At this moment, the very last line of my speech comes at me. It was one of Terry’s edits, and it’s perfect for this crowd. “Let us renew our vows as readers. Would you all please reach for your balloon, and find your pin?” I take my own balloon and hold the pin aloft. “Repeat after me: With this cake, I thee read.”
“With this cake,” the crowd responds, “I thee read!”
And then, around the room, comes the percussion of two hundred and sixty-six balloons being popped. Everyone cheers as the edible confetti rains down.
After my speech, guests gather around Meg’s marvelous book cake to grab a signed copy. I mingle with some ladies from White Plains, then join Aude behind the table to pass out more books. It’s the time of night when people start dreading their commutes, and I know we need to move them out efficiently, back to their lives and obligations.
I’m handing out swag—engraved champagne flutes and tote bags featuring the book cover—when I look up and see the man I’d called out in my toast.
“Hey, Man of the Year.” I hand him a book. “Thanks for playing along.”
Up close, his green eyes ambush me. “Glad to be of service.”
His voice is lower than I expected.
“I hope your wife thanks you sufficiently.”
He opens his mouth then closes it.
“Girlfriend?” I offer.
“No. It’s not . . .”
When he trails off, I feel bad, knowing I’ve overstepped. We sometimes get a few gay men at Noa’s events, but I’m definitely sensing straight here. Then it hits me. “Oh, I’m sorry, you must be press.”
I’d forgotten that a journalist from New York magazine had RSVPed. Meg had been thrilled about the coverage, and now I’ve probably ruined his enthusiasm to write about our event.
“Be sure to mention what a fool I made of myself?”
He shakes his head. “You’d fly away with the story.”
In my mind I see Noa’s GIF of the woman riding the balloons into the distance. “On a cake balloon.”
“Speaking of, is this one spoken for? I didn’t get any.” Meg appears beside us, popping the very last balloon and snatching the cake like a pro. I wonder if Meg notices that the confetti seems to fall in slow motion around me and the man whose name I haven’t caught.
“This is Meg, our publicist,” I tell him. “You probably spoke about the piece.”
Meg looks at me, confused. She shakes her head. “Doris came from New York mag. She left already, but they got a good picture of you onstage.”
“Oh,” I say and turn back to the mystery man. “I keep projecting mistaken identities onto you.”
He’s still gazing at me as though we share a secret, and something about it is awkward, and something about it is spellbinding. Even though I’m aware we’re holding up the line, I extend my hand.
“I’m Lanie,” I say.
“I know,” he says, raising an eyebrow, which makes me rack my brain for a memory of meeting him sometime before. No. I’d remember him. He has the kind of face you don’t forget.
“You introduced yourself onstage,” he says, and both of us laugh. Mine is nervous.
“Ross,” he says, then puts his hand in mine.
“Nice to meet you.”
“I’m not so sure,” he replies. But his smile takes out the sting. It’s a good smile, nice teeth, smooth lips just barely parted.
Holding his hand, a little spark shivers through me. I gulp, realizing I am attracted to this man.
I pull my hand and gaze away from his.
“Enjoy the book,” I say, watching him take my words as a cue to go.
“Oh. Sure.” He waves, and begins to back away. “I will, thanks.”
That’s when I realize he’s going home without a book.
Chapter Five
Some people use their commutes to catch up on group text chains or true crime podcasts. I am a secret M-train fantasizer. It’s not always sexual, but a solid sixty percent of what passes through my mind while hurtling underground between our office in Washington Square and my apartment in midtown east could get me arrested in certain states.
Tonight it begins with Ryan on the couch, watching basketball and scrolling through The Economist app while he waits for me. Act Two has me entering the apartment, tossing off my trench coat—having shimmied out of my dress in the hallway, a trick my friend Lindsay taught me in college. I straddle Ryan wordlessly. Reunion sex ensues. Act Three opens on the chilled bottle of prosecco, consumed au naturel.
Ryan and I met in traffic. I love this, and not just because it gives me a lifetime fast pass out of tedious small talk at parties. (No one wants to hear about your awful commute, but if traffic be the food of love, play on!) I love it because the way I met Ryan feels like the way two characters in an epic love story might meet.
It was a steamy summer morning in Washington, D.C., about three years ago. I was in town for a conference. I’d left plenty of time to get from my Georgetown hotel to the Walter E. Washington Convention Center, where I would speak on a panel about feminist romance. But a bus broke down on M Street, with my taxi directly behind it.
Ryan’s first sight of me was a stream of curse words flowing from the window of my taxi. He was on a vintage Triumph Bonneville motorcycle, idling next to me.
“In a hurry?” he said.
Looking back, I liked his voice right away: steady with a hint of teasing.
“I’m supposed to be at the convention center in negative five minutes.”
“Then you’d better hop on.”
I laughed, then really looked at him for the first time. I’ve always had a thing for bikers. It’s actually an item on my Ninety-Nine Things list. Not the greasy, aggressive kind. Think Steve McQueen in The Great Escape. Ryan fell squarely into the latter category. He was wearing a nice suit and shoes that gleamed with fresh polish. He had clean fingernails, sexy hands. Then he lifted the visor and I saw his eyes. I was a goner. Even if I’d needed a lift to Louisville, Ryan’s brown eyes would have gotten me out of that cab.
Check another item on my list.
“You can wear my helmet,” he said, like he knew he had me.
“I don’t normally do things like this,” I said, chucking a five at the cabbie and opening my door.
“Maybe we should make a habit of it,” he said. “I’m Ryan.”
“I’m Lanie.”
I put the helmet on as cars honked all around us. If I’d been with Meg or Rufus we’d have flipped them off en masse, but I stood there patiently as Ryan fastened the helmet’s clasp, feeling his fingers at my chin.