By Any Other Name(28)

“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—”