“Now,” she says, holding out the plate to offer me a slice of bruschetta, “you said there was something you wanted to discuss?”

I have to tell her. It’s the decent thing to do.

The waiter sets down two plates of gorgeously charred octopus, giving me an excellent opportunity to stall. I stab an olive with my fork and look out at the beach as I chew. Everyone I see appears to be part of an amorous pair—holding hands, kissing, sharing a scoop of pink gelato, rubbing sunblock into someone else’s bronzed shoulders.

If I’m hungry for anything, it’s what those people out there have.

I called Noah twice last night, and both times his phone went straight to voicemail.

I remind myself that I am grappling with two (mostly) separate issues. One is the giant question of what will happen when I finally do talk to Noah. The other is my responsibility as his editor to prepare Gabriella for the op-ed.

I’ll tackle the less scary one first.

“It has to do with the launch tonight,” I say to Gabriella.

“Of course.” She smiles, taking a tiny bite of octopus and chewing languorously. “I will tell you all about it. This is our biggest event to date. And we’re very proud to pull it off. We were inspired by your version in New York, and have invited two hundred and sixty-six of Noa Callaway’s biggest fans from all throughout Italy. There will be cocktails and caprese, millefoglie—which is our wedding cake, sugared almonds for good luck. A famous wedding DJ is coming down from Rome. And of course, the highlight of the evening will be you. Your speech. We were so moved by your words in the video, Lanie. We are honored to have you here to celebrate with us.”

“Thank you, but—”

“In fact, there is much interest from the media, including many requests to speak to you.”

“To me?”

“Of course! You are Noa Callaway’s ambassador. You know all the secrets.” She winks at me. “If you are comfortable, I would like to confirm some interviews with our biggest newspapers and TV stations. Everyone wants to know what Noa Callaway is really like behind the scenes. I have prepped the journalists—they know you cannot tell them, but they are Italian, so they will ask anyway! If you are happy to do the interviews, I can confirm for this afternoon, before the party?”

“Gabriella,” I say as the waiter comes to whisk away our starters, setting down the most aromatic pasta. It smells like heaven in a bowl, and I wish I weren’t too anxious to enjoy it. “There’s something I need to tell you. Actually, it may be easiest to show you.”

I take out my phone and pull up the op-ed. I place it on the table near her wine. She takes out turquoise reading glasses from her purse and slides them on.