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Dear Drenthe,

Welcome to the hell of working with yours truly!

I should be able to peel myself off the floor long enough to receive your package around one this afternoon.

I have never labored over anything the way I labored over my five-line response to Noa Callaway:

Noa,

The rowboat fight scene is one of my favorites. Not just in this draft. In any novel I’ve ever read. But I agree with Alix that it’s not serving this story. Maybe it’s the opening scene of your next book?

If ever you need someone to grieve the darlingsthat must be cut, email me. They’ll get a moment of silence over here.

To my unending amazement, throughout the next week, I got an email from Noa every day, with the subject lines:Cut Darling #1, 2, 3, and so on. Each contained a single line, a paragraph, or a plotline on the chopping block.

I called BD and read some of them aloud to her, relaying to Noa all the places where my grandmother had laughed. I climbed out on my fire escape and voice-recorded myself shouting lines of interior monologue into the Second Avenue traffic. I scrawled in Sharpie one extravagantly beautiful description of a woman’s hair on the sole of my Converse, then I walked all over Brooklyn that weekend, taking a picture for Noa of how the line had gotten its day.

You’re making this more fun than it has any right to be,she’d emailed me back at midnight.

Even after the book went to print, even years and several books later, sometimes I’ll still get an email about something Noa hates having to cut: the tiny pink flowers in her basil pot, half an inch of hair, a man in line for a taxi, her mother’s dinner after a fall broke her arm.

The dayFifty Ways to Break Up Mom and Dadwas published, a dozen white tulips were delivered to my office in a mason jar, with a note sayingThese also had to be cut.

We’ve worked together on seven books since then, and our process has been the same: Alix gets the ranting and resistance; I find ways to make Noa’s revision process less painful. I’m like the fun uncle to Alix’s single mom.

Only now... Alix is gone, and where does that leave Noa and me?

Yesterday, Terry called to set up a face-to-face meeting with Noa. I was so shocked, I’d agreed to the suggested time immediately, without thinking about my own calendar. Then I had to cancel last minute on Ryan’s senator’s birthday in D.C. He isn’t thrilled, but I’ll figure out a way to make it up to him next week.

I know this meeting goes against Sue’s wishes, but in what world could I say no to meeting Noa Callaway? I figure what Sue doesn’t know won’t hurt her. Besides, the meeting wasn’tmyidea. I’m just the one over here thrilled about it.

I pull up Terry’s email on my phone for the four-hundredth time. I’m supposed to meet Noa at four o’clock in front of the chess house in Central Park. She’ll be looking for me.

This information set my mind whirling, because even though my face is a Google search away, I can’t imagine Noa Callaway stalking me online. Still, I wasn’t going to question Terry onhowNoa would identify me. I’m wearing BD’s vintage Fendi skirt suit—dressed down with Converse, knit tights, and a scarf Aude gave me for my birthday. To be on the safe side, I brought a copy ofTwo Hundred and Sixty-Six Vows, which I’m carrying face out.

I’ve always wanted to play at the chess house, with its shaded arch of benches and stone tables in front of the redbrick building. I’ve suggested it to Ryan on a few warm Sunday afternoons, but he doesn’t have the patience for the game.

The February sky is clear and crisp. Turning west onto the path at Sixty-Fifth Street, I hear the chess players before I seethem. For a gang of largely retired women, they swear like sailors and slap their timers like bongos. BD would fit right in.

“You gonna take my bishop before we die, Marjorie?” a player asks from one table.

“No way, Betty, I’m not falling for your Siberian trap,” her opponent says.

There must be a dozen players, ranging from sixty to eighty, rotating around four boards. My eyes and intuition scan the group, eliminating half of them. IknowNoa Callaway, and she’s not the diminutive Russian lady with lipstick on her teeth. I’m trying to make eye contact with a platinum blond boomer with diamond-rimmed bifocals at the tip of a Roman nose, but she’s focused on advancing her queen and not looking up. Which, honestly, is so Noa Callaway of her.

I draw closer. If I can just catch her eye, then I’ll know. I can take five seconds to acclimate to the reality of her. Then I’ll be good. I can focus on not fucking up this meeting, on being professional instead of an adoring fan. But before she notices my approach, my gaze is disrupted by her opponent, who is looking right at me.

I freeze when I realize I know him. It’s Ross, from the launch party. Man of the Year. Edible confetti shower sharer. Thrower of lightning bolts through my body.

Look away. You have one job.

He smiles at me, a sly expression on his face. I see they’re in the endgame, and that Ross’s queenside pawn majority is rolling.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hi.” My cheeks ignite. I’m not dressed for lightning storms today.

“Checkmate, bitch!” the woman says all of a sudden. If she isn’t Noa Callaway, I give up. But when she looks at me, the blankness in her gaze hits me hard.