa’s stories, I feel that no one has ever understood me so well. She’s my friend. I know she’s your friend as well. Let’s raise a glass to Noa, and to the brilliant Two Hundred and Sixty-Six Vows.”

At this moment, the very last line of my speech comes at me. It was one of Terry’s edits, and it’s perfect for this crowd. “Let us renew our vows as readers. Would you all please reach for your balloon, and find your pin?” I take my own balloon and hold the pin aloft. “Repeat after me: With this cake, I thee read.”

“With this cake,” the crowd responds, “I thee read!”

And then, around the room, comes the percussion of two hundred and sixty-six balloons being popped. Everyone cheers as the edible confetti rains down.

After my speech, guests gather around Meg’s marvelous book cake to grab a signed copy. I mingle with some ladies from White Plains, then join Aude behind the table to pass out more books. It’s the time of night when people start dreading their commutes, and I know we need to move them out efficiently, back to their lives and obligations.

I’m handing out swag—engraved champagne flutes and tote bags featuring the book cover—when I look up and see the man I’d called out in my toast.

“Hey, Man of the Year.” I hand him a book. “Thanks for playing along.”

Up close, his green eyes ambush me. “Glad to be of service.”

His voice is lower than I expected.

“I hope your wife thanks you sufficiently.”

He opens his mouth then closes it.

“Girlfriend?” I offer.

“No. It’s not . . .”

When he trails off, I feel bad, knowing I’ve overstepped. We sometimes get a few gay men at Noa’s events, but I’m definitely sensing straight here. Then it hits me. “Oh, I’m sorry, you must be press.”

I’d forgotten that a journalist from New York magazine had RSVPed. Meg had been thrilled about the coverage, and now I’ve probably ruined his enthusiasm to write about our event.

“Be sure to mention what a fool I made of myself?”

He shakes his head. “You’d fly away with the story.”

In my mind I see Noa’s GIF of the woman riding the balloons into the distance. “On a cake balloon.”

“Speaking of, is this one spoken for? I didn’t get any.” Meg appears beside us, popping the very last balloon and snatching the cake like a pro. I wonder if Meg notices that the confetti seems to fall in slow motion around me and the man whose name I haven’t caught.

“This is Meg, our publicist,” I tell him. “You probably spoke about the piece.”

Meg looks at me, confused. She shakes her head. “Doris came from New York mag. She left already, but they got a good picture of you onstage.”

“Oh,” I say and turn back to the mystery man. “I keep projecting mistaken identities onto you.”

He’s still gazing at me as though we share a secret, and something about it is awkward, and something about it is spellbinding. Even though I’m aware we’re holding up the line, I extend my hand.

“I’m Lanie,” I say.

“I know,” he says, raising an eyebrow, which makes me rack my brain for a memory of meeting him sometime before. No. I’d remember him. He has the kind of face you don’t forget.

“You introduced yourself onstage,” he says, and both of us laugh. Mine is nervous.

“Ross,” he says, then puts his hand in mine.

“Nice to meet you.”

“I’m not so sure,” he replies. But his smile takes out the sting. It’s a good smile, nice teeth, smooth lips just barely parted.

Holding his hand, a little spark shivers through me. I gulp, realizing I am attracted to this man.

I pull my hand and gaze away from his.

“Enjoy the book,” I say, watching him take my words as a cue to go.

“Oh. Sure.” He waves, and begins to back away. “I will, thanks.”

That’s when I realize he’s going home without a book.





Chapter Five


Some people use their commutes to catch up on group text chains or true crime podcasts. I am a secret M-train fantasizer. It’s not always sexual, but a solid sixty percent of what passes through my mind while hurtling underground between our office in Washington Square and my apartment in midtown east could get me arrested in certain states.

Tonight it begins with Ryan on the couch, watching basketball and scrolling through The Economist app while he waits for me. Act Two has me entering the apartment, tossing off my trench coat—having shimmied out of my dress in the hallway, a trick my friend Lindsay taught me in college. I straddle Ryan wordlessly. Reunion sex ensues. Act Three opens on the chilled bottle of prosecco, consumed au naturel.