By Any Other Name(20)

Now, I appeal to the pavement of Manhattan, to the fading blue sky with its high cirrus clouds, to the lights coming on across the river and the steam rising out of subway grates and the pickle-scented air by the bodega, to the noise and the hustle and the mingle of eight million dreams—please, help me figure this one out.

How is the question looping through my mind for the first cold couple of miles. How does a guy like Noah Ross write women, write love so well?

At the launch, he had said he wasn’t married, no girlfriend, so I can’t credit a woman in the background. Then again, who knows if he was lying to me about being single, too.

Not that I care. I’m just genuinely confused. How did he convince me, surely one of his most careful readers, that there was a deep, true, feminine intuition behind his stories? How did his take on love come to be what shaped my own?

I cringe, thinking of my list. My Ninety-Nine Things. Tenderly crafted a decade ago on my dorm room bed.

When I picture cynical Noah Ross coming up with the premise of Ninety-Nine Things I’m Going to Love About You, I have to stop running because I think I might be sick. Seagulls scatter as I lean over the railing on East River Esplanade, gulping air to catch my breath. Wind lashes my face as the river rolls by beneath me, undisturbed.

And then, I wonder—

If I hadn’t taken that book so seriously, if I hadn’t committed my own list to paper, carried it around with me all these years . . . would I have fallen so hard and fast for Ryan when we met? Would I be as sure that he’s the one?

Stop it, I tell myself, and run west, away from the river. Just because Noa Calloway is a lie doesn’t mean my relationship is. It doesn’t mean love isn’t real and true.

This is not about Ryan. This is about my career.

And the man who might wreck it.

If I let him. Which I’m not going to do.

Usually, I’d be reaching out to my people about now. Ryan, first and foremost. And a half-second later, BD, then Rufus and Meg. But as my fingers itch to send a series of SOS texts to each of them, I see that non-disclosure agreement in my mind.

I’d signed it in Sue’s office like an idiot. I can’t tell anyone the truth about Noa Callaway.

Suddenly, I feel my torment focus into a single vector: Sue.

Peony’s president and publisher sat there as I signed the NDA, and told me to buckle up. I feel betrayed by her, her poise and calm and cardigans. To be fair, I don’t think she’s ever actually met Noah, so she may not know his particular shade of self-obsessed. But surely, she knows he’s a man. Why doesn’t it present a crisis of conscience for her?

Silly Lanie. Naïve Lanie.

Money.

That’s why.

But what about Alix? If I am a good boss and a mentor to Aude it’s because Alix taught me how to be good. Why didn’t Noah’s identity ever seem to bother her? I’ve tried calling Alix, but her mailbox was full, and my emails have gone unanswered. So I’m left to wonder:

Is it different because Alix discovered him? Signed his first novel with Peony? What if she crafted his pseudonym herself? Is this why she really gave her notice—to finally make peace with The Lie?

I need to talk to Sue. There’s got to be another, more honest way to publish these books. Something between unmasking Noah for the asshole he is and perpetuating a fabrication to millions around the world.

But the thought of going into Sue’s office, making any such request with no manuscript to show for my provisionally promoted self . . . it would be tantamount to asking Sue to fire me.

I need ammunition. I need a watertight concept from Noah and a delivery date I can hold his ass to. Then, I can think about next steps.

I begin to sprint. My legs and arms pump with sudden optimism. My muscles burn as I enter Central Park.

I didn’t know I was headed here until I stop to catch my breath and find myself in the center of the Gapstow Bridge. I put my hands on the stone railing and let it center me. I take in the big, beautiful city in the dusk.

Pink clouds stretch across the sky like spun sugar. There’s still snow on the north side of the Pond. In the distance, windows glitter gold as the sun sets, a shining fence around the park.

Used the city up. I roll my eyes, recalling Noah’s words. It isn’t possible. I don’t believe him. Something else is going on with Noah, something I can’t see. Whatever it is, I’m not going to let it wreck my life. I’m going to pull one more book out of him. Then I’ll figure out what to do about his pseudonym.

I’m glowering into the distance, contemplating how I’ll do this, when two approaching figures sharpen in my view. It’s getting dark, but I can still see them. Something about the way they move is familiar.

Of course. It’s Saturday night, Edward and Elizabeth’s picnic hour. And here they are—not gone like I’d feared. My heart lifts.

She is slight with cropped, silvery hair and a smart trench coat. He is scarcely taller than her, in professorial glasses and thick-soled orthopedic shoes. When he smiles, he’s a dashingly handsome older man.

They’re older. But it’s them.

Elizabeth has her arm threaded through the same picnic basket, but she’s added a cane since I last saw her. Edward, as usual, bears a tiny folding table and two chairs. I watch as he helps her step up onto the grass. It’s damp from the morning’s rain, but as usual, they have come prepared. As Edward unfolds the table and chairs, Elizabeth lays out a white tablecloth, carefully smoothing it down. He lights candles. She produces a box of fried chicken, a jar of pickles, and a bottle of wine. The whole scene is impossibly charming, but the best part is when they sit down and take each other’s hands across the table. For a while, they just talk, and though I long to, I’ve never drawn near enough to eavesdrop.