“You should,” he says. “I think you’d like it. It’s hard not to like the Amalfi Coast, but I think you’d . . . get it.”
I’m not sure what he means, or from where he gleaned this knowledge of my travel tastes, but it sounds like he intends it as a compliment, so I leave his logic alone.
“When I was a kid,” I say, reaching back into the box, “my mom used to talk about taking me to Positano. She was conceived there.” I glance at him. “Sorry, TMI?”
“I assume your mother had to be conceived somewhere,” Noah says. “Positano’s a good place for it.”
I don’t know why this makes me blush. We’re both adults. We have pored, professionally, over dozens of sex scenes he wrote into seven bestselling novels. Maybe Noah had great sex in Positano; it couldn’t be less my business.
I need to change the subject. After a moment’s hesitation, I take out my mother’s award from the box. I set the plaque on the table. “This is the main thing I didn’t want to lose.”
Noah picks it up to get a closer look. He meets my eyes across the table. “Your mom’s?”
I nod and sip my beer.
“She must have been an impressive woman.”
“How did you know she died?”
“Because you told me and I remembered?” He gives me a funny look. “Did you forget that we’ve been friends for seven years?”
“I’m sorry . . . sometimes . . . a little . . .”
“It’s okay. I know meeting me was a shock to your system.”
We’re quiet for a moment, because I don’t know what to say to this, and he’s basically the worst at filling awkward silences. Javier Bardem shifts around in his crate.
That’s when the high guitar notes of ELO’s “Strange Magic” reach through the jukebox speaker. “I love this song.”
Noah smiles. “Tonight, we got lucky.”
“We really did.”
Noah sets my mom’s award back gently in the box. “It’s pretty shitty of Ryan to get rid of this. It’s not like your late mother’s lifetime achievement award is a half-empty shampoo bottle.”
“Ryan’s a good guy. It’s just his mom . . .” I start to say. “Wait, why am I defending him? It is shitty. And I am hereby adding it to the growing list of shitty things he did. Do you know he sold his motorcycle without telling me? That might sound trite, but—”
“He sold the motorcycle he was riding when you two met?” Noah shakes his head. “The motorcycle that was the origin of your story?”
“That’s exactly what I said!” I say. “I loved our rides. Then Ryan just got rid of it and acted like I was crazy for caring.”
Noah toys with the tab on his beer can. “After my ex and I split up, a long time passed before I let myself get angry. I guess, subconsciously, I knew it was a slippery slope. I had this idea that I should be better at relationships than the average guy, because of what I write. Which, I learned, is false. Just because I can write love stories, doesn’t mean I can live them.” He lets out a self-deprecating laugh, and through it, I see a tenderer part of Noah Ross. “Once I let myself accept that, I realized our relationship was pretty toxic from the start.”
“When did you break up?” I say. Who was this woman? What did she do? Where was she from? What did she look like? How serious were they?
“About a year and half ago,” he says, looking away.
My brain accidentally does some math, and I realize this would have been right after he finished writing Two Hundred and Sixty-Six Vows. That is, the last thing Noa Callaway wrote.
“Oh, don’t do that,” he says, reading my mind. “She is not the reason I’ve been blocked.”
“Keep telling yourself that,” I say, letting him know with my eyes that I’m teasing.
“Maybe she was a tiny contributing factor. At first.” He shakes his head. “What am I doing? You’re the last person who wants to hear this.”
“It’s okay—”
“It’s not. I don’t want to worry you. You came up with this grand plan to get me writing again, and I’m up for it. I think . . . it’ll work out. I know your job is on the line and everything. So please, Lanie, don’t worry.”
“Sure.” I nod. I’m surprisingly not worried. Inside, I feel reassured. For the first time, I can see the human heart that’s written Noa Callaway’s books.
Suddenly, I don’t just want this next book for my career, or for Peony’s bottom line. I want it for Noah, too.
“You want to see something that will make you laugh?” I say.
When he looks up at me, glad for the change of subject, I reach into my box and gather the courage to show him my Ninety-Nine Things.
Chapter Twelve
From: [email protected]
Date: Monday, March 9, 10:06 a.m.
Subject: a toast
Dear Noah,
A few months ago, I was the maid of honor at a friend’s wedding. The best man was a Buddhist monk. My speech was first, and it was brilliant, if I may say so—one funny anecdote, one tear-jerking one, one Anne Sexton poem, and one Gracie Allen insult. All done in a tight ten minutes.
Afterward, the monk approached the microphone. He looked into the eyes of the groom, then the bride, and said:
“Lower your expectations.”
Then he dropped the mic and went back to his seat.
This depressed me. It sounded like he was encouraging the newlyweds to let each other down. But the more I thought about it, I realized that expectations are rarely rooted in reality, and maybe all the monk was talking about was acceptance. Maybe relationships truly begin with acceptance of who the other is.
I want people to expect much of me—and not to be disappointed, but that’s not entirely in my control. I like thinking that to accept who someone is, you have to find out who they are. And that can take a lifetime.
At the bar on Friday night, you said you thought meeting you was a shock to my system. I wonder if meeting me was hard for you? I’ve been thinking about this because today I’m moving into Alix’s old office. I’m curious about your expectations of your editor. You’ve always worked with Alix. You and I have corresponded for years, but in some ways, we’re just starting out. So I wanted to offer us a little grace.