By Any Other Name(40)

Noah is quiet. I can’t see his expression in the dark.

“And I said, ‘You don’t even know me.’ And he said, ‘I can just tell we’ll be great together.’ And then he got down on one knee. I shut him up before he could actually propose. . . .” I trail off, remembering that feeling, how magical it all seemed, like the beginning of something amazing. Like this was the love story I’d been waiting for all my life.

It’s hard to think about that now.

Luckily, just then, the beam of my flashlight falls on a box near the front door.

“There it is!” I drop to my knees. I see BD’s robe at the top. I feel my mother’s award. I’m so relieved.

“Thank you, Noah,” I say, turning to look up him. “It was really generous and slightly crazy of you to help me.”

“It’s the least I can do.”

He’s standing very still, his hands clasped behind his back. He never looks comfortable, but in Ryan’s darkened foyer, he looks even more uncomfortable than usual. We should get out of here.

“Hey,” I say, hefting the box into my arms. “Wanna celebrate?”



* * *





When Noah said he knew of a place nearby, I was not expecting a cash-only dive called Poe’s and two cold cans of Natty Boh. But it turns out, a snug booth at the back of this crowded bar is the perfect place for Noah, Javier Bardem, and me to revel in my reclaimed possessions.

“You never told me what you’re doing in D.C.,” I say, still high on our achievement, and a little loose from the beer.

“I’m visiting my mom.”

“She lives here? I don’t know why I thought you grew up in New York.”

“I did. I grew up on West Eighty-Fourth. My mom moved down here about ten years ago. I’ve been trying to get her back to New York but . . . it’s complicated.”

“Oh,” I say, thinking back to the day I saw Noah showing Javier Bardem a building on the Upper West Side. Was that his old apartment? Also, why didn’t he mention he was visiting his mother earlier? Now I feel guilty I’ve taken too much of his time. And what does he mean, complicated?

“Do you need to call her? Is she expecting you for dinner or anything tonight?”

“No,” he says, busying himself with sorting through some loose change from his pocket. I realize he’s searching for quarters for the mini jukebox on our table. And also that he’s not going to tell me anything more about his mom. So, I turn my focus to the jukebox, too.

The machine is old, the glass too scratched, the labels too faded to make out any of the song listings.

“How do you know what you’re selecting?” I ask, as he slips coins into the slot.

“I don’t,” he says, “but it’s a chance I’m willing to take.” He points at my box. “So what’s in there anyway?”

I sift through my old things. In between a bunch of clothes, my hand hits the smooth wood of the Ninety-Nine Things list I gave Ryan for Valentine’s Day.

Half of me feels indignant that he returned my gift; the other half feels extremely committed to hiding this artifact from Noah Ross. I don’t want him to know this about me, that I was once a girl who made such a list, that I clung to it . . . up until about a week ago. I’m also not sure I can discuss this with Noah without blaming him, just a little, for my breakup. For everything. I shove it to the bottom of the box, as Noah points at BD’s robe.

“Let me guess,” he says, “your grandma’s?”

This time, it doesn’t feel hostile, not like it did at our first meeting in the park.

I finger the robe. “My grandfather gave it to her on their honeymoon. It’s a little threadbare in a few places, but it’s still awesome.”

“Very,” he says. “Where’d they honeymoon?”

“Positano,” I say, smiling and meeting his eyes. “So I was thrilled when you set Two-Hundred and Sixty-Six Vows there. I’ve always wanted to visit.”

“You should,” he says. “I think you’d like it. It’s hard not to like the Amalfi Coast, but I think you’d . . . get it.”

I’m not sure what he means, or from where he gleaned this knowledge of my travel tastes, but it sounds like he intends it as a compliment, so I leave his logic alone.

“When I was a kid,” I say, reaching back into the box, “my mom used to talk about taking me to Positano. She was conceived there.” I glance at him. “Sorry, TMI?”

“I assume your mother had to be conceived somewhere,” Noah says. “Positano’s a good place for it.”

I don’t know why this makes me blush. We’re both adults. We have pored, professionally, over dozens of sex scenes he wrote into seven bestselling novels. Maybe Noah had great sex in Positano; it couldn’t be less my business.

I need to change the subject. After a moment’s hesitation, I take out my mother’s award from the box. I set the plaque on the table. “This is the main thing I didn’t want to lose.”

Noah picks it up to get a closer look. He meets my eyes across the table. “Your mom’s?”

I nod and sip my beer.

“She must have been an impressive woman.”

“How did you know she died?”