From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Date: Monday, March 9, 10:06 a.m.

Subject: a toast

Dear Noah,

A few months ago, I was the maid of honor at a friend’s wedding. The best man was a Buddhist monk. My speech was first, and it was brilliant, if I may say so—one funny anecdote, one tear-jerking one, one Anne Sexton poem, and one Gracie Allen insult. All done in a tight ten minutes.

Afterward, the monk approached the microphone. He looked into the eyes of the groom, then the bride, and said:

“Lower your expectations.”

Then he dropped the mic and went back to his seat.

This depressed me. It sounded like he was encouraging the newlyweds to let each other down. But the more I thought about it, I realized that expectations are rarely rooted in reality, and maybe all the monk was talking about was acceptance. Maybe relationships truly begin with acceptance of who the other is.

I want people to expect much of me—and not to be disappointed, but that’s not entirely in my control. I like thinking that to accept who someone is, you have to find out who they are. And that can take a lifetime.

At the bar on Friday night, you said you thought meeting you was a shock to my system. I wonder if meeting me was hard for you? I’ve been thinking about this because today I’m moving into Alix’s old office. I’m curious about your expectations of your editor. You’ve always worked with Alix. You and I have corresponded for years, but in some ways, we’re just starting out. So I wanted to offer us a little grace.

Lowered expectations don’t invite disappointment. They expect the imperfect in all of us. Your characters do this for each other. Could you and I try to do it, too?

Lanie

This is the first email I send from my new office. I’ve been wanting to write it ever since Friday night. I keep thinking back to the moment when I showed Noah my Ninety-Nine Things. I expected him to laugh. I thought if he’d laugh, then I could, too, and my entire failed view on love might feel a little less grave. I thought maybe he could help me lighten up.

But he didn’t laugh. He seemed humbled holding the wood panels. He read the whole list carefully, then looked up at me, his expression more serious than I’d ever seen it before.

“I’m sorry you didn’t get your happy ending this time,” he said. “But you’re not like Cara from the book. She needed the list. Because she had no faith in love. You, on the other hand . . .”

“What about me?” I found myself leaning forward in the booth, like Noah was about to tell me an important secret.