By Any Other Name(18)

I think of reading Ninety-Nine Things furtively in my college dorm room. The way that story spun my life in an entirely new direction, toward this version of me, right here, right now. I think of my Ninety-Nine Things list, snug in Ryan’s wallet, the man it led me to.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I can’t seem to catch my breath.” The scarf is too tight around my neck. I gulp from the water bottle in my bag. I close my eyes and try to speak. “How . . . how could I not have known?”

“I could have sworn you did know,” he says.

“Why would you think that?” I hear the anger rising in my voice.

His lips part. His eyes widen. He’s like a zookeeper realizing the grizzly is about to attack.

“The other night, at the launch,” he says. “I was worried that seeing me was what threw you off onstage.”

“Threw me off?” Could he be more tone-deaf? “I was thinking about the readers, about my obligation to deliver Noa Callaway’s next book to them. I was genuinely overcome with fondness for those women. Not that you’d know anything about being genuine.” I clap a hand over my mouth, then let it slide down to my heart. “Your fans will lose it if they find out who you really are.”

His eyes dart around the park, then lock on mine. “Why would they find out? Isn’t it in everyone’s best interest to keep this between us?”

“They trusted you.”

It’s less embarrassing than saying I trusted you.

A silence follows. He seems completely unaffected by the idea that he’s betraying millions of readers, and that I am now complicit. How is it possible that the book that changed my life—that convinced me Ryan is the one!—was written by an asshole?

“I’ve always wondered where you learned to play chess,” he says, pointing at the board between us.

“My grandmother taught me,” I say, distracted.

“Did your grandmother dress you, too?” he asks, taking in my Fendi suit.

I stand, heart pulsing, barely able to restrain my rage. It’s a good thing the chessboard is inlaid upon the table; otherwise I’d slam it on his head so hard it’d knock his next three novels out of him.

I straighten my blazer. “Yes. It was hers. And it’s fabulous. And the Noa Callaway I was led to believe existed would appreciate its timeless elegance.”

He stands up, too, which makes me move more quickly, stuffing my book and scarf and water bottle back into my bag.

“This isn’t going well,” he says.

How dare he. My idol has been desecrated. The very reason I got into publishing pulled out from underneath me. Everything I loved about love is in question. And he thinks it’s not going well? I turn on my heel and speed walk away.

“Lanie.” He follows me past the chess house.

I don’t know where I plan on going. I’d like to run very far away from here. I’d like to buy six pints of ice cream and hide under my duvet for the rest of my life. I’d like to enter a wormhole where my longtime hero is the inspiring woman I always imagined—not this guy.

I think of Sue forecasting turbulence. This is more like dual engine failure.

“You need me,” Ross says as we pass the Dairy, children running out around us, clutching new souvenirs. I stop in my tracks.

“What?” I hear myself. I sound demonic. And I feel even darker inside.

“You need me. This book,” he says.

He’s right. If I don’t want to get fired, I do need him, and I need to coax his next book out of him. Peony needs him. All the other decent human beings I work with need him. That means they need me not to quit right now.

He looks over my head as he delivers his next gem. “Don’t conflate art and artist. If you’re concerned about my readers, then focus on my books, not me. I’m not the origin of my books’ meaning. Society is the only author.”

“Oh, give me a break.” I start walking again, calling over my shoulder, “People love cheap clothes, too, but hey, who cares about sweatshops, right?”

“That’s my point!” he persists. “‘The birth of the reader must be at the cost of the death of the Author.’”

I ball my fists in rage. I’ve loved the essay Ross is quoting ever since I read it in Intro to Literary Criticism in college. But at this moment, in this rage, “The Death of the Author” begins to take on a new, more tempting and literal light.

“Roland Barthes did not toil in relative obscurity,” I say, “just to give some spoiled millionaire permission to be a prick.”

He laughs, throwing back his head as we exit the park and wait for the light at Fifth Avenue. “See? Now we’re having fun.”

I wonder if he’s a legitimate sociopath. Would he be having so much fun if his entire career felt as tenuous as mine does now? Why doesn’t it feel that way to him? The light turns green.

“I need to go,” I say. I practically sprint across the street.

If I could only run back in time and never read a Noa Callaway book. But then where would I be?

The fucker is running after me.

“Maybe you should ask yourself why my gender is so disturbing to you,” he shouts. “Isn’t it aggressively heteronormative to assume I have to be a woman?”

“Goodbye, Ross,” I shout back.