“Sure,” he says when he realizes I’m serious. He throws down a credit card and motions the bartender. “Let’s get you some air.”

I march outside alone before the bartender runs his card. I have half a mind to hail a cab and head back to my apartment by myself. The thing that stops me scares me.

If I left now, made Ryan meet me back home, I might cool off a little by the time he caught up with me. And we might make up without having the fight we really need to have.

We’re overdue.

So I wait on the curb, and I think. About why I love him—so many reasons. Ninety-nine of them. But since learning the truth about Noa Callaway, there’s been a voice in my head asking if they’re the right reasons. I think about the life each of us wants—so different from the other.

Before I’ve figured out how to square all this, Ryan comes outside. He’s as handsome as ever in his navy bomber jacket and jeans. His eyes twinkle, as if to say, You’re not still mad, are you?

“Feeling better?” he says, and opens his arms to me.

I step into his embrace, feel his arms close comfortingly around me. For a long time, we say nothing. Tears sting my eyes as I pull back to look at him.

“Why do you love me, Ryan?”

He drops his arms, rubs his face. “Lanie, what are you doing?”

“I’m being honest. It’s an honest question.”

He shakes his head and turns away, facing the street and the traffic, the cabs stopping and spilling out happily chattering young people, looking for the heart of Saturday night.

“I don’t understand what happened to us,” Ryan says, not looking at me. “We used to be so happy. The night we got engaged I was ecstatic. Kissing you on that jumbotron, my ring on your finger, I felt so proud that everyone could see we were the perfect couple. Now . . . recently, you act like you’re being held at gunpoint just to pick a date for our wedding—”

“I don’t think I want to be a perfect couple,” I say.

He laughs like this is crazy. “What?”

I take his hands. “I just want to be me. I want you to be you. Complete with all our eccentricities. I want us to write poetry to each other, even if it’s bad.”

“I don’t think I follow. . . .”

I close my eyes. “I wasn’t happy that night we got engaged.”

“What?” This is a record-scratch moment. Ryan’s tone draws eyes from strangers on the street.

“I’ve been happy in our relationship. I’ve been mostly very happy. But I wasn’t happy the night you proposed.”

He squints at me. “You wept! You have that picture on your wall!”

“I didn’t weep out of joy,” I say.