“You have a bunny,” I remark.
“You have a tortoise,” he says, like this is the end of the conversation.
“Wonder who’ll win the race,” I say, which actually makes him laugh. “Alice was my neighbor’s. Mrs. Park. She moved to Florida a few years ago and couldn’t have pets at her new place. She asked if I’d take Alice as a favor. I’m really glad she did,” I say, smiling at the pleasant thought of Alice. She’ll wonder where I am tonight, but she has enough food and water to last until I’m back tomorrow.
I glance at Noah, because now it’s his turn to say something about his own unlikely companion.
“This is Javier Bardem,” Noah says, looking at the bunny. “He used to be my mother’s.”
“Your mom sounds like she has good taste in men.”
There’s a silence intended for him to elaborate. He doesn’t. He points at my thermos.
“Is that egg drop soup?”
“It is,” I say, feeling my hackles rise. “It was a gift, and it’s my favorite, so don’t—”
“I was merely going to say, it smells good . . . all throughout the car.”
“My soup and I will be happy to reseat ourselves somewhere else,” I say. Though I wish he’d be the one to leave. I unwisely unpacked three tote bags’ worth of stuff onto the table.
“No, stay,” he says. “I need you for cover.”
“What does that mean?”
“Three words,” Noah says, reaching into a brown paper bag. “Tuna. With. Onions.” He takes out a paper-wrapped parcel and soon reveals a large and extremely fragrant sandwich. My eyes start watering, again. “They were out of falafel at my favorite deli, so . . . Maybe our aromas will cancel each other out?”
Against my will, I laugh, and I’m shocked when Noah does, too. I raise my thermos and he holds up his sandwich. We lock eyes.
“Cheers,” I say, “to enjoying odiferous food in confined public spaces.”
I’m chewing a wonton and learning that I just can’t be in a bad mood while chewing a wonton. Noah’s chewing, too. The train comes out from underground, and we both look out the window awhile at the pink dusk of almost-spring. Would it be too much to ask for us to eat in silence the rest of the three-hour journey? We actually get along when we’re not talking.
My phone buzzes. When I look down, I see that Aude has sent me a photo. Of a keychain. My keychain. The one with Ryan’s key on it.
Please tell me this isn’t yours, she writes. I found it by the elevator bank.
“Oh no.”
“What’s wrong?” Noah asks.
“Nothing.”
“You sure? Because you look like you’re about to faint.”
“You have no idea what I look like when I’m about to faint.” But I do feel a little woozy. The image of Iris Bosch dumping my family heirlooms at Goodwill glows in my mind.
“I’m going to D.C. because I need to pick something up,” I say. “I need my keys to do it. And Aude just told me I left them at the office.” I cup my face, retracing my steps. “I ran into my friend as I was leaving . . . she gave me this egg drop soup . . . and I must have dropped my keys.”
“So, it’s actually key drop soup.”
I look at him, blink. “Oh my god, you just made a joke.” It was corny beyond belief, but it was a joke nonetheless.
Noah cocks an eyebrow, smiles. “I do it once a month on the full moon.”
“This is a fine time to let me know you actually have a sense of humor in person.”
“Business or residence?” Noah asks.
“Huh?”
“This place you need the keys to get into.”
“Residence. Why?”
“What kind of windows?”
“I don’t know, ones with panes. They slide up? I think.”
I watch Noah’s hands clasp together. I watch him lean back in his seat as his green eyes scan the ceiling. He’s thinking. This is what he looks like when he’s thinking. I picture him sitting like this at his desk in his beautiful Fifth Avenue penthouse, probing his mind for answers about characters I have loved.
“I can get you in,” he says.
“Uh, what?”
“There’s a . . . ninety-eight-percent chance that I can get you in.”
Noah must see the way I’m looking at him because for once, he’s quick to explain.
“I was raised in a household of women. My mother and two of her friends. Very overprotective.”
“What does any of this mean?” I ask.
“I got good at sneaking out of the house.”
“That’s different from sneaking in.”
“What kind of alarm system?”
“He never turns it on.”
Noah smiles. “Then we’re golden.”
I squint at his nonchalance. “So, you’re going to get off this train with me? And we’re going to this empty house? And you’re going to break me inside?”
Noah nods. Smiles.
“This is not the Friday night I had envisioned.”
“Stick with me, kid,” Noah says. And then, he seems to hear his own words, the rapport that they suggest. His cheeks turn pink, and his manner shifts back to stiff. “If I’m going to agree to this, you need to tell me where we’re going, and why.”
I was afraid of this. But I have no idea how to break into Ryan’s place other than a rock through his window, so if I want my heirlooms without a criminal report, Noah Ross might have to call a few shots.
“It’s my ex-fiancé’s brownstone in Georgetown.”
“The guy on the wall? I thought he wasn’t your ex-fiancé.”
The train rattles around a bend in the tracks. It’s gotten dark outside. I can’t believe I’m having this conversation with this man.
“He wasn’t,” I say. “Until he was. Anyway, he has some of my stuff with sentimental value, and my ex-future-mother-in-law is going to get rid of it tomorrow.” I look at him. “Unless you break me in.”
* * *
“So,” Noah whispers in the dark side yard of Ryan’s brownstone at nine o’clock that night, “how did you two meet?”