By Any Other Name(46)

I’m tempted to take a stab at pronouncing the Austrian city where I read these windows came from, but I can tell Noah is absorbing the atmosphere, and so, I leave a tender moment alone.

I can’t help sneaking glances at him. Things I’ve noticed about Noah without realizing I was noticing: His curly hair is always wet when he shows up someplace. His eyes are this dark, mysterious green, which matches the cool ivy print on his button-down today. His smile is slow—like it really wants to be sure about things before committing—but once it’s there, it holds you close.

He’s nothing like Ryan, who was inarguably handsome in a People’s-Sexiest-Man-Alive kind of way. There’s nothing inarguably anything about Noah, and I’m beginning to realize that’s the root of his appeal. For starters, he’s a fashion chameleon. He dresses one day like an indie rocker, one day like an Italian film producer, one day like a hipster on vacation. Even his physique—long and lean—is a body type that defies classification into a single sporty build—does he do triathlons to stay fit? A combination of basketball and yoga?

The man is an enigma—one minute reserved, the next, totally game to commit a felony in the spirit of doing someone a favor. You’d never know how successful he is from a glance or a casual conversation. But when he opens up, his spark is bright. He is full of complexities one wants to know more about.

That is, if one weren’t wagering their entire future on getting a book out of him.

“Let’s see the gardens,” he suggests, and I’m down.

We step outside, walking along a colonnaded loggia that opens to a garden so charming it borders on the miraculous. Neat stone paths divide it into quadrants. A fountain burbles at the center. The air is fragrant with herbs and small red flowers, swaying on the boughs of pomegranate trees. It’s transporting. Standing in this oasis, I feel as if we haven’t only left Manhattan, but have journeyed back in time to medieval Europe. I want to linger, to make the most of this respite from my everyday concerns.

“Is that wanderlust in your eyes?” Noah asks, surprising me. I hadn’t felt him looking at me, didn’t know he could read my thoughts.

“Guilty,” I say, adding lightly, “Wanderlust, tranquility-lust, go-back-in-time-and-make-different-choices-lust. Sort of a mixed-bag-lust.”

Stop saying lust.

“If you know of any great destinations for people whose lives are imploding,” I say, wrapping up my rambling, “let me know.”

I’m not sure why Noah’s grinning at me.

“What?” I say as we stop at the garden’s center.

“As a matter of fact,” he says, “I do.”

“You do what?”

“Know of a great destination for you.” He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a thick, cream colored envelope. It’s addressed to Noa Callaway, but he hands it to me.

I slide the card out. It’s written in Italian. “What is this?”

“An invitation to the Italian launch party of Two Hundred and Sixty-Six Vows,” he says. “Apparently, a video of you making that speech at the New York launch was posted online. Did you know it went viral in Italy?”

“You’re kidding.” This is news to me.

“My publisher in Milan asked if you’d consider going and making a speech. It’s in May. They’re having the party at the Bacio hotel, which is . . .”

He meets my eyes, and we both say it at the same time: “In Positano.”

“Seriously?” I say. “That’s the hotel where Vows is set.”

“And,” he says, a smile hiding in the corners of his mouth, “if memory serves, the city where your mother was conceived?”

“I would say I wish I’d never told you that . . . except . . .” I look at him. “Are you offering me a trip to Italy?”

“Technically, my Italian publisher is offering it. I won’t be there, of course. But I’d be cheering you on from here.”

The way he says this, a hint of bittersweetness in his voice, makes me wonder. Any other author would accept this invitation themselves. Noah can’t. Does he ever wish things were different, that he could go to Italy himself and celebrate his work with his readers in the open?

I stare at the invitation, still trying to wrap my mind around it. What are the odds that an invitation to my dream destination would come—all expenses paid—at the moment I can’t say yes?

“This party is on May eighteenth,” I say. “Three days after your deadline for the book we have no concept for.”

Noah looks unfazed. “If I promise to get you the draft before you leave,” he says, “will you go?”

“I will go to Mars if you get me a draft before I leave. But realistically, Noah, we don’t even have a premise yet.” I press the invitation back into his hands. “I’m honored that you asked me. And it’s really generous of your Italian publisher, but until both our careers aren’t teetering on the brink, I can’t in good conscience accept.”

Noah scratches his head. He looks stunned. “I didn’t even get to lay out my conditions.”

“You and your conditions,” I say. But I’m curious. “Well, let’s have them. Just in case.”

“It’s really only one condition,” he says. “Payback for your list. My List.”