“Believe me,” said Huxley Wilder. “Nobody gets this attention the first time around. Nobody.”

It was five years ago, and A Room Within was on the cusp of publication.

“Seriously, nobody,” said Huxley. “Your occasional Jonathan, a Josh here or there.” Safran Foer, thought Anthony. Ferris. And: Holy cow. This is my life.

There was a profile in the Sunday New York Times, an article in the Boston Globe Style section, a cover reveal in Entertainment Weekly. Blurbs that other writers had to chase came to him like a cow to a bell. Every review came with a star, every mention with a rave.

Especially—especially!—the one that counted the most.

“The book is excellent,” said Leonard. All the doubts Anthony had about his father vanished, all the weirdness between them. Leonard took Anthony and his mother to dinner at Asta on Mass Ave. in Boston to celebrate. They clinked the glasses of champagne that came automatically at the beginning of the meal and the brandy that came at the end. Anthony couldn’t believe the way his father was looking at him: he couldn’t believe the paternal approval that was washing over him.

Anthony couldn’t believe any of it.

The book came out.

“It hit the list,” said Huxley. “Right out of the gate. I knew it would.”

“I can’t believe it,” said Anthony. He couldn’t! He couldn’t believe how many people showed up at his readings. Lines out the door. MFA students, older women, teenagers. Middle-aged men. Men his father’s age. Book clubs full of young mothers who’d left their children with babysitters.

And, in Chicago, one Cassie Fontaine, from Burlington, Vermont, by way of the South End, Boston: a vision in her mid-twenties, gorgeous, with full pink lips and a lithe yoga body and a celestial voice that sounded like silver and gold spun together and poured into a crystal goblet. Cassie was visiting a former college roommate and was amazed to find that Anthony was in town too. She’d rushed right over to the bookstore as soon as she saw the poster. She loved the book. She leaned in close as she presented her copy for signing. She smelled like a midsummer garden. She slipped Anthony a piece of paper with her phone number on it.

Anthony thanked her. He was dating someone at the time, in New York City, where he lived. He wouldn’t call this woman, this stranger with the dizzying beauty! Of course not. But still. The thought that things like this actually happened made him giddy. He put the piece of paper in his pocket. He forgot about it, but not really.

Cassie came to another reading, this one in Boston, at the public library. His parents were at the reading. His father sat in the back row and nodded occasionally—approvingly!—as Anthony read from the first chapter and answered questions. Cassie bought three more copies of A Room Within, and had Anthony sign them all to her.

Anthony’s publisher had put him up at the Lenox. Anthony invited Cassie to have a drink with him at the hotel bar. Then another. Anthony was drinking Dark ’n’ Stormys and Cassie was drinking rosé sangrias. Her fingers were long, like the fingers of a pianist. They went upstairs.