“What?” I hear myself. I sound demonic. And I feel even darker inside.
“You need me. This book,” he says.
He’s right. If I don’t want to get fired, I do need him, and I need to coax his next book out of him. Peony needs him. All the other decent human beings I work with need him. That means they need me not to quit right now.
He looks over my head as he delivers his next gem. “Don’t conflate art and artist. If you’re concerned about my readers, then focus on my books, not me. I’m not the origin of my books’ meaning. Society is the only author.”
“Oh, give me a break.” I start walking again, calling over my shoulder, “People love cheap clothes, too, but hey, who cares about sweatshops, right?”
“That’s my point!” he persists. “ ‘The birth of the reader must be at the cost of the death of the Author.’ ”
I ball my fists in rage. I’ve loved the essay Ross is quoting ever since I read it in Intro to Literary Criticism in college. But at this moment, in this rage, “The Death of the Author” begins to take on a new, more tempting and literal light.
“Roland Barthes did not toil in relative obscurity,” I say, “just to give some spoiled millionaire permission to be a prick.”
He laughs, throwing back his head as we exit the park and wait for the light at Fifth Avenue. “See? Now we’re having fun.”
I wonder if he’s a legitimate sociopath. Would he be having so much fun if his entire career felt as tenuous as mine does now? Why doesn’t it feel that way to him? The light turns green.
“I need to go,” I say. I practically sprint across the street.
If I could only run back in time and never read a Noa Callaway book. But then where would I be?
The fucker is running after me.
“Maybe you should ask yourself why my gender is so disturbing to you,” he shouts. “Isn’t it aggressively heteronormative to assume I have to be a woman?”
“Goodbye, Ross,” I shout back.
“Lanie, please,” he says, surprising me.
I stop. I turn around. His tone and expression are more earnest than they’d been a moment before. I find this more unbearable than when he was being a pseudointellectual jerk. How can this be so uncomfortable? When there were two computers and the comforting labyrinth of the internet between us, Noa Callaway and I had such amazing chemistry.
“Will you come up?” he asks. We’re standing beneath a building’s awning, and he points at the door. “This is me.”
“I know. I’ve only been sending you packages here for seven years.” I glance up at the building, which I’ve speculated about so many times, imagining a very different Noa Callaway inhabiting its penthouse.
There’s no chance I’m going up there. I’ve been disillusioned enough for one afternoon. I need space from this man to figure out what the hell I’m going to do about him.
“No, thanks,” I say.
“Don’t you think we should talk about the book?”
His words jar me into seeing how far astray we are from any semblance of professionalism. This was all supposed to go so differently. And it’s not entirely his fault. Maybe only ninety-five percent. I take a deep breath, let it out. I think of everyone depending on me to deliver the new Noa Callaway book.
“I’m listening,” I say. “I don’t need to be in your penthouse to listen.”
“Fine,” he says.
“So? Talk.”
“Wow. You know, you’re different in person.”
“You did not just say that,” I say, shaking my head. “Are you finishing the draft, or what?”
He doesn’t answer right away.
I fill the silence. “We’re going to need a better title than Thirty-Eight Obituaries.”
“Oh, that,” he says, scratching his chin. “Yeah, I scrapped that idea. Didn’t I tell you?”
No, he failed to mention that. Among a few other key details he’s left out of our email exchanges. And just like that, my promotion goes from provisional to phantasmal.
“What’s wrong with the obituaries concept?” I say. Our sales team had loved the idea. Sue had loved it, too.
He shrugs. “Too New York–centric. I want to do something fresh.”
“All your books are New York–centric!” I want to scream but manage to keep my voice to an angry whisper. We are standing on the street in the middle of Manhattan, after all, and his identity is a secret to everyone but unlucky me. “That’s your brand. It’s what your readers like about you. It’s why Vogue called you the ‘Queen of Gotham Love.’ Remember?”
For years I’ve admired how Noa’s books aren’t just love stories between a couple, they’re also love letters to the city I adore. Even Vows, with its Italian wedding scenes, started off with a magical proposal on the Staten Island Ferry.
“I’ve used the city up,” he says. “Run out of landmarks for the characters to kiss in front of.”
I roll my eyes because of course he’d reduce the poignant love in so many Noa Callaway books to cliché.
“And in its place, you’re planning to write . . . what?”
“I’ve got some irons in the fire.”
“Oh god.”
He’s lying. Everything about him screams he hasn’t typed a word.
“You look worried,” he says. “Everything’s going to be fine.”
“For you.”
“For us. We’re a team now, Lanie.”
I’ve got to get out of here before I get arrested for assault. But I can’t let him know how much he’s gotten under my skin.
“Look . . .” I want to say Ross, but it no longer fits. “What should I even call you, now that we’ve . . .” I trail off. It’s wrong to use the word met about a person I thought I knew. I had shown myself to Noa Callaway in my emails. I had allowed my life to be brightened by hers.
His.
“My real name is Noah Ross,” he says. “Most people call me Ross, but none of them know what I write. Why don’t we stick with Noah?”
“Okay, Noah.” I cross my arms, level my gaze at him. “You’ve got two hours.”
“To do what?” His laugh sounds dubious.
“To send me what you’ve got. Your . . . irons in the fire.”