“Let’s keep it that way.” Sue’s smile is stiff and a little too wide. “Focus on the book, Lanie. Get Noa Callaway to deliver. And buckle your seat belt. You may be in for some turbulence.”

Chapter Four

At seven o’clock, at the tail end of the launch’s cocktail hour, I’m waiting in the greenroom at the Hotel Shivani, halfway recovered from my meeting with Sue. My speech is memorized. I had to write it a month ago so it could be vetted by Alix, by Terry, and, ostensibly by Noa—though she never remarked on it to me. All I have to change is the line about me standing in for Noa’s editor to say I am Noa’s editor. That should be easy enough.

Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today . . .

In wedding-style metaphors, my speech is meant to take the reader through the full journey of our work on the book. From the dramatic way Noa delivers manuscripts—via hard copy, in a metal briefcase, delivered by Brinks messenger—which can feel akin to a blind date. To the courtship phase of the editorial process—the bumps along the way being the best parts. I’ll pause for a laugh when I share Noa’s top contender for this book’s title: Twelve Divorce Filings. I swear, I thought she was going to die on that hill.

My phone buzzes.

HAVE FUN TONIGHT!!! Ryan texts.

I know he set an alarm reminder on his phone to write to me just when I’m about to take the stage, when my nerves are peaking and I can use encouragement. Then comes a follow-up: Can’t wait to see you after. And a third: Don’t be Bill Murray.

I roll my eyes, but I’m laughing. This is his way of saying Stay on script. From all the D.C. cocktail parties he’s dragged me to, Ryan has observed that I am either exceptionally articulate . . . or a total bumbling disaster. He says that I’m a land of extremes, just coasts, no middle ground.

Ready to rock, I text back, stepping out of the greenroom and into the candlelit party.

The hall is filled with the sound of women loving the same thing. These are my people, this is my crowd. I take the stage and stand beneath the altar, proud of Meg and her team and the stunning party they’ve brought to life. Proud of Noa and this dazzling book. And damn it, proud of myself. I reach for the mic, adjust it. Emotion swells in my chest. I wish my mom could see me.

I look out at these wonderful, passionate women, all two hundred and sixty-six of them, and am overcome by my new responsibility.