By Any Other Name(62)

Before I know it, my teapot is empty, my headphone batteries dead, and I have arrived at the last chapter. I’m almost sad to be here, but I can’t wait to see how it ends—or rather, how it begins.

I turn the page.





CHAPTER ONE




The rest is blank.

Is this a typo? Did he send the wrong file? Or has Noah not written how Edward and Elizabeth met?



* * *





I trek to three fancy grocery stores in the pouring rain that night before I find the red-and-white-checked picnic basket I had in mind. Now, at Zabar’s, I pay dearly to fill the basket with fried chicken, dill pickles, cheddar biscuits, and a nice bottle of California zin à la Edward and Elizabeth’s favorite meal in Noa’s book. I throw in a bag of organic baby carrots for Javier Bardem.

A quick recap of my day: Since breakfast, I have violated my NDA a second time by confiding in Meg about Noah; I have edited the novel that may save my career, and fretted over the issue that may end it—Noah potentially putting his name on this book. I emailed Sue to let her know the manuscript is fabulous, and that I submitted it for ARCs. I got an immediate reply: Congratulations, Editorial Director. Now, instead of going home to pack for my transatlantic voyage tomorrow, I am packing a surprise picnic for Noah as a gesture of my love and gratitude for this book. The weather will ensure it’s a living room picnic, but I’ve heard it’s the thought that counts.

Huddled with my picnic offerings under my crappy umbrella, I ring his bell at the outer gate of Pomander Walk.

“Hello?” He sounds tinny through the speaker.

“It’s Lanie!”

There’s a pause. It feels long. Too long. Is he waiting for me to explain my presence? That would be understandable. But how do I explain my presence? Why didn’t I call before I came?

Then, suddenly, the gate buzzes and unlocks. I dash inside and up the stairs. He meets me at ye olde streetlight in the middle of the garden. His feet are bare, his T-shirt getting wet. My mind goes back to our hug in the train station the last time we’d been together. I wouldn’t say no to an encore . . .

“You’re soaked,” he says, and waves me to his stoop.

Once we’re inside, and Noah closes the door on the storm, it’s suddenly so quiet that I get the chills. All the nice things I was going to say about his book flee my mind.

“You’re here about the last chapter,” he says.

“I’m here because I adore the book!”

“You do?” He looks surprised.

“Here’s a celebration.” I hold out the basket. He trades me for a towel. As I dry off, I watch him open and examine the picnic. He smiles, but it’s one of his cautious smiles, from our early days.

“Aren’t you leaving for Italy tomorrow?”

He sounds so serious.

“I do have a packing party scheduled with some friends in about an hour,” I say. “I was just . . . dropping this off—”

“I won’t keep you.” He’s looking at his phone, typing something, which seems a little rude.

“Oh,” I say. He wants me to leave. How obvious is it that I want to stay? I should go. Right now. But—“I was also wondering about the last chapter . . .”

He pockets his phone, looks at me. I think I see guilt cross his face, but he’s so hard to read, I can’t be sure. “I’m working on it. I’ll have it to you by the time you’re back from Italy.”

“That sounds . . . good.”

I stand on his welcome mat, glancing over his shoulder at the marble table where we ate sushi and played chess like two not completely awkward human beings. It feels like an alternate reality. Where did I go wrong?

“I’ll go,” I say, “just . . . one more thing.”

This time, when he looks at me, his eyes flash, drawing me in. The lightning bolt licks through me. The image of leaping into his arms, adding a low-key straddle of my legs, intrudes upon my saner thoughts.

“I think this could be the one,” I tell him. “For you to go out with under your own name.”

“I have a lot to think about, Lanie,” Noah says, opening his front door. “Is it okay if I reach out to you when I’m ready?”

“Of course.” Tell me everything that’s running through your mind. NOW. “Totally. Take your time.”

A notification sounds on his phone. He turns the screen so I can see. “I got you a Lyft,” he says, taking my umbrella, holding it over me as he walks me out. “I don’t want you to be late for your packing party.”

“Thank you,” I say. I guess he wasn’t being rude on his phone before? I guess he was actually being nice. I would have absolutely stood out here in the rain like a dumbass before I remembered to call myself a Lyft. Still . . . why don’t I want to leave?

Noah points out the car, helps me inside.

“Thanks for the picnic,” he says. “Have a wonderful trip.”



* * *





“I have vodka, Veselka, and Vigo,” Meg says when she shows up at my door at nine-thirty, after she’s finally gotten her kids to sleep.

“A and B,” I say, reaching for the booze and the bag of take-out pierogi from my favorite Ukranian greasy spoon.