I reread the first page three times before acknowledging that I have no idea what I’ve just read. I’m more upset than I want to acknowledge about having to clear my things out of Ryan’s place. It’s like, I know how we got here, but also—How the hell did we get here?

I give up on work for now. At least the soup is good.

From the bottom of my bag, I take out my old paperback copy of Ninety-Nine Things. I flip to the back of the book. How smug I’d felt three years ago, checking Ryan against my list. Look where it got me. Tears sting my eyes, and when I wipe them away, more come.

“It’s meant to be a comedy,” a male voice says over my shoulder.

I look up, then flinch at the sight of the very last person I want to see right now.

Noah Ross wears a black sweater and a Mets cap tugged low. He’s drinking coffee from a Styrofoam cup. There’s a few days’ worth of dark stubble on his face, which makes him look rugged yet refined, like if you went camping, he’d cook a gourmet dinner on the fire.

I snap the book closed, put it down like it’s a thousand degrees. It embarrasses me to be caught vulnerable by him, and I’m trying to think of a way to gracefully steer this conversation toward a how-funny-to-have-run-into-you-and-goodbye!—when he sits down across from me.

I point at the jacket, the water bottle, the book. “I think someone’s sitting there.”

“I’m sitting there, Lanie. It’s my stuff. I just went to get some coffee.” He waves the steaming cup.

Of course he’s sitting here. Because this day was designed to destroy me. I surrender, Day. You win.

“If you don’t want to be disturbed,” he says, “I’ll find another seat.”

“No, please,” I have no choice but to say. “Unless . . . I’d be bothering you?” I gesture at his book. The thousand-page tome on Vietnam is not what I’d picture Noa Callaway reading in Noa Callaway’s spare time. Shakespeare’s sonnets, perhaps. Maybe Charlotte Brontë. Not some dense account of international stalemate.

Please. Please. Please say you want to read your book.

“Not at all,” he says, resting an elbow on the shared table between us. “This is . . . funny. Isn’t it? Running into you after you canceled on tomorrow? Terry gave me your message.”

“Really? I wasn’t sure, since I never heard back.” I don’t try too hard to hide my annoyance.

Noah smirks. “I’m sorry. She doesn’t like you.”

“How can you tell?” I deadpan.

“It’s nothing personal. She hated Alix,” he says. “Terry thinks my first drafts are perfect. She’s my godmother. It comes with the job.”