“Uh, her.” I point randomly at the nearest woman in view. “I thought she was my old neighbor who got evicted for selling CBD out of her apartment last year.”

“That seventy-year-old woman?” Rufus points at an elderly lady crossing the street with a wheeled grocery cart.

“She kept harassing me to put in a good word for her about the security deposit, and . . . you know what? It’s boring, and it wasn’t even her—”

“You’re being sketchy,” Meg says.

“Hey, I wasn’t the one running a drug ring out of my apartment. Oh shit!” I gasp, because the door Noah disappeared into has now swung open.

And he’s walking out.

And coming this way.

And I have wasted the past two minutes lying to my friends, instead of making a plan for his inevitable return to the street.

I grab my phone and jump up from the table. “Rufus, you were right. I really should call BD. Be right back! Don’t anyone take my tequila!”

“What is up with her?” I hear Meg say as I dash around the corner of the block. I pull my hood up again and sit on someone’s stoop with my phone to my ear, pretending to be on a call. Furtively I watch as Noah comes to stand on the corner of Eighty-Fourth and Broadway. It’s definitely him. Same pea coat. Same pomposity.

Well, he’s ruined the rest of my life. He might as well ruin Emergency Brunch.

He’s still holding that box, which I can now see is some sort of animal kennel. He opens the front of the crate and carefully pulls out . . . a fat black-and-white-spotted rabbit.

He holds the creature up close to his face, both of them facing a redbrick apartment building on the south side of the street. He points at a window, as if he’s explaining something important about Upper West Side real estate to the bunny. I watch the rabbit nuzzle Noah’s cheek. I am paralyzed with a feeling of incredulity.

Then Noah carefully puts the bunny back inside the crate, closes it up, and turns back the way he came, heading north on Broadway.

Watching him go, I exhale about a month’s worth of oxygen. I slump against the stoop and shake my head. What is he doing away from his pristine Fifth Avenue orbit? Why is he spending his Sunday with a rabbit on the Upper West Side? More important, why isn’t he writing, or at least attempting to?

And why did the sight of him alarm me so much that I had to literally run away?