“You’re serious about this?” He meets my eyes then shakes his head in disbelief. “Then I’d really better think of something, or there’s a lot of suffering in our future.”

My eyes flash. “What is so wrong with this list?”

“The Austrian Cultural Forum? You want to spend a Saturday with me at the Austrian Cultural Forum?”

“It’s an architectural marvel! Twenty-four stories high and just twenty-five feet wide!”

“Well, bravo to the architect,” he says. “But just because the two of us stand before this marvel doesn’t mean a book idea will fall into my head.”

“Why are you pretending that the concept of inspiration is so foreign to you?” I snap at him. “You’ve written ten books. Surely you know by now that writers go out in the world, look around, and get ideas?”

“Not like this,” he says. “I can save us both a lot of torture by stating now: It’s not going to work.”

“You know what else isn’t working?” I say. “Whatever you’ve been doing. You’re four months late and have nothing to show for it.” I sigh. “Please. Don’t leave Peony hanging like this. People are counting on you. You might not care about that, but I do. . . .”

I trail off because to say more feels futile. Why should he care about what I care about? He doesn’t owe me anything, even if he did spend the last seven years email-masquerading as my friend. It was only that, a masquerade.

He’s quiet for a moment, his eyes moving over my list. Alice rests her chin on his forearm, which is her most endearing gesture. I notice Noah glancing down at her, his lips nearly twitching to a smile. Suddenly, Noah picks up the pen. I hold my breath as he crosses out a few items on my list. Then a few more.

The Marilyn Monroe subway grate—gone. I can live with that. Though it could have been fun to gender bend the flashing scene from The Seven Year Itch.

The Liberty Pole at city hall—also out. I’d thought maybe a jury duty meet-cute, but okay.

But when he crosses out Pomander Walk, I can’t keep quiet. Meg made up with Mama Gluten Free to get me those keys.

“Pomander Walk is magical,” I argue. “It’s this romantic pedestrian-only secret alley on the Upper West Side. It feels like you’re in a Dickens novel—”

“I know,” he says curtly. “I’ve seen it. I’m not writing Great Expectations.”

“You’re not generating them, either,” I mutter.

“Could you not hover over me while I do this?” he asks.

I back off and move to the window to give him space. Even though I wasn’t hovering, merely trying to help.