By Any Other Name(34)

I nod. “You’re right. It’s annoying.”

“Pawn it?” Rufus says. “Like, classy-pawn. I know a guy.”

“Of course you do,” Meg says.

I shake my head. “That feels wrong. But so does letting it fester in my jewelry box at home.”

“I hate to see platinum fester,” Meg says.

“You know what I mean. It feels like this . . . sparkling emblem of my three-year-long self-delusion, of my embarrassing inability to navigate the best course for my life.”

Rufus giggles. “You get so verbose when you are tipsy.” He tops off my prosecco glass. “Quick, what’s a four-syllable word for horny?”

We all sit silently with that for a moment.

“I’m stumped,” I say.

“Drink more,” Rufus urges.

“Lanie,” Meg says, “you’re a good navigator. I mean, look at you. You have this baller job, editing one of the most famous writers in the world.”

“Who also happens to be your literary idol,” Rufus adds, while I nod and muster my cheeriest fake smile.

“You have us, two of the dopest friends in all of New York,” Meg continues, “and you have this little thing called resilience. Don’t laugh, Rufus. I’m being sincere. I’ve seen it in you ever since you showed up at Peony at age baby-twenty-two. It means you’re not going to feel this way for long. It means you’ll bounce back stronger than ever. It means that, ultimately, you’ll get what you want. I can look at you and know you already know that. Tell me you know it?”

I shrug. “I guess. Maybe.”

“Someday soon, this ring is just going to be a ring, a piece of jewelry from a different era of your life. No more, no less.”

It’s hard to imagine a time when seeing this ring won’t make me want to hibernate in a cave of regret, but I might as well make it a goal.

As two servers appear to set down our bounty of brunch, I close the clamshell and put the ring into my purse, making room for better things, like thick-sliced, perfectly golden French toast topped with fried chicken.

“Have you told BD?” Rufus asks, tucking into the French dip.

Rufus and BD are g-chat friends; they first clicked years ago over their shared obsession with Apple events. It’s unfathomable to me how many rounds they can go debating whether the new generation of iPhone is worth the price increase.

“Not yet,” I say. “I want to get my head on straight about it first.”

“My nainai always loved it when I broke up with someone,” Meg says, a pickle in one hand, prosecco in the other. This is her natural state. “She called it ‘clearing the chaff.’”

“Okay, your nainai sounds terrifying,” Rufus says, “and BD is not going to say that to Lanie.” He looks at me. “But she is probably going to want you to get back into the saddle soon.”

I drown the thought of dating in more prosecco. “I don’t see how I can do that. Now that my Ninety-Nine Things list failed me, I have no idea where to start with someone new.”

Meg snorts. Rufus puts a hand over his mouth.

“What? What are you laughing at?” I say.

“It’s called chemistry,” Rufus says. “You just get on board with it. It’s really not that hard.”

“Says the man who has been patiently waiting for Brent from Pilates World to break up with his partner for . . . how many years now?” I ask.

“Because we have chemistry!” Rufus says.

Meg puts her hand over mine. “Listen, Lanie, I’m as type A as the next person at this table, but I think the message is to stop being type A about love. It’ll come, and when it does, you’ll know.”

“Is that what happened with you and Tommy?” I ask. “You really just knew?”

“Sure! And look at us now! We’re so close, we’re like brother and sister.” She cackles. “I’m ordering more Kate Mosses and nobody better stop me.”

Rufus and I nod, because no complaints here.

Minutes later, just as I’m about to shoot that inadvisable second shot of tequila, something in my periphery makes me stop. I tilt my head and feel my stomach rising to my throat, because I’m almost certain Noah Ross is walking south on Broadway. Right toward Maison Pickle.

He’s alone, in dark sunglasses, jeans, and a pea coat. His hair is damp and he looks casual without looking sloppy. He’s holding some sort of box in one hand and is certainly coming this way. A bolt of something shoots through me. Is it that lightning thing again? No, this is panic. I have approximately ninety seconds to figure out how to disappear.

A mental inventory takes place: my ratty college sweatshirt, bad hair, swollen eyes. Is it possible I look so terrible that he won’t recognize me? To be safe, I pull up the hood of my sweatshirt and grab Rufus’s sunglasses from his pile, making myself incognito.

My friends’ heads snap toward me, quizzical looks on their tipsy faces.

“Where’d you get these? They’re amazing,” I say, overdoing my enthusiasm.

“Paul Smith,” Rufus says slowly. “Remember, you were there?”

“Yes!” I lie, distracted by the advancing figure of Noah Ross. He’s walking much too quickly for a Sunday morning. “That was such a fun day. So fun.”