But Noah must feel the same way. He’s also sacrificing the privacy and freedom of his bachelor pad. In fact, he has more to lose than me, since he actually had a sex life. And from what he said yesterday, it seems like he’s serious about giving up his entire playboy lifestyle. Even though he’s probably never been monogamous in his whole life.

Man, watching him try to keep it in his pants is going to be hilarious. And just what is his plan if I do take up with another man? Start a brawl like a couple of teenage punks?

I shake my head. That will never happen, anyway. Work is my whole life—I don’t have time to invest in dating. And even though I’ll never admit it to Noah, I don’t have the stomach for one-night stands. I can’t imagine myself enjoying physical intimacy without emotional intimacy. Unlike Noah, who seems to have zero problems whipping it out at the slightest provocation.

At least, he did until we started dating.

I seriously don’t understand what’s going through that man’s head. All I wanted was for us to go from acquaintances to friends. Why does he have to push for overachievement? Why is he so determined to play the perfect boyfriend, even when nobody’s around to witness his act? Why does he feel like he has to stay faithful to me?

Just to keep up appearances for the public? To gratify his male pride? Or because . . . he genuinely wants to woo me for real?

I realize I’ve been staring out the window for almost five full minutes. I haven’t even been watching the dark, twinkling cityscape—moving lights for the cars, static ones for the offices working late or the families relaxing together. A glimpse into millions of people’s lives, spread out in stars like a reflection of the night sky. I suddenly feel very small . . . and lonely.

It takes me a moment to recognize the feeling because I’m usually lonely in the abstract, daydreaming of a faceless fantasy lover. A hazy ache for human contact. Someone to brush his fingers through my hair and whisper sweet things in my ear. Someone to hold me and tell me everything will be okay. Someone to investigate when there’s a noise in the night. Now, though, my loneliness is specific and sharp.

I want to see Noah.

He’s the only person in the world who understands how I feel right now. Camryn can try to sympathize, and she’s definitely done a lot to help me through this, but she’s not down in the trenches with me. Noah is.

I’m not sure if I want to talk to him right now, but I at least want to see him. I want to know he’s still there, by my side. I need to hear his optimism and see that smirk on his mouth to know that maybe, just maybe, I’ll make it through this.

I pick up my suitcase, turn the lights off, and leave my apartment for the last time.

• • •

Even at this time of night, Manhattan traffic isn’t fun. As my cab crawls through the packed city streets, I suddenly get an idea.

“Is there a tea shop nearby?” I ask the cabbie.

He gives me a confused look in his rearview mirror. “What, like a café?”

“No, I mean a place where I can buy . . . equipment? Teapots and kettles and stuff.”

He starts tapping his GPS screen. Fortunately, we’re stopped at a red light, but I get the feeling that he wouldn’t care if we weren’t.

“About three blocks west,” he says after a minute. “You got some shopping to do there?”

“Yes, please.”

He promptly muscles into the right-turn lane, ignoring a few shouts and middle fingers from the other drivers, and speeds through. Somehow we arrive at the store without causing any vehicular manslaughter.

As I count out my fare, I say, “Can you wait for me? I shouldn’t be more than twenty minutes.”

He raises his bushy eyebrows. “That long? You sure? I’ll have to drive around the block, and the meter’s runnin’ . . .”

“I can afford it.” For now, anyway. Tate & Cane isn’t totally underwater yet.

He shrugs. “Okay, lady, whatever you want.”

I step out of the cab and he’s gone before I reach the front door.

The tiny boutique has an entire wall devoted to tea gear—cups, pots, kettles, infusers, strainers, paper filters, little wire racks for organizing boxes, airtight jars and tins for storing loose leaf. I consider the display, tapping my lips with one finger.

Finally, I choose a squat, Japanese-style ceramic teapot with a mottled forest-green glaze. Its shelf tag reads: Ao-Oribe ushirode kyuusu, tenmoku glaze, sasame filter.

I haven’t the faintest idea what any of that means. And the price is slightly horrifying. But its color and elegant shape are perfect—tasteful, yet eye-catching, not too masculine or too feminine. A symbol of compromise, a hope for harmony. A gift that I chose myself, but in recognition of a ritual that Noah holds dear.

Just for the hell of it, I take a pair of matching cups too. I’ll definitely stick to coffee in the mornings. But maybe, late at night, it wouldn’t be so bad to share a hot cup of tea with Noah.

I make my way to the front of the store, smiling to myself, feeling calm at last.

Chapter Nine

Noah

“I’m in the mood for red meat,” Sterling says as we walk down the crowded sidewalk after work.

“Damn. Dry streak, buddy?” I rub my chin thoughtfully.

“What?” He squints at me in the fading light.

“A craving for red meat usually means a lack of sex. A desire for a certain other kind of meat, if you will.” I grin at him.