“Lanie.” His voice commands my attention.

And then—my stomach sinks. Because I get it. It’s like the force of gravity has doubled. That’s how heavy I feel as Ross and I regard each other for a long and silent while.

“You?” My legs feel shaky. I drop onto the bench.

“Yeah.”

“Oh my god.”

Noa Callaway has an Adam’s apple. Noa Callaway has chest hair. Noa Callaway has a deep voice and a firm handshake. By all estimation, Noa Callaway has other firm things, too.

The years of emails, the online chess games? All this time, it’s been him?

I think of reading Ninety-Nine Things furtively in my college dorm room. The way that story spun my life in an entirely new direction, toward this version of me, right here, right now. I think of my Ninety-Nine Things list, snug in Ryan’s wallet, the man it led me to.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I can’t seem to catch my breath.” The scarf is too tight around my neck. I gulp from the water bottle in my bag. I close my eyes and try to speak. “How . . . how could I not have known?”

“I could have sworn you did know,” he says.

“Why would you think that?” I hear the anger rising in my voice.

His lips part. His eyes widen. He’s like a zookeeper realizing the grizzly is about to attack.

“The other night, at the launch,” he says. “I was worried that seeing me was what threw you off onstage.”

“Threw me off?” Could he be more tone-deaf? “I was thinking about the readers, about my obligation to deliver Noa Callaway’s next book to them. I was genuinely overcome with fondness for those women. Not that you’d know anything about being genuine.” I clap a hand over my mouth, then let it slide down to my heart. “Your fans will lose it if they find out who you really are.”

His eyes dart around the park, then lock on mine. “Why would they find out? Isn’t it in everyone’s best interest to keep this between us?”

“They trusted you.”

It’s less embarrassing than saying I trusted you.

A silence follows. He seems completely unaffected by the idea that he’s betraying millions of readers, and that I am now complicit. How is it possible that the book that changed my life—that convinced me Ryan is the one!—was written by an asshole?

“I’ve always wondered where you learned to play chess,” he says, pointing at the board between us.

“My grandmother taught me,” I say, distracted.

“Did your grandmother dress you, too?” he asks, taking in my Fendi suit.

I stand, heart pulsing, barely able to restrain my rage. It’s a good thing the chessboard is inlaid upon the table; otherwise I’d slam it on his head so hard it’d knock his next three novels out of him.