By Any Other Name

by Lauren Kate

“One graze of that hangnail will pop them,” he says. Hastily I gnaw off a thumbnail.

“Um, my job?” he says, rolling out his neck, which is always sore because he over-Pilates because he has the long-standing, unrequited hots for Brent, the instructor at Pilates World.

I have lunched with agents who said over Scandinavian gravlax they had credible intelligence that Noa is a forty-six-year-old gay man writing from a yacht off Fire Island, then begged me with their eyes to confirm that it was true.

Ryan smiles his gorgeous politician smile, the one that says I’m on your side. He raises his glass. “Congratulations, baby. Tell me everything Sue said.” So I do, flopping on the couch with my prosecco while Ryan tinkers with my dishwasher. As I finish recounting my meeting with Sue and go on to tell him about the launch, I can’t help remembering that handshake with Ross at the end, the intensity of his eyes, the thrill that passed through me.

uhhhh

The routines we’ve fallen into sometimes make me feel restless and claustrophobic, like a windup toy stuck in a corner.

Only now . . . Alix is gone, and where does that leave Noa and me? Yesterday, Terry called to set up a face-to-face meeting with Noa. I was so shocked, I’d agreed to the suggested time immediately, without thinking about my own calendar. Then I had to cancel last minute on Ryan’s senator’s birthday in D.C. He isn’t thrilled, but I’ll figure out a way to make it up to him next week.

that doesnt seem healthy

I freeze when I realize I know him. It’s Ross, from the launch party. Man of the Year. Edible confetti shower sharer. Thrower of lightning bolts through my body. Look away. You have one job.

How dare he. My idol has been desecrated. The very reason I got into publishing pulled out from underneath me. Everything I loved about love is in question. And he thinks it’s not going well? I turn on my heel and speed walk away.

Just because Noa Calloway is a lie doesn’t mean my relationship is.

Oh, BD, why couldn’t it have been you?” “Well, I’m flattered, but I can’t say I’m surprised.” “Really?” I say, amazed. “You’ve read all Noa’s books. You’re honestly telling me you suspected Noa Callaway had a . . . you know . . .” “You can say penis to your grandmother, Lanie.” “Oh jeez. Fine. Penis.” “Manhood,” BD says. “Dick.” I put my head on the table.

“That no one person can fulfill every single one of another person’s needs. Which is why book clubs and grandmothers exist.

The message, as I understood it, was that some people can look into the abyss without losing sight of themselves or what they love. Without being too scared about what lies on the other side.

Fifty overlooked New York City landmarks. They are numbered in order of my personal preference, but all of them are gems. At the top, in an effort to inject a touch of playfulness, I’ve written the header Fifty Ways to Break Up Noah and His Writer’s Block.

I hand over my pen. Noah crosses something out. I lean forward, watch as he retitles the page: Fifty Ways to Break Up Lanie and Her Anxiety.

Before I can groan, Ryan fills my hands with his. They’re warm and familiar. I squeeze them, wanting to fold myself inside him. But something holds me back. It’s this feeling that if I fold myself inside Ryan, I might get lost. Irretrievably. I’ve never felt that way before, and it startles me.

Ryan used to joke with me about his parents’ many social functions, but sometime in the last year he changed. Instead of laughing with me about the country club’s penchant for taxidermy, he gifted me the exact same sweater I spotted on two of his friends’ girlfriends at the last event.

“That bike was the beginning of our story.” “Everything’s a story with you,” he says. What about the feeling of freedom each time we hopped on the bike together? What about the wind on our skin? Or the front-row seat to the sights and smells of a city, how everything changes with the seasons? What about those few wonderful weeks each spring when the cherry blossoms bloom? What about the way the motorcycle drove his mother crazy? Oh my god.

Before I’ve figured out how to square all this, Ryan comes outside. He’s as handsome as ever in his navy bomber jacket and jeans. His eyes twinkle, as if to say, You’re not still mad, are you? “Feeling better?” he says, and opens his arms to me. I step into his embrace, feel his arms close comfortingly around me. For a long time, we say nothing. Tears sting my eyes as I pull back to look at him. “Why do you love me, Ryan?” He drops his arms, rubs his face. “Lanie, what are you doing?” “I’m being honest. It’s an honest question.”

I close my eyes. This hurts. I don’t want to break up with Ryan. I really don’t want to break up with Ryan. But I have to. I have to do it now, even as the rest of my life is already imploding. Because while Ryan is still all of the ninety-nine things I thought I wanted, it turns out that isn’t enough.

“Do you remember Mary, my assistant two assistants ago?

“So, what are we drinking to?” I ask as he fills my flute. “To you not moving to D.C.,” Rufus says. “To you never being fucking FLOTUS!” Meg says. “I will drink to that,” I say and raise my glass. “No offense, Michelle.” “No offense, Michelle,” they echo and drink, too.

