I sigh. “It made me think of something Ryan said once, at a work party I brought him to. About how the whole point of fiction is that it’s a lie.” I grimace, remembering. “It didn’t score huge points with Sue. But you know, Ryan’s bookshelves are crammed with biographies of Great Men. He and his friends all quote from the same texts. They read them like technical manuals, how-to guides to Become Great. I think it lets them fantasize that someday, the story of their lives will be interesting enough for other men to want to read.”

BD laughs, nodding.

“Wouldn’t it rock his sense of self,” I say, “if Profiles in Courage turned out to be a hoax?”

“Have you told him?” BD says.

“I mean, the odds are JFK had a ghostwriter, but—”

“I mean about Noa Callaway,” BD says. “Have you talked to Ryan about it?”

“BD,” I sputter, feeling myself overdoing a display of shock. “My NDA! I can’t tell anyone . . .”

She gives me her I’m-just-going-to-wait-for-you-to-get-there look.

“I told you because I need advice, because I trust you,” I say. Still getting the look. “And because . . .” I pause. “I already know what Ryan would say.”

She tilts her head, takes a tiny sip of her coffee. “What would Ryan say?”

“First, he’d call Noah an asshole. Then he’d seize the opportunity to say that maybe this isn’t my dream job anymore. Before I knew it, we’d be talking about the improbability of my working remotely from D.C. Hypothetical children and their hypothetical Halloween carnivals, which I’d be missing because of my hypothetical commute. And then he’d go, ‘Maybe a fresh start in D.C. is what you need.’ ”

I thought I’d just done a pretty good impersonation of Ryan, but BD isn’t laughing. She’s staring at me, concerned.

I raise my shoulders. “That’s why I figured I would start with you.”

BD and Ryan have met only once, at a big family reunion where all of my extended Atlanta relatives vied for Ryan’s attention, thereby guaranteeing that none got quite enough. It’s a goal of mine for my grandmother and my fiancé to bond before the wedding, but it hasn’t happened yet. She knows him, but she doesn’t know him, and I’d better clarify some details of our dynamic so she doesn’t get the wrong idea.

“BD, what I mean is—”

“You know, your grandfather wrote terrible poetry,” she interrupts. “He once wrote a series of haikus called Foreplay.”

I glance around. “I missed the segue in the conversation.”

“Believe me, he was good at many things. The man could read an X-ray like it was a nursery rhyme,” she says. “He made the lightest pierogi you ever ate. And when it came to a sensual massage, your grandfather had hands like a—”