Am I not fired? Apparently, I’m not fired.

Sue looks at the photos of her sons, at her ferns. Then at me, and she sighs.

“As you know, Noa is . . . difficult.”

I feel her waiting for me to agree. I haven’t met Noa personally, nor spoken to her by phone, but from the interactions we’ve had, I consider her eccentricities to be like those of any genius. She can be cryptic and occasionally short via email, but more frequently, there’s a sparkle to our correspondence that sets it apart.

When we worked together on her sixth book, Twenty-One Games with a Stranger—about two rival gamers who hate each other in their waking lives but slowly fall in love in their dreams—Alix wanted to cut a scene where the characters play chess at a gaming convention. She said it was out of step with the techie aesthetic that was working in the rest of the book.

I learned to play chess from BD the summer my mother died, and I sensed that the chess scene in Noa’s draft was a metaphor for the larger romantic relationship. The interplay of strategy and patience. In my notes to Alix, I spelled out how Noa might drive this point home with a few light edits. It was the first time Alix copied and pasted a paragraph of mine directly into one of her editorial letters. The day after Alix sent the letter off, I got an invitation to play online chess from Noa Callaway. She didn’t have to mention that she’d sensed my influence in the letter. We’ve been playing ever since.

“Given the circumstances,” Sue says, “it makes sense to promote you. Provisionally.”

I blink.

“Tomorrow you’ll become Peony’s youngest editorial director. Provisionally.”

“Sue,” I whisper. That’s a big promotion. “Thank you!”

“Don’t thank me yet,” Sue says. “This is only a trial. Three months. If you can’t get a number-one-New-York-Times-bestseller-worthy manuscript out of Noa by then, I’ll find someone who can.”

“I can do it,” I say without thinking. I have no idea how, but I’ll find a way.

If I can’t get Noa to deliver a great book, it’s not just our fiscal year that will suffer. It’s my whole career. It’s the Casablanca reboot. It’s the paranormal ballet romance written by the sweetest seventy-year-old former dancer with an unparalleled gift for hot sex scenes. It’s the #ownvoices imprint Aude and I dreamed of launching next year. “I won’t let you down, Sue.”

“Good.” Sue slides me the stack of papers. “Sign here.”

“What’s this?” I ask as I realize exactly what it is. A detailed non-disclosure agreement.

“Just a precaution,” Sue says.

“Oh my god,” I say as it hits me. “Wait, I’m not actually going to meet Noa Callaway? Noa never meets anyone in person.”