“A little,” I say, holding my proverbial nose.
“Ohhhh,” Rufus says, pursing his lips and giving me a knowing nod. “And you think you look like hell today, so you don’t want this mystery Man of the Year to see you?”
“Yeah?” I try to go with all of this. At least, the last bit is partly true.
“You know, you actually look really good when you’ve been crying,” Rufus says.
“Really?” I bump his shoulder. “You’ve failed to mention that on several dozen previous occasions.”
“Yeah, but I was always giving you the silent compliment,” he says. “It’s your eyes. They get super blue.”
“Aw, thanks, Ruf.” His words remind me of my mother. Her eyes used to do the same thing.
“So . . . go get his number,” Rufus singsongs, ushering me out of the chair.
I wave him off. Noah is still just a block away. Too close. “I will do nothing of the kind!”
“At least let us google-stalk him, then?” Meg says, picking up her phone.
“Cease and desist, I beg you both,” I say. “I haven’t been single a full day yet. Can I get a grace period before I’m thrust back into the meat market?”
“Fine,” Meg says, “but only if Ruf and I get to take you out for this inaugural thrusting.” She’s scrolling through her calendar on her phone. “Okay, Tommy has poker night next weekend, but the following Friday is Mama’s Night Out. Oh good, I’m getting my eyebrows threaded that day. Let’s not waste it.”
“I already know the perfect place, and which overalls I’m going to wear,” Rufus says.
They both turn expectantly to me. I’m glad the conversation has veered away from Noah Ross. And also that I have lucked into these generous, funny, nosy, well-accessorized, and occasionally drunk friends.
Who knows, maybe two weeks from now, the thought of going out on the town as a single woman will feel less unthinkable.
I raise my glass, and we all clink. “Kate Mosses, here we come.”
Chapter Eleven
On Friday afternoon, I’ve got eighteen browser windows open on my desktop. I am crafting a compendium for how to visit the Cloisters museum without a hitch. I need Noah to be inspired by the medieval gardens and Netherlandish triptychs, not distracted by the hunt for a bathroom, or annoyed by a closed snack bar at the moment he wants a coffee.
I am finally reaching the state of preparedness where I feel nothing can go wrong. And that’s when fate slaps me in the face, in the form of a text from Ryan.
Let me state for the record that I have messaged my ex-fiancé no less than ten times this week. Low-key checking-in texts. Here-if-you-want-to-talk texts. Hope-you’re-having-a-good-week-at-work texts. I’m not trying to harass Ryan, or get back together. But it’s weird that we were intimate for three years—and planning to spend the next threescore staying that way—and suddenly, it’s like we cut a cord, and we’re strangers. It seems to me there should be some sort of wind-down period, a lame-duck session of the relationship. A couple of texts, nothing crazy. But Ryan seems not to share my vision.
Until today, when he actually writes back. Three times in a row.
Mom was spring-cleaning my place and found some of your things. Mostly clothes, but that robe with all the colors is there. And some award of your mom’s. She’s hitting Goodwill tomorrow. Wanted to give you a heads-up, in case you want any of it.
And then:
I’m in Boston for work, or else I’d try to hold her off longer. Sorry.
And then:
Also, the ring is yours. I gave it to you. Please stop asking if I want it back.
I read and reread the first text: In case I want any of it? BD’s Missoni robe? My mother’s framed and mounted Kenneth Rothman Career Accomplishment Award, basically the Oscar for epidemiologists? I’d brought it down to show Ryan’s father once, after we’d had what I thought was a breakthrough conversation about my family. By the time I showed it to Mr. Bosch at a Sunday lunch a couple weekends later, he barely remembered our discussion. I should never have left the plaque at Ryan’s.
This means I have to go to D.C. Tonight.
And cancel on Noah Ross tomorrow.
I dial Terry, feeling very put upon. “Terry, this is Lanie Bloom.”
“I have caller ID.”
“Can I talk to Noah?”
“Noa doesn’t do the phone. You know that. Be glad you got me.”
“Listen, something’s come up, and I need to reschedule our meeting tomorrow. Do you have access to his calendar?”
“I’ll pass along the message, and see if Noa would like to reschedule.”
“It’s not an if, Terry—”
“You’ll hear from me if Noa does.”
I manage to wait until Terry hangs up to start cursing the phone.
* * *
An hour later, I’ve crammed my work for the weekend into three canvas totes. I’ve resurrected the old gym bag under my desk—leftover from an expensive lie I once told myself that I should join the spin studio across the street—and am amazed to find that spin-curious Lanie packed the bag with a change of clothes, clean underwear, deodorant, and a toothbrush. My Amtrak tickets and hotel are booked and now I can spend my remaining minutes in the office writing an email to Noah.
Terry has not called me back.
In my first draft of the email, I went on too long and was overly repentant. Then I deleted everything and went the never-apologize-never-explain route. People need to reschedule. It happens. Our agreement is not off because of one conflict. I keep telling myself this, but I’d feel better if Terry called. The email is still sitting in my drafts.
“Alors,” Aude says, appearing in my doorway in herringbone pants so high-waisted I think all her ribs are inside. “You should leave if you don’t want to miss your train.”
“You’re right,” I say, shutting down my computer. “Merci.”
“De rien.” She pauses. “How will you get into Ryan’s apartment?”
I wave my keychain, which still holds a key to Ryan’s brownstone. I’ll leave it behind for him when this is done.
“Lanie,” Aude says, “when you get there, allot yourself a very short time inside Ryan’s home. In and out—two minutes tops. I think it would be best.”
“What do you think I’m going to do? Climb inside his hamper to breathe in his laundry?”