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.