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?”

I’m rounding the corner to the elevator when I almost collide with Meg. “Hot soup!” she shouts in warning. “And hello to you, too,” I say.

“If faith in love were a source of energy, you could power a small planet.”

The more I try to understand my relationship with Noah Ross, the more indefinable it becomes.

Friends over email. Antagonists in person. Then, out of nowhere: people who break into brownstones together, enjoy ELO on the jukebox, and eat obnoxious foods on trains.

“So the flowers . . .” Rufus prompts me. “Don’t worry,” I say. “They aren’t from Ryan.” “Good,” Meg says, “because that would have thrown a real wrench in Operation Get Lanie Laid this Friday.”

He is good-looking, the kind of good-looking that never comes without a chin cleft.

And so, a moment later, I find myself pressed against a window, staring deep into this stranger’s chin cleft, and wondering what the hell to say.

“I’m a book editor,” I shout. “That’s AMAZING!” he shouts back with so much enthusiasm I wonder whether I’ve written Phil off too quickly. Then the other shoe drops. “I read a book last year!” “Was it . . . good?” It’s the best I can do.

He’s cute and clean-cut, wearing tailored pin-striped suit-pants with a white French-cuffed oxford shirt. His vibe is grown-up yet playful—both of which I like—especially when combined with the wry look in his eyes. “Not a winner?” Pinstripes says in a British accent. “In Phil’s defense,” I say, drawing closer, “he did read a book last year.”

I put my drink down on the bar and see Meg and Rufus chest bump in celebration out of the corner of my eye.

I can’t help sneaking glances at him. Things I’ve noticed about Noah without realizing I was noticing: His curly hair is always wet when he shows up someplace. His eyes are this dark, mysterious green, which matches the cool ivy print on his button-down today. His smile is slow—like it really wants to be sure about things before committing—but once it’s there, it holds you close.

AHHHHH

The man is an enigma—one minute reserved, the next, totally game to commit a felony in the spirit of doing someone a favor.

“It was just a love story?” “Yes,” he says, meeting my eyes. It feels as if this is the first time we’ve ever really looked at each other. “It was just a love story.”

Also, I don’t want to completely crush your confidence in this delicate creative moment. You’ve lost—what?—the past six games in a row?” “That’s only because I can’t use my intimidation tactics over the app.” “And those would be?” Noah squares off to face me, crosses his arms, and raises one eyebrow dramatically with an exaggerated tilt of his head. All he needs is a monocle to complete the look of total lunatic. I burst out laughing. “I’m scared now,” I say. “See?” “Scared for you that you think that’s an intimidation tactic. You look like an Angry Bird.”

“Fine, but I am a better chess player in person. The game of kings needs human beings.” “Well, if only you hadn’t pissed me off so much that day in Central Park,” I say, feigning a sigh. “We could have already put this argument to rest.” “I’m afraid there’s only one solution,” he says. “Are you challenging me to a game of chess?” I say, feeling my competitive spirit rise. He nods. “And hoping you like sushi, because I’m starving, and Saturdays are for sushi.” Then he does the thing with the eyebrow again until I crack up and agree.

Lanie. Remember your career on the line? The precarious balance you are in with this man? Stop gazing at his meet-cuticles. Win the game and go home.

“Checkmate,” Noah says. My jaw drops. He’s got me pinned between his rooks. How did I let this happen? I want to be a gracious loser, but I honestly can’t believe this. The only thing that makes it bearable is looking up at him and confronting The Eyebrow. We both start laughing. Noah reaches for the sake, and we’re surprised to find the bottle drained.

“You’re Aunt B!” I say, remembering Noah’s story about the women who had raised him. Her smile widens. “He told you about me?” she says, in a husky twang reminiscent of Dolly Parton. “I guess that’s only fair, because I’ve heard all about you.” “You have?” “You’re the editor. The Magic One, he calls you. Oh dang, Bernadette.” She slaps her tan cheek twice. “He’ll kill me if he knows I said that.” I brighten. On my best days, editing does feel like channeling magic, and it feels good to know Noah said that.

“For our first couple of hours together,” she says, “I’m legally obligated to bore the pants off you. But after that, I’m going to light a fire under your ass.” Our morning is fifty percent Bernadette plowing through the course material for the written exam—and fifty percent Noah and I locking eyes as she takes off on wild tangents and hilarious personal anecdotes.

“I think it’s a sign,” Noah says. “I think you were meant to take a sunset stroll with me through Central Park tonight.” I meet his eyes, not laughing anymore. His smile quickens my pulse. “But you said you didn’t want to get a drink with Bernadette. I thought . . . Don’t you have plans?” “I didn’t want to get a drink with Bernadette,” he says, still looking at me. “But I’d love to take a walk with you.” We stare at each other for a supercharged few seconds, and that’s when I feel it. It’s not just attraction I have for Noah. There’s something between us. He feels it, too.

AHHHHHH

“Would you . . .” Noah’s eyes meet mine and hold them. “Never mind.” “What?” “I was going to ask if you’d like to meet my mother. I think she’d like you, and, to be honest, I could use a friend there with me. If not, I understand, you’ve already taken so much time today—” “I’d love to,” I say. I’m flattered that he thinks his mother would like me, and that he wants me there. “Really?” He smiles. “It wouldn’t take long. I’d get you back to Union Station for a later train. I don’t know how she’ll be today, of course. Some days are better than others.” “Yes,” I tell Noah. “I’d be honored.”

AHHHHHH OMGGGGGG

I step toward him, put my arms around him. My face presses to his chest. I exhale when I feel his arms around me. He’s warm and firm and somehow not at all what I expected. Maybe it’s just the way he holds me back that takes me by surprise. Like it’s natural. Like we’ve done all this before. It leaves me breathless, and I realize I don’t want to get on that train. What if I stayed? What if— “All aboard,” a voice calls from the train. “Good night, Lanie,” Noah says against my ear as the conductor blasts the horn. “Thanks again.” Our arms fall away from each other. I turn from him reluctantly, and board the train.

I AM ACTIVELY SCREAMING AND KICKING MY FEEEEET

“Oooh,” Rufus says. “What?” “I was just thinking. The name. Lanie Callaway. It suits you.” “I would never change my name.” “Not even Lanie Bloom-Callaway?” Rufus says. “Wouldn’t it be Lanie Bloom-Callaway-Ross?” Meg asks. “This is a moot conversation in so many ways!” I say as my phone rings with a FaceTime call from BD.

This moment marks the beginning of a long weekend of warm sunshine and winding roads, of panoramic sea views and unhealthy amounts of mozzarella. I turn my phone to Do Not Disturb so I can fully soak it up.

Dear Lanie, I hope this finds you on a balcony at sunset, glass of prosecco in hand. Please find herewith three things you’ve been waiting for. The first is an apology. (Come on, you know you’ve been waiting for it.) I’m sorry I was _______ the other night. (I see you on that balcony, rolling your eyes. I spent twenty minutes searching for the most precise descriptor. Was I weird? Distant? Cold? Brusque? (Brusque was my top contender, and one you’d line-edit into oblivion.) Or perhaps, simply, blank? I defer to you.) The truth is, when you came by my apartment, I was scared . . . about the other two things you’ve been waiting for from me. They are attached. Once you read them, I think you’ll understand. Yours, Noah

AHHHHHHH THE YOURS PARTT OMGGGGGGGGGG

“What do you think?” Cecilia asks me, bringing me back to the cliff. “Do you really want to do this?” “ ‘Life’s greatest mystery,’ ” I say, “ ‘is whether we shall die bravely.’ ” “I love that scene,” Cecilia says, securing my harness tightly at my hips. She hands me a helmet, makes sure I thread the strap through tightly. “I love all of Noa Callaway’s books.” “Me too,” I say. “I’m . . .” In love with him! “I’m Noa’s editor in New York.” “No!” Cecilia squeals. “I would say I’m her biggest fan, but my boyfriend is even more crazy for her books. Tell me what she’s like in person?” I’m relieved to know the op-ed hasn’t made its way to every corner of the world yet. I think about how to answer Cecilia’s question, and the words that come first feel right. “One of my favorite people in the world,” I say. I give myself goose bumps, but Cecilia doesn’t notice.

I turn to see the rocky shoreline in the distance, the waves crashing on it. It’s breathtaking—and easy to imagine the sirens singing there. I think about Odysseus resisting the irresistible, lashing himself to his ship to keep from crashing, to live more life and have more joy. To make it to the place his epic meant to take him all along. I want to tell Noah about all of this. About Li Galli islands. About lovely Cecilia and her boyfriend, the fan. About the Ducati, and the view from my hotel room, and his chic Italian editor. About how it feels to fly. But it’s more than that. I don’t just want to tell Noah about these things. I want to share them with him. I want him here. I want Noah with me in the sky, where we can gaze out at the future—the golden, glorious, complicated balance of our lives.

I’m halfway back to the Bacio when I spot the silver Moto Guzzi V7 motorcycle in my side-view mirror. It’s a hot bike, sporty and refined—and with his vintage motorcycle boots, dark jeans, and suede bomber jacket, it’s easy to imagine the driver is as sexy underneath his helmet. When I glance back over my shoulder, he revs his engine, flirting. “Not today, signor,” I mutter, wishing my life were so simple that I could lose an afternoon at a cliff-side café with an Italian stranger. But I’d be awful company, checking my phone every other minute, praying for Noah to call.