The beauty of such a large list was that it allowed me to weave between weird and brave, between superficial and marrow-deep and deal-breaker serious. In between Enthusiastic about staying up all night discussing potential past lives and Answers the phone when his mother calls, I’d written: Doesn’t own clogs, unless he’s a chef or Dutch. At the very end, number ninety-nine, I wrote, Doesn’t die. I felt my mom was with me, between the lines of that list. I felt if I could pursue this kind of love, then she’d be proud of me, wherever she was.

I don’t know that I ever really thought I’d find a guy who embodied my whole list. It was more the exercise of committing to paper love’s wondrous possibilities.

But then . . . I met Ryan, and everything—well, all ninety-nine things—just clicked. He’s perfect for me. Scratch that. He’s perfect, period.

I fold up the wooden panels, tuck my gift back into the box. I can’t wait to give this to him tomorrow on Valentine’s Day.

My phone buzzes. A barrage of texts illuminates the screen. Two from Ryan, on his way up from D.C. He’s the legislative director for Virginia senator Marshall Ayers, and on alternate Fridays, their office closes early, so he takes the 1:13 train to New York.

The articles he’s texted—one review of a movie we both want to see, and one press piece for some legislation he’s been drafting about voters’ rights—are quickly shuffled to the bottom of my screen as my launch prep team blows me up.

The cake balloon crisis is still unfolding, and there are fifteen dramatic messages in the text thread to prove it. Two dozen balloons, at six dollars apiece, are missing from the order my assistant, Aude, picked up this morning. Calls to the bakery have been made. Refunds have been demanded.

At last, the message I’ve been waiting for appears. It’s Terry.

Stuck in traffic. Signed books in my possession. Stop freaking out.

I flip the bird at Terry’s patronizing message, but I also feel relief spread through my bones. I text Meg the good news, slide Ryan’s gift into my tote bag, and google the bakery to see whether I might stop in and solve Balloon-Gate on my way downtown.

Out my window, as the sun shimmies over the river, and it begins, very lightly, to snow, I feel a sense of calm. I love my fiancé. I love my job. Noa Callaway’s launches are celebrations of all that love put together. Tonight, two hundred and sixty-six women will go home happy with their new books. I think that my mom would be proud.

Everything’s going to be fine.

Chapter Two

Half an hour later, stepping out of the snow and into the warm and buttery bakery, I glimpse our balloons at the back.