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Our eyes lock again and I smile because I love this idea, because he can write it, because it will be beautiful. And worth the wait.

We did it. Against all odds, we found an idea. We should be celebrating—and yet... I feel an unexpected pang in my heart. Noah’s words at my apartment come back to me—his final condition that, once we agreed on a concept, I’d leave him alone to write it.

Which means it’s the end of our Fifty Ways adventures. The end of our newly enjoyable in-person hangs. Noah has eight weeks to write a book... and I have eight weeks to wait for it.

This is fine. This is good. This is what I wanted. Then why does it feel bittersweet?

“Isn’t it funny?” I say. “We’ve both been watching them all these years.... Do you think we ever passed each other in the park? Maybe on this very bridge, without knowing it?”

“Well,” he says, glancing over his shoulder toward the towering high-rise on Fifth Avenue.

And I get it. The Gapstow Bridge, the Pond, Edward and Elizabeth—each is a piece of Noah’s penthouse view.

“Would you like to see my office?” he asks.

The elevator door opens onto the most beautiful library I have ever seen. The smell of books is musty sweet. Three walls are made entirely of mahogany bookshelves, displayinga dazzling array of books. The other wall is a giant, single-paned window that looks out on Central Park at night. It’s the view I’ve always imagined for Noa Callaway. It’s perfect.

“This is a little different from your studio,” I say.

“I bought it afterNinety-Nine Thingswas published,” he says. “Terry got it in her mind that I needed to invest in something, but I didn’t want to move out of Pomander Walk. Buying this office was our compromise.”

My eye is drawn to the massive wooden desk, upon which sits the only photograph in the room. In it, Noah’s barely twenty, grinning as he sits on a floral-print couch surrounded by three middle-aged women. One is kissing his cheek, and I recognize her as a younger Bernadette. Another appears to be giving him a noogie. I’m amazed to realize it’s Terry. I didn’t recognize her at first, because she’s actually smiling. A third woman sits next to him, holding his hand. She and Noah have the same eyes.

“Is that your mom?”

He nods, sadness coming into his expression. “That’s Calla.” Then he nods for me to follow him to the window.

We stand side by side before a telescope. I can see the Gapstow Bridge. The city sparkles with lights coming on across the park. The moon is rising over midtown. For as much time as I’ve spent down there on the ground, it’s a completely different view up here.

“What do you think?” Noah says.

“It takes my breath away.”

“I meant the book idea,” he says with a smile.

I turn to him, my heart racing. “I meant the book idea, too.”

It’s true, but it’s not the only thing leaving me breathless at the moment.

“I want to write something you’re excited about,” Noah says. “Something you’d want to read, even if it wasn’t your job.”

“I’ll read anything you write,” I tell him, putting my editor’s voice back on. “But, if you can write this book in the next eight weeks, I’ll have the added bonus of it still being my job to read it, too.”

“I can,” Noah says with such easy confidence, I let myself believe him. “And now you can say yes.”

“Say yes?” I ask.

“To Italy. The launch. I’ll get the manuscript to you before you leave. You can edit it in time to celebrate with a glass of champagne on the plane.” He turns to me. We’re standing very close.

“How will you celebrate?” I ask.

“I have my ways.”

“But what if—”

“If the book falls apart,” he says, “and you need to cancel, I’ll take the blame for it with the Italians.”

I know that should have been what I was thinking. But in the space of two seconds, I imagined planning this trip then canceling it, and it was my heart, not the Italians’, that felt broken.