He pockets his phone, looks at me. I think I see guilt cross his face, but he’s so hard to read, I can’t be sure. “I’m working on it. I’ll have it to you by the time you’re back from Italy.”
“That sounds . . . good.”
I stand on his welcome mat, glancing over his shoulder at the marble table where we ate sushi and played chess like two not completely awkward human beings. It feels like an alternate reality. Where did I go wrong?
“I’ll go,” I say, “just . . . one more thing.”
This time, when he looks at me, his eyes flash, drawing me in. The lightning bolt licks through me. The image of leaping into his arms, adding a low-key straddle of my legs, intrudes upon my saner thoughts.
“I think this could be the one,” I tell him. “For you to go out with under your own name.”
“I have a lot to think about, Lanie,” Noah says, opening his front door. “Is it okay if I reach out to you when I’m ready?”
“Of course.” Tell me everything that’s running through your mind. NOW. “Totally. Take your time.”
A notification sounds on his phone. He turns the screen so I can see. “I got you a Lyft,” he says, taking my umbrella, holding it over me as he walks me out. “I don’t want you to be late for your packing party.”
“Thank you,” I say. I guess he wasn’t being rude on his phone before? I guess he was actually being nice. I would have absolutely stood out here in the rain like a dumbass before I remembered to call myself a Lyft. Still . . . why don’t I want to leave?
Noah points out the car, helps me inside.
“Thanks for the picnic,” he says. “Have a wonderful trip.”
* * *
“I have vodka, Veselka, and Vigo,” Meg says when she shows up at my door at nine-thirty, after she’s finally gotten her kids to sleep.
“A and B,” I say, reaching for the booze and the bag of take-out pierogi from my favorite Ukranian greasy spoon.
“C.” Rufus reaches over my shoulder to snap up the DVD of The Lord of the Rings. He’d arrived half an hour earlier so I could give him the lowdown on tortoise-sitting Alice while I’m out of town. And also, so he could shit-talk my packing strategy, which he called a packing tragedy. By now he’s rolled up all my shirts into a tiny corner of the Louis Vuitton duffel bag BD bought in Paris in the seventies.
“Do you have your passport?” Meg asks. “Travel adapter? String bikini?”
“Locked and loaded,” I say. “Right next to my new motorcycle license.”
“I am deeply concerned about this,” Meg says. “It’s supposed to be a vacation, not a stunt show. And where is the Tumi suitcase I made you buy at the sample sale?”
“Doesn’t fit on a bike,” I say, ignoring Meg’s shudder. “But with this bungee cord, I should be able to strap the Louis Vuitton to the Ducati’s luggage rack.” I give the cord a couple stretches.
“You have no idea how that works,” Rufus says.
“Or that you’ll need more than one,” Meg adds.
“That’s what adventures are for,” I say and pour three shots of vodka.
“Launching your vintage Vuitton duffel into the Tyrrhenian Sea?” Rufus asks as he takes his glass.
“Trying new things,” I say.
“Cheers to that,” Meg says and raises her glass. “And to Noa Callaway, for turning in the book just in time for you to have a whole lot of reckless Italian sex.”
“Let me get this straight,” Rufus says to Meg as we clink. “You want Lanie to be careful on her motorcycle but careless in the sheets?”
“Risk/reward,” Meg says and drains her glass. “Falling out of bed is only a two-foot drop.”
I laugh and drink, but I find myself picturing the bed in Noah’s apartment. I wish I were with him, that we were making our way through the zinfandel and fried chicken, and he was telling stories about his mom before she was sick. That we were playing chess and I was winning, or that we were both reading beside his fireplace—
I stop myself. Noah couldn’t have gotten me out of his apartment faster with a can of Mace tonight. Our relationship is professional. I need to stay clear on that.
I meet Meg’s eyes as we sip. We share a glance, but I can’t tell if she’s picking up on my cues. I want to find a chance to talk to her alone before she leaves tonight, to let her know I talked with Noah today about the pseudonym.
“Ladies,” Rufus says, “I know.”
“You know what?” Meg says.
“I know Noa Callaway is that sexy guy Lanie was hiding from at Emergency Brunch.”
“How did you know that?” I gasp.
“I didn’t tell him!” Meg says.
“I’ve known since that day he sent you tulips. Your pheromones were glowing. So I put a few things together. I figured I’d wait for you to tell me, but I’m not going to sit here all night watching you two shoot meaningful glances over my head.” He pours himself more vodka. “And people say men aren’t perceptive.”
“You’ve known all this time?” I ask. “It doesn’t bother you he’s a man?”
“What’s the big fucking deal?” Rufus says.
“Wait a minute,” Meg says. “Pheromones?”
“No.” I wave my hands. “It’s not—”
“Lanie,” Rufus says in his life-coach voice. “Remember how bad you are at lying.”
I scoop some cabbage onto a pierogi, take a steamy, stalling bite. “Fine,” I say with my mouth full. “I want him.”
Meg gasps.
“But it doesn’t matter, because he does not reciprocate,” I say. “I mean, we’ve touched exactly once. It was a hug—a good one—but it was under very particular circumstances. And then I didn’t see him for a month. Tonight, when I stopped by to congratulate him on the book, it was a mistake. He treated me like I was a door-to-door vacuum salesperson.”
“Oh, you’ve got it bad,” Meg says. “Maybe it’s a rebound crush?”
“Or something. It’ll fade. Italy will be good for me. I’ll get some me-time, and I’ll come back with my pheromones less . . . pronounced.” I sigh. “Either that, or I’ll die alone, and lose my job, and take all of Peony down with me.”
“Oooh,” Rufus says.