With my heart in my throat, I close the email, scroll through my contacts, and press call.

“Lanie?” The voice on the other end sounds surprised. “How’s Italy?”

“Meg,” I breathe. “Check your email.”

I forward her Noah’s op-ed then wait on the phone as she reads it.

“Ohmigod,” she says. “Ohmigod. OhmiGOD. Lanie, do you know what this means? He likes you back! That last line? That’s . . . wow.”

“What?” I say. “That’s your takeaway? Meg, put on your publicist sombrero. We need to make plans. ASAP. Besides, he explicitly said he thinks we could be friends. Has there ever been a clearer kiss-off in the history of unrequited romance?”

“Speaking as your friend,” she says, “I’ll agree to disagree. Speaking as Noa Callaway’s publicist . . .” There’s a long pause on the line. Then a sigh. “Well, as mea culpas go, it’s not the worst. I’m not saying there won’t be hell to pay, but ultimately, my prediction, after I do my job of course, is that there will be no permanent cancellation of Noa Callaway.”

“Really?”

“Give me a few hours. Let me see what I can do.”

“What about Sue? Should I—”

“You should enjoy the Amalfi Coast,” she says firmly. “There’s nothing more you can do from there. I’ll meet with Sue today. We’ll circle back later. I mean it, Lanie. Hit the pool, sip a cocktail, leave this to me.”

“Thank you, Meg.”

When we hang up, I’m shivery with nerves. How can I leave this alone? How can I not obsess over Sue’s reaction when she reads this op-ed? How am I not going to be fired?

But . . . if anyone can handle this, it’s Meg. And she’s right, it is a good apology, as far as apologies go. I picture Noah writing it. I picture his hands on the keyboard. I picture—

Pool, I tell myself, gazing down over my balcony at its infinity in the moonlight. Cocktail.

Sure. But first, Chapter One.