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—Noah

P.S. I know the monk only had to stand up and deliver three words, but I’m willing to bet you were a tough act to follow.

I stare at the card. An image of Noah Ross dictating this message to a florist fills my mind. Was he in his penthouse, feet up on his desk, looking out at Central Park? Did he comeup with the message on the fly, or did he labor over it the way I labor over my words to him? Was he wondering what I might think when I got the tulips? Because I don’t know what to think. The more I try to understand my relationship with Noah Ross, the more indefinable it becomes.

Friends over email. Antagonists in person. Then, out of nowhere: people who break into brownstones together, enjoy ELO on the jukebox, and eat obnoxious foods on trains.

One thing I’ve always loved about Noa’s characters is how they grapple with contradictory impulses. This makes for great fiction, but in real life, it’s confusing.

“Excuse us,” Meg says, slipping in with Rufus and closing the door. “Nice digs, by the way.” She looks around and nods approval. “Rufus thought he heard Sue say something about Ryan sending you—” She breaks off, pointing at the tulips. “Whoa... whathappenedFriday night?”

Someday, I’d love to tell Meg what happened Friday night.

“Funny,” Rufus says, picking up the mason jar. “I always took Ryan for more of a red roses kind of guy.”

“Why is your ex-fiancé buying you flowers when my husband doesn’t seem to know what they are?” Meg says. “Do you know what Tommy got me for Valentine’s Day this year? A case of unscented dryer sheets. I kid you not.”

“Meg, thatisromantic!” I say, happy to steer the subject away from the tulips.

“Don’t patronize me.”

“You love to shop in bulk!” I remind her. “You guys got banned from Costco back when you were dating for heavypetting in the freezer section! Plus, unscented? He was thinking about your eczema.”

“He was thinking about static cling. That’s what our marriage is: static cling.”

“So the flowers...” Rufus prompts me.

“Don’t worry,” I say. “They aren’t from Ryan.”

“Good,” Meg says, “because that would have thrown a real wrench in Operation Get Lanie Laid this Friday.”

I won’t disappoint Meg by explaining that the odds of me getting laid on Friday are slim for many reasons. Not the least of which is that I need to be bushy-tailed on Saturday morning to escort Noah around the Cloisters. If you’d asked me a week ago, I probably couldn’t have thought of anything worse than having a hangover while hanging out with Noah Ross. But the truth is, since our escapade last Friday, I’ve been looking forward to our visit to the uptown cousin of the Met. Or at least, not dreading it. It feels possible now that he’ll actually get an idea for the book.

“Noa Callaway sent them,” I say casually, looking at the tulips.

Meg raises an eyebrow. Rufus plops down on a box of books.

“Noa Callaway sends flowers?” Meg says.

“The transition must be going well,” Rufus says.

“My mother had a tulip garden,” I say, fingering the flowers’ waxy leaves. “I’ve always loved them.”

After a minute I realize they’re both staring at me.

“You okay there, Lanie?” Meg says.

“Of course.”

“Good,” Meg says. “Stay that way. Because Rufus has chosen Subject on Suffolk as our venue for Friday night. Dress to impress.”

“Come on, Meglicist,” Rufus says, using his pet name for her. “You can do better than that.”

“Okay...” she says, “dress to undress.”

I laugh, because I know my friends well enough to hear in the cadence of their voices that this is a laugh line, but the truth is, I haven’t heard the past couple exchanges. My mind went back to my mother, to a memory I have of pulling weeds together when I was a little girl.

As soon as Meg and Rufus leave, I write to Noah.