“Not at all.” I want to thank him, too, but the words don’t feel right. I enjoyed today. Meeting Calla Ross was unexpected and illuminating. It felt profound to see Noah with her, the intimate family they make.

He seems tired, and I understand. I remember how much I slept the year I lost my mom. He has a hard road ahead of him with Calla’s care, and I want him to know I’m here.

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.

Chapter Sixteen

When Meg comes into her office on the morning of May 15, she flips on the lights, then jumps at the sight of me, curled in the fetal position on her zebra-print love seat.

“Cool if I hide in here for the next six to eight hours?”

“Sure thing,” she says, tossing down her raincoat and purse. “Who are you hiding from? Are Aude’s sisters in town again?”

I shake my head.

“Oh, that’s right!” Meg’s eyes widen. “It’s motherfucking D-day for Noa Callaway!”

“Every time I hear footsteps,” I say, “I think it’s the Brinks messenger coming at me with that metal briefcase. The suspense may literally kill me.”

Meg powers up her computer, sipping a very large mocha from the café across the street. “Just think, by tonight at six o’clock, you’ll be curled up with Alice, reading the manuscript, swooning with delight, all your worries dissolved. But you’d better read fast, because Mama’s coming over after Goodnight Moon to drunk pack for Italy with you.”

I sit up on her love seat. “Meg, I have a confession.”

“You don’t want to drunk pack together?”

“It’s not that.”

She’s checking her email, not entirely focused on me. “Is it about Noa Callaway?”

I get up and close the door to her office. I come back to sit across from her, clasp my hands together on her desk. Now I have her attention.

“Uh-oh,” Meg says. “Is she . . . not delivering a manuscript for summer?”

“She is not delivering a manuscript for summer.”

Meg spits out her sip of mocha.

“He is delivering a manuscript for summer,” I say.

Meg wipes her mouth. “Wut?”