Truthfully, it’s nicer at the window, getting away from the gravitational pull of Noah’s negativity. I gaze outside at the bright afternoon, watching one of the red CitySights buses lumber down my block. This line of hop-on-hop-off bus tours passes my apartment an average of five times a day. A speaker blasts the same recorded spiel each time. Like everyone else on East Forty-Ninth Street, I have it memorized. I could recite it in my sleep.

“Katharine Hepburn lived for more than sixty years in this Turtle Bay brownstone . . .” I say along with the recorded speech.

“Did you just do the tour bus monologue?” Noah snickers from the couch.

“No,” I say. “Okay, yes. I didn’t realize I said it out loud. When you’ve lived someplace for seven years, you sort of become one with its soundtrack.” I glance at him, wondering if he knows what the hell I’m talking about. It’s probably quiet as a tomb in his penthouse thirty-four stories above Central Park.

“Do the M50 bus,” he says.

Without thinking, I deliver a serviceable impression of rusty brakes, rumbling hydraulics, and the drone of the accessibility ramp being lowered. Then I remember Noah Ross is staring at me, and I get embarrassed and go silent.

I’ve clearly embarrassed him, too, because he doesn’t even acknowledge my attempt at being a bus. He only stares at me, then changes the subject: “So Katharine Hepburn lived here?”

“She lived across the street, which is why it costs about ten grand more a month to live over there. I went to look at her brownstone once, when it was listed. A friend got me into a pocket open house. It was really nice. You could picture her there, having toast and tea and giving Spencer Tracy the business.”

“You like Katharine Hepburn?” he says.

“She’s Katharine Hepburn.” What more is there to say?

“What’s your favorite of her movies?”

“Adam’s Rib,” I say, hoping that film’s battle-of-the-sexes theme isn’t lost on him. “Bringing Up Baby is great, too. What’s your favorite?”

He’s looking at me funny, just refusing to hold up his end of the conversation.

“Wait.” My heart lifts. “Are you getting a book idea?”

He rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “No, Lanie, you did not just solve everything by reciting a tour bus speech.”

“You say that like it would be a bad thing. . . .”

“This may come as a surprise to you,” he says, “but I would like to write another book. I’m here, aren’t I? I am even entertaining this absurd proposal of yours.” He shakes my list at me.

“Oh, you are entertaining it? Because I thought you were just crossing shit out.”

“I’ve narrowed it down to five . . . experiences I am open to having with you.”