And then, around the room, comes the percussion of two hundred and sixty-six balloons being popped. Everyone cheers as the edible confetti rains down.

After my speech, guests gather around Meg’s marvelous book cake to grab a signed copy. I mingle with some ladies from White Plains, then join Aude behind the table to pass out more books. It’s the time of night when people start dreading their commutes, and I know we need to move them out efficiently, back to their lives and obligations.

I’m handing out swag—engraved champagne flutes and tote bags featuring the book cover—when I look up and see the man I’d called out in my toast.

“Hey, Man of the Year.” I hand him a book. “Thanks for playing along.”

Up close, his green eyes ambush me. “Glad to be of service.”

His voice is lower than I expected.

“I hope your wife thanks you sufficiently.”

He opens his mouth then closes it.

“Girlfriend?” I offer.

“No. It’s not . . .”

When he trails off, I feel bad, knowing I’ve overstepped. We sometimes get a few gay men at Noa’s events, but I’m definitely sensing straight here. Then it hits me. “Oh, I’m sorry, you must be press.”

I’d forgotten that a journalist from New York magazine had RSVPed. Meg had been thrilled about the coverage, and now I’ve probably ruined his enthusiasm to write about our event.

“Be sure to mention what a fool I made of myself?”

He shakes his head. “You’d fly away with the story.”

In my mind I see Noa’s GIF of the woman riding the balloons into the distance. “On a cake balloon.”

“Speaking of, is this one spoken for? I didn’t get any.” Meg appears beside us, popping the very last balloon and snatching the cake like a pro. I wonder if Meg notices that the confetti seems to fall in slow motion around me and the man whose name I haven’t caught.

“This is Meg, our publicist,” I tell him. “You probably spoke about the piece.”

Meg looks at me, confused. She shakes her head. “Doris came from New York mag. She left already, but they got a good picture of you onstage.”

“Oh,” I say and turn back to the mystery man. “I keep projecting mistaken identities onto you.”

He’s still gazing at me as though we share a secret, and something about it is awkward, and something about it is spellbinding. Even though I’m aware we’re holding up the line, I extend my hand.

“I’m Lanie,” I say.

“I know,” he says, raising an eyebrow, which makes me rack my brain for a memory of meeting him sometime before. No. I’d remember him. He has the kind of face you don’t forget.

“You introduced yourself onstage,” he says, and both of us laugh. Mine is nervous